The Shadows

"Going to Mordor!" Cried Pippin. "I hope it won’t come to that!"
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The brooding fortress and the dark spire of Durthang stands in the heights of the Ephel Duath, on the craggen slopes several leagues west of the Isenmouthe. It overlooks the valley if Udan, and lies behind the Morannon on the south western cliffs of the Mountains of Shadow. The name means Dark Oppression, and the foothills beneath are riddled with mines and patrolled by many Orcs.

Durthang Castle was built by the Gondorians after the war of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men to keep watch on Mordor and prevent anyone or anything from entering there again, but it is now fallen into the hands of a great and sinister evil. For as the power of Gondor waned and the might of the Shadow grew in secret, the watch on Mordor became lapse and idle. The fortress was abandoned foolishly by Men. In the darkness came the fell servants of Sauron, to capture the formidable hold; for once stolen from the Enemy it could be made impregnable. Now it stands as another testament to the Rise of the Deceiver, under the scrutiny and command of the Lidless Eye.

The Dark Spire of Durthang Castle is an ash shrouded mystery, under beleaguered skies, its malignant presence spearing into the eternal night over which it presides. Within is rumoured to exist a clandestine order of the Shadow. It is said that brazen witchfires burn in the heights from arrow-slit windows that flash with strange and eldritch energies. It is further whispered that some of the order are eastern sorcerers, practicing their black arts in readiness to undertake arduous missions far abroad, to exert the will of their dark master in foreign lands. Agents of this order haunt the fortification, and the mines beneath can be their proving grounds, for the orcs are numerous and expendable: the blades that take them down are not so much. They are to be honed and made ever more deadly, so that they may pursue quests beyond the borders of Mordor, in the lands of the Enemy. Their designs are obfuscated and shrouded from the rest of Sauron’s armies, for the defeat of Gondor in the war to come and the lands beyond may lay upon a single scrap of information wrested from the dying lips of an addled and stricken foe. Likewise dark rumours of malcontent, seeded into the minds of the Enemy dwelling far across Middle-earth might bear insidious fruit; causing ruin and turning foe against foe. The Shadows of the Dark Spire steal those secrets, or tear them from the Enemy, they take lives in lands where lives are meant to be protected, and they sow seeds of evil to forge in the future a bitter harvest.

The clandestine order of the Shadows is comprised of sorcerers, spies and assassins. Enter Durthang Castle and approach the Dark Spire at your peril or face certain death at the hands of those within...


History:

At first Castle Durthang was like the other fortresses and castles built to watch over Mordor, being fully maintained and manned by the Gondorian Army. Gondor began to lose its power and influence over the long years of the Third Age, beginning in the 15th century, where it slowly fell into decline. Durthang was finally abandoned in Third Age 1640 after the Great Plague that vastly depopulated Gondor and struck it to the core of it's ailing heart.

Durthang was soon corrupted by Sauron upon his return to Mordor, used by the Nazgûl, and finally used by the Orcs and the Haradrim upon the beginning of the War of the Ring, but presided over by Dark Servants of the Lidless Eye, unknown to all but the Lord Sauron himself, some of the nine and the minions that populated the castle. The Shadows.

The name Durthang means Dark Oppression in Sindarin.


Description of Castle Durthang and the approach:

The Castle of Durthang is reached by climbing a steep, switch-backed mountain road. There is a sudden precipice drop on one side to the shadowed valleys of the Ephel Duath, while the vertical mass of the mountains confines the other side. The road ends in the high rocky crevice where Durthang grips the earth stoically. The tower constructed at this site was sculpted from the stone indigenous to the area; its rusting iron spire surpasses the height of 200 feet, while its foundations interlock with the caverns that riddle the peaks. The rocks in this portion of the mountains are rich in copper ore, lending them the green hue; in times past, Sauron had Orcs and slaves mine the copper in the richer veins.

The mountain road leading to Durthang is overlooked by the mouths of deepening caves where hundreds of Orcs dwell. Most of these are the remnants of mines left long abandoned after they rendered their yield. Some of these have fallen into disrepair, their entrances half-filled with rubble. A few are occupied by the Shadows for their own foul purposes. A strong defensive wall joined to a stone tower guards the foot of the road.


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If you find yourself at the gates of Castle Durthang, it is because you have been summoned as you have been deemed worthy of attempting the rigourous and brutal training to become one of the fabled Shadows. The Shadows are so secret that any rumours of them are often quelled instantly, many only whispering about them under their breaths and with their hearts in their mouths.

It is implied that if you answer this call, your former life is forfeit and you are now willing to give your all to the Dark Lord.

There is no leaving the Shadows, it is for life. So choose wisely. Those that try anyway, are soon found dead in gruesome and horrific ways or disappear never to be seen again.


How to enlist:

Your chosen character will have received a letter, this will have been placed on your person without you even realising. In that letter is a summons, should you choose to accept, you will have cut and bled onto the paper and it will have revealed the directions to Castle Durthang and then ordered you to burn the paper once read. Enter the Castle as directed above and present yourself to the Chamber of Initiation. Word of advice, do not enter the room if Gauthir is in the middle of his initiations, wait your turn. You will never be arriving at the same time as someone else, so even if you see someone in the room in their post, it will be a different timeline to yours. You will always be in that room alone!
For your initiation you will be given a task. You will have to provide Winddancer with a means to contact you so it can be done in secret. You are not to share your missive with anyone or talk about it publically. You are welcome to use the admin email while she still holds the admin rank. Feel free to ask for Winddancer's contact info in the Mordor OOC thread. PLEASE do not join if you are not willing to receive your missive in private, as the whole point is that no one will know what you are up to.

Rules:
  • Magic: I have left magic in, though not too keen on it. Keep it to an absolute minimum and in keeping with what was in the books please. Any Harry Potter magic and you are immediately out
  • This is a serious RP thread, please no silliness
  • Those who join and have gone through the initiation are welcome to RP their day to day lives in here and even do private RPGs if you choose to
  • Please no use of bright colours in here. Dark browns, greens, reds and blues are fine
  • Please use the provided icon and state where you are as well as your character name at the top of every post
  • Any kingdom may join, but it must make sense that you were summoned, so sorry, no Hobbits or Ents. Dwarves, Elves and Men will have to have show some kind of allegiance towards the Dark Lord to even be considered. There were only 5 known Istari, so unless you are using one of those, no Wizards, unless you can come up with a really compelling reason and background. You are welcome to create a NPC, keep the aforementioned in mind
  • This is a work in progress and things might change once it gets going, I will try and make sure you are made aware if it is. Suggestions are welcome, but do so at your own risk
  • Right now there is 1 TR, this might change down the line. You will not be IC aware how to advance in rank and I haven't figured it out OOC yet, will see how it goes. Just keep in mind that all at a higher rank than you, will be more skilled than you are IC
  • ALL OOC and questions to be done in the Mordor OOC thread HERE or directly via email/IM
  • You will never be arriving at the same time as someone else, so even if you see someone in the room in their post, it will be a different timeline to yours. You will always be in that room alone!
A huge thank you to Naith, Tzu and Moriel

Master Torturer
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Locations:

Castle Durthang & the Dark Spire:


The Dark Stair
- Worn blocks of stone lead up to the iron portal of the Dark Spire; no railing guards the edge. The door, etched with the symbol of the Lidless Eye, is secured by a magical lock rather than a mechanical one. Tracing the Lidless Eye six times with your index finger will open the door. It can be opened from the inside by turning the knob protruding from the opposite wall.

The Path of Jaws - Durthang was built to be more a retreat and command centre than a defensive site, but the tactics of defense were still consulted in its design. The corridor curves around the base of the foremost tower and is segmented by four massive portcullises, each controlled from the guardroom by a simple counterweight.

The Guardroom
- Manned by Orcs and other fell servant is this small chamber. Two small tables, stools, benches, torches on the walls, and a chest with dice, food, and ale furnish the space.

The Watchpost
- Arrow slits overlooking the Path of Jaws allow defenders to pepper an attacking force with missile fire.

The Weaving Room - A workshop where canvas, cloth, and rope are produced, the room holds several spinning and weaving machines constructed from wood and copper. All are hand-powered. At any time, the Shadows will be working here, often using their skills to replicate cultural dress from across the lands of Middle-earth for their own use. One corner of the room shelters a great dyeing vat, with rickety wooden steps leading up to its lip.

Smithy - Hot, humid fumes drench the air and stain the walls. The smiths under the direct instruction of the Shadows work in rotation. Three forges accompanied by cooling baths, anvils, bellows, tools, bins of charcoal, and racks of metal ingots fill the room. In addition to iron, steel, and copper, some bronze is used for the detailed work occasionally found on weapons and armor. These supplies are sent to Carach Angren or the Morannon. Sometimes they are fashioned for the use of their overseers.

Metalworking Room
- Several Orcs finish the fine work on items produced by the smiths: putting an edge on swords and claws with a large selection of grindwheels;
riveting utensils together; putting hinges and locks together; making chainmail and chains; and decorating a few items for special use. Again under the watchful eye and torment of the Shadows.

Woodworking Room
– A chamber filled with workbenches at which toil the servants of the Shadows, fashioning hafts and bows and arrow shafts, the myriad components of tools that require craft and shaping. If not producing for the order itself the workers here in their labours will furnish the Host and the mines with equipment and weapon components.

Stairhall - An iron stairway spirals in a helix from the caverns below the tower to the topmost chamber. Small and rail-less balconies are the only links between the stairway and the other chambers.

Chamber of Initiation - A high, vaulted ceiling hovers over the sorcerous rituals that occur in the chamber. The most common is the rite of initiation into ‘wolf-hood’ for the latest victims of Sauron's experimentations, under the supervision of the master of the Scara-hai, Gaurhir. The walls are hung with wolfskins and the lamps are maintained with tallow oil boiled from the bodies of the Orcs’victims. An evil stench permeates the room; the floor is deeply etched with arcane designs, the marks stained with blood and muck. The ceremony necessary to enchant the Scara-hai and their skins for transformation is also performed here. Three monstrous bowls occupy the dais at one end of the room. The right most bowl is wrought of copper, chased with gold, and set with emeralds and malachite; the left most of bronze, etched with silver, and set with amethysts and amber; the center of iron, engraved with mithril, and set with fire opals and onyx. All feel unclean to those touching them.

Durthang Dungeons - Captives, sealed inside webs of leather and chain, hang suspended from the ceiling. A complex panel of levers and wheels is used to manipulate the chains; each has a pulley system to assist in raising and lowering it, and a clamp to fix it in place. Many prisoners are close to death or insanity.

The Hall of Audience
– The black orb within this hall is a communication device used by Sauron to issue his dark instructions to the Shadows. Its obsidian surface becomes iridescent with purple and red flame when the Dark Lord issues forth His commands. It sits atop a tooth-shaped piece of green rock on a low plinth which occupies the center of the room.

The Assembly Chamber
- Used as a mess hall and for similar functions, this is where you will find the Orc servants of the Shadows and the other fell creatures when they are not on watch or fashioning supplies for the Black Host. Opulent by Orcish standards, the room is entered through a leather curtain that hangs just inside the iron door. If it is not carefully and precisely lifted, intruders will be brushed with spikes coated with poison. If any skin other than the face is unprotected, the needles will automatically puncture and deliver their poison. Furnishings of iron and copper rest on the animal hides that carpet the room. A bronze water vat with spigot, regarded by the chieftan as the height of luxury and often filled with ale or wine, sits next to the terrace door. The theme of the claw adorns many items in the room: the furniture legs, the eating and drinking vessels, the chieftain’s clothing, and the stand that holds his great cleaver. The Chieftain keeps his boys in line when the Shadows are not present in the Chamber.

The Arcane Chamber - Violet and black drapes hang against the green-tinted walls of the suite. Magical lights shed emerald and amethystine glows on the thick furs carpeting the floor and the dark wooden furniture. A circular table inscribed with strange symbols dominates the back room where iron shutters darken the windows by day. A large chest holds captured trinkets from across the realms. Tall cabinets hold several complete costumes from a wide selection of cultures. A huge desk sits in the front room along with overstuffed chairs and footstools. The desk drawers overflow with magical scrolls and manuscripts. Several glass-doored cabinets contain maps, notebooks, magical substances and sorcerous aids.

The Deep Caverns
: These are the old mines below Durthang, still occupied by numerous Orcs and other fell creatures. Some of the veins are not yet exhausted, and so Sauron has to this day many snagas toiling in the ever-night of the wretched mines beneath Castle Durthang!

Personal Chambers: Scattered about the Castle are small abodes where the Shadows dwell one they have received suffiencient rank to be allowed one, until then they sleep with the others in the Dormitory.

Inner Courtyard: Has been appropriated for use of training and where most hone their skills in sword fighting and target practice with bows and daggers

Stables: They are kept down at the foot of the mountain, no animals can traverse the narrow pathways

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Ranks:

Image Initiate

Image Acolyte

Image Shadow-Sworn

Image Harbinger of Dusk

Image Veil of Night

Image Black One

Image Master of the Dark

Image Hand of Sauron

Warrior of Imladris
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Image Bel

Bel packed her purchases away into Shetan's saddlebags neatly, and swung herself into the saddle in one smooth movement. Since something dropped from her cloak as she did so, she kept going over the animal and got down again to see what it was. She was somewhat surprised to see it was a personal notelet addressed to herself. She swallowed nervously as she pocketed the missive, looking around. She hadn't felt anyone messing with her person - well, to be fair, she'd been in the market with all its hustle and bustle, but still, she was usually aware enough of her surroundings to discourage people from messing with her clothing.

Her ride back to her lodgings was filled with trepidation, not only regarding the unknown contents of the letter, but knowing she would have to move on. This place was no longer safe. She barely stabled the horse, and only removed the saddle to add a better blanket suitable for longer journeys before putting it back on, and disappeared inside to pack.

She opened the letter as soon as the door was closed behind her, and the contents sent her spiralling. In the next half-hour, she stripped the building of any memory she had ever lived there. Her few possessions filled two satchels, which she crossed across her body, and one larger waterproof bag, and this she strapped to the horse's rump before departing. Once the light faded, she hightailed it out of the area under cover of darkness.

It was not every day that an assassin's guild, (the secret police which folk might speculate about, but which was largely considered a myth) contacted you. It certainly wasn't normal either, to find yourself invited [ordered] to present yourself bodily at a place which might be considered Certain Death HQ. She was riding east and south. It was a good bet that there were places to get lost in down there.

She rode harder, until even the newly waning moon slipped out of sight, and travelling further at speed became impossible. A small fire provided some small warmth and protection, and she cooked a little food before warily reading the summons again. The bold script made thinly-veiled threats about ignoring it, and again she swallowed the nebulous fear which licked at her like the flames of her small fire. At least she had learned no secrets, for while the guild might harbour a grudge that she had not responded positively, they would not pursue her, probably, if she had not sealed her agreement on the paper in blood. Not that she was hanging around to find out.

She would burn it, then no one could track it and maybe they would forget about her. She folded the paper in half and pinched her fingers along the fold to flatten it, but - oh calamity! The paper cut her finger and though she pinched the wound fast, it was too late. Red scrollwork bled out from where her finger had touched the paper, and it was with a sinking heart that she read the following: Your Presence Is Expected Before The New Moon, Amrúniel Belanind Hern. Punctuality Will Be Rewarded. They knew her first name? She felt physically sick, her stomach a ball of lead.

Bel took a deep breath and turned the missive over. It was obviously implicit that lateness would be punished. Instructions for the journey from where she was! filled the paper, with a caution at the very bottom to burn them or face consequences. She was worried that she would not be able to remember the directions, but as it turned out, that fear was in vain; she slept not a wink that night, the path she was to take emblazoned on her eyelids and that dull, sick feeling she had not felt since -

No, she would not remember that. Oh dash it all, did they know? They must. Why else would they send her this message? How had they found her? How had they known her name? Unless ... unless they had her sister? Would she have given her up? Under enough torture, she would surely crack, but she had been sure Minu had gotten away safely, had done a great deal to ensure it happened actually. Her sister Minu, slightly older than Bel, had been sold into slavery at the prestigious Oleander flower house at ten, and Bel might never have seen her again if she hadn't been precocious. But Bel had found ways to cut school and avoid being around enough to be bothersome; technically, she took up thieving to avoid being a burden on the household. This new employment was not for the faint of heart, since high-end merchandise was the only thing that sold well and her fence was not a man who liked to gamble. Still, in the process, she learned to climb, and to hide, and to lurk unseen, and thus it was that every so often she would see her sister, dancing, sometimes with a sword, sometimes with a knife, and sometimes, privately. It was not unknown to her, after many months of observation, what went on in the flower houses, but her sister's training was different. She couldn't quite explain it, but something was going on, which was dark and dangerous with the copper-tinged scent of sorcery. Her sister was becoming a Shadowdancer, she'd learnt much later. By the time she'd been old enough and savvy enough to be able to talk to her sister without either of them being caught, Minu had completed her training and already been sent on many assignments, her mastery of shadows coming at a great cost. Lastaloss Minuial Hern had left her name behind with her conscience, was now a murderer, spy and a dab hand with numerous drugs and pointy weapons going by the pseudonym Naja Naja. It had taken all Bel's persuasion to convince Minu that she could leave her life and her masters behind, and a great deal of planning and explosive material to effect her escape. She had done it too, but they had been separated, and Bel didn't know where to start looking - and she'd had to cover her own tracks, too. It wouldn't do to be caught for that sort of thing; too many had survived.

Bel sighed, threw the paper into the fire and stared up at the stars, the Great Warrior was just edging back down over the horizon, sword aloft, the morning star shining brightly as if all was well. Such lies. But all of that was over a year ago now. Minu had sworn she was going to go West to find a new way of life; how far had she gotten? Had she fled from one life of slavery to another? Or had she gotten away, only for Bel to get entwined in a similar situation?

The first rays of sunlight began to break the night sky, though the sun was still far from rising, nevertheless, she got up and packed up her small camp. She had slightly less than two weeks to arrive at Castle Durthang, and she thought perhaps she'd better begin the journey with a change of attitude. It wouldn't do to turn up with less than one hundred percent committment. She could do this. She could survive this. She could come out the other side. Clearly, they wanted her. Well, let them have what they wanted.

It took her less than ten days, in the end. A night-travelling trader agreed to let her sleep in his wagon one night and she slept so long that they had covered some twenty miles before she woke. Her own horse had needed some rest, of course, but it had given her some respite. The rest of the trip was hard, but doable, without burning the candle at both ends. She had no intention of arriving tired and unprepared for the initiation - no, The Initiation. It sounded ominous.

The ruinous tower of Castle Durthang loomed imposingly into the distance long before she was ready, and it was with heart beating slightly irregularly that she slipped out of the saddle, unstrapped her great bag from the horse and swung it onto her back, leaving Shetan in the care of Orc stablehands who looked at him with hungry eyes. She hoped she was reading them wrong, or Shetan would never been seen again, and that would be a shame. Better him than her though, if push came to shove.

Eventually she traversed the mountain pathways up the stone steps to the Dark Spire and traced the eye oh was she really doing this? six times. Once was enough really, doing it five more times was just hammering home the truth that you were going to serve the Dark Lord and no, there was not going to be any 'out the other side'. Maybe, though, maybe her sister was here. She bit her lip softly and straightened her back, lifting her chin as the door opened smoothly. She stepped inside.

Without hesitation, which she was sure would get her killed, she followed her instincts - and the main path, incidentally - to the Chamber of Initiation. It was colossal, clearly meant to impress and cow the entrant with its impressive size and sorcerous accoutrements, but it was the smell that almost knocked Bel flat. Death. Blood and foul sorcery hung in the air, stinking like a fishmonger's ageing wares. She took a deep breath and sucked it up; this was going to be part and parcel of the whole affair; best to get acclimatised fast.

Bel dropped her bag to the floor with conscious control to make no sound, and stood straight and proud.

"I am here to serve," she announced.

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The moment the young woman pressed her finger to the depiction of the eye and traced her finger a ripple of energy seemed to shoot through the whole building. Unbeknownst to the woman every room, corridor and cave hushed for a brief moment before chores were resumed once more. A new recruit had arrived.

Stooped over a map of Minas Tirith's many circles, the hooded figure tensed and quirked her head up as she felt ripple of energy, a smirk curling her blood red lips. Checking her calendar she gave a small nod of appreciation as she murmured "10 days..hmm.. could have been better, but not bad.."

"Eh!? What's that?" The orc close by blurted out, only then realising how he had addressed her. "I mean.. I couldn't h.. I missed.. s-sorry.." the last word mumbled as he backed away a few more steps.

She shot him a glare that loosened his bowels and forced him to struggle not to relieve himself right then and there, his legs shifting to clench tighter. He knew what that glare meant, that she would exact her punishment, just not right now. With his stomach roiling, he backed up even further, cowering in the corner as she stalked out of the room, her long black cloak fluttering after her.

"Pushdug.." he spat after her, regaining his courage the moment she was out of his view.

"I heard that, snaga.." she called back to him, her tone dripping with venom, though not seeing the yellow pool of liquid forming around his feet.

***

There would be no way that Bel would ever hear her approach, the only thing that would alert her to the fact that someone was stood behind her, likely that supernatural feeling one gets where the small hairs tingle, the air itself seemingly becoming more stifling. She did not move, remaining silent until she knew Bel had realised she was not alone and only then did she speak, her figure completely hidden in her long black hooded cloak.

Her voice was merely a whisper, though it seemed the room amplified it so no words were missed, sometimes echoing oddly even though that seemed impossible. "You are late, Amrúniel Belanind Hern."

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Image Bel

The room was vast, and in the time she waited, she had a chance to critically assess (from a fair distance) the gaudy bowls on the dais. She had no idea what they were for, but was under no illusion that the answer would be something nice and mundane. It was clearly a means of administering something vile and dreadful. Would she even know what vile and dreadful was, after this? Would she think of them as mere tools? It was a sobering thought. She shifted minutely at the wait, flexing her toes inside her boots, recognising the practice of intimidation but unable to keep from feeling it all the same; she was glad of her training at this point - she didn't want to imagine what would happen if she had come in here and started poking around uninvited. In any case, she had a feeling they knew she was there. Unseen eyes were probably watching from somewhere hidden.

Unless.

She closed her eyes and focused on unclenching every single muscle that had tensed as a frisson of awareness shocked her into absolute stillness. There was someone behind her. She didn't know how she knew, she just knew.

How long they had been there, Bel didn't know. She only knew one thing: she was at their mercy.

The dark whisper that carried in sibilant waves somehow assaulted all her senses as she heard the awful words, "You are late, Amrúniel Belanind Hern."

With terrible grace, Bel slid to her knees and bowed her head in submission, not daring to turn and face the deadly speaker, and certainly not brave enough to retort that the new moon was days away. One did not argue with the Dark Lord's servants.

"My life is in your hands," she murmured faintly and only hoped she hadn't gotten life confused with its extreme opposite.

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Eyes unseen bore down on the supplicant form before her and for a long moment no word was spoken. However no dagger sliced through flesh, no fresh blood spilled on the floors that were already thick with the decay of crusted and decomposing blood and guts. The mere fact that the young woman had not tried to apologise or tried to excuse the perceived tardiness, spoke volumes and definitely in favour of not ending the young woman's life prematurely.

"Rise and face me, Amrúniel Belanind." The words slithered out in a whisper that seemed to grow in volume rather than decrease, echoing her name madly as it spread through the chamber.

Immediate compliance was a given as the hooded figure waited until the young woman stood and faced her, hidden eyes watching her every move and noting every muscle used, every breath and the stance with which she stood. "Before I waste my time training you, honing your skills, carving you into a lethal weapon, I need to know that you are capable of subterfuge." The hooded figure paused for a moment to let the words sink in.

The hooded figure extended a pale slender hand holding a scroll towards Bel. "Your missive. In exactly two new moons time, I expect you to be standing in this room again, missive completed and with a full account of how it was achieved." The hooded figure handed the scroll over and almost gliding turned and began walking out of the room, no sound of footfalls being made.

"You will be watched. Fail and you die." Were the words that echoed around the room as the hooded figure disappeared out the door.

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Uigwann


Legs worn and weary, Uigwann ached across a stone up the side of the mountain. Between gasps and wheezes, he whined. 'Curse all the damned hills. And too all hill-dwellers.' He lay on his back for a long while, staring up into the haze that settled upon the land, the sun only a weak, thin circle in the midst of a bright oranged blur. Something twitched, and he moaned, unguarded in his lonesomeness. Oh, he was aware there might be watchers, most likely would, even in this nothing place halfway up the damned empty stairs. But if there were such, and they were there to hear him, let them be the ones to feel the discomfort. Or come out of the shadows and give the old man a hand up the path.

No?

No.

Of course not.

Damned watchers. Damned mountain. Damned fortress and damned elf-friends for building it long ago. Damned letter. Curious thing, that. Thirsty vellum, longing for the blood of life once held. Oh, he hadn't been able to help himself. A cutting here to test against other reagents: water, spittle, piss, lamb's blood, orc's blood. A cutting there to suspend under light and peer within the substance of it. A cutting to take for torture, for one should never be too quick to discount the efficacy of such methods for that which might be seen to emulate aspects of the soul, however unlikely. There were... interesting results.

He had burned it in the end, as bidden. A pity, but it seldom served to trangress against the mysteries of a secret society. And one such a this? No. They knew things. The letter had only held names, and old names at that, but they were his names. That was enough. Uigwann was not consequential. Not in Zigur's greater order. Oh, yes, there were those who might seek him out, and those who did, but for petty small spites and faint praises. The years hung heavy on him, and this suffering of recognition was the way for the least of the passingly competent who survived into the evening of life. But the letter did not say 'Uigwann, you poisoned my father and I have come to take revenge.' It did not say 'Gwann the Left, my mother was sick and your cured her, ere I was born, and on her grave-bed she bids me send her gratitude.' It said 'Come.' and it listed names not whispered in a lifetime. Frightenly many. Only a fool would think the dredging of the forgotten ended with the names.

'Damned lot,' he said, rolling off the rock with a groan and a whimper. He picked up the walking stick where he had lain it, left-handed, of course, and took to the steps once more.

It was a problem of choice, and the problem with choice was that the whole idea was a myth. We, all of us, were locked in step from the screaming, gasping birth we all shared to the infinite unique variation of death. That was the only release from choicelessness. Uigwann was but a pawn in a game played by greater powers, a role cast in a story told by other hands. The letter claimed a choice, but could there ever be? Could he shy away from the promise of arcane secrets and still be Uigwann? Could he ignore the unspoken threat of a forgotten past and still be Gwann the Left?

At last the rocks around him parted, and beyond arose the the willful construction of lesser smiths. Uigwann loosened his grip on the walking stick and pushed it aside, letting it fall from the path, breaking and skidding on the mountainside below. He was not so frail as to need it any longer. The door was iron, well-made. He peered close. Little signs of wear. No obvious manner of entry. Oh, he had read the letter. But there was obediance and there was blind obediance. Gwann the Left still had eyes, and unlike many, he still used them to see. Six times traced around the Eye. The why the Eye had an easy enough answer; this was the Black Land, and the imagery was pervasive, to say the least. But six? A curious choice. He would have chosen it for the cold, hard mathematical elegance: summation and multiplcation ordered and equal in balance, belying a purpose of truth and necessity. A matter of fervent devotion, instead? Was it a sign of Relentless, ingrained despair? Not the thought to ever voice, that one. Perhaps it was something esoteric, the answer only to be found within the walls. Disappointing, if so. He raised his left hand and traced, as bidden. A passage revealed.

There was little sign of goings-on beyond the doorway, and little still as he walked along the empty-seeming hallways. But that was the point, was it not? Despite the lack of bodies, some passages were open and inviting, and others... less so. Not always barred. Sometimes it was a way the light was cast. Sometimes it was a sort of clutter that made the way seem smaller. There was a passive direction to follow. It needed not to be spoken. It needed only be seen. Let the watchers watch, and let them see that Gwann the Left could see.

When he stepped into the room he knew was the end, the beginning, the place of places, he stood there. Tall, if bent. Proud, if resigned. Alert, if weary. And he said nothing. The watchers knew why he was there and who he was. Was that not the damned point?

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Her cloak rustled and snapped in the wind, though she did not pay it any heed. She was far to high up for the sound to carry to any ears regardless. Stood in the highest tower, she overlooked the path that led to the Castle. Her keen elven eyes saw far more than any man could, espying the form of a man as he laborously made his way up the path. Her brows were knit tightly together in pensive thought, though not from the scene down below of this mans obvious difficulty in traversing the cumbersome path. She still did not know how she felt about this new missive. For over a thousand years she had served her Dark Lord in Barad-dur, honing her skills as an interrogator, working her way up to becoming the Master Interrogator within a short space of time. It had helped that she knew well what would get people to talk or to sway them into joining the Dark Lord's side, seeing as she had been subjected to the same thing more than two thousand years ago now. At the memory she could feel the brand on her arm tingle, as if to remind her of her place, of her plight, of where her loyalties now lay.

There was no denying his wishes. It was obey or die. And it was never a quick easy death either. Unless you had the fortuity to quickly end it yourself before you were caught. The chance had never presented itself in the beginning, despite the choice that was given to all the Eldar. They all had the means to reject bodily life and die and pass on to the Hall of Mandos from where they could choose whether to return to Middle Earth once more or not. So why was she still here? Why had she allowed herself to be tortured, maimed and willingly given her life and loyalty to the most evil power in Middle-Earth in a long time?

Delothil. The name was burned into her mind, feeling the pressure in her head the moment she thought of her brother, feeling the nearing presence of the Dark Lord himself. The air around her seemed to thicken with malice, her face contorting as she forced herself to push the memories aside. She smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as if she had tasted something vile, watching as the man down below peeled himself off of the rock and stood with a whimper. Though small as it was, the wind carried it right up to her, lips curling with disgust. He had his reasons and it was not wise to question him, even though she could come up with numerous reasons as to why this old man should not have been summonded.

As the man closed in on the door, she turned on her heels, her long black robe snapping sharply behind her. It took her only moments to arrive down in the room, the same one that smelled of death and decay thanks to the many initiations Gauthir conducted. She did not know what those rituals involved, nor did she care to as they touched on magic darker than her own heart. For a long moment she watched him quietly from the door. She had already studied him up close on several occasions, however there was something about him that she could not quite put her finger on. Maybe she would be lucky and he would trip on his way out and fall to his death. But she did not live her life hoping for luck. Determined to carry out her orders, she stepped quietly into the room, her voice merely a whisper as she spoke, though the room bounced her words around in an odd fashion, amplifying them so even he could hear her.

"Why did you choose to accept? You do not believe you have a choice, do you?

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Image Bel

"Rise and face me, Amrúniel Belanind," the woman had said, and the compulsion in her voice was intense.

Bel rose in one smooth movement, glad for the reprieve. She had known fear in those moments. She lifted her eyes to look into that hooded gaze, but the darkness was an effective veil; she could see no features. She lowered her eyes respectfully as the lady continued speaking. Her voice had a strange quality, that might once have been melodious and fair. Bel listened to more than the words as she kept talking.

The cloaked lady gave her a scroll with some dire words of warning. Or maybe that was what passed for encouragement, here in the Black Land? Bel glanced at the slender hand holding the missive, and knew without being told that this was deception. The look of a thing did not reveal its nature, and that lady's wrist was no more fragile and helpless than the calmly uttered threat-promises that dripped from her lips.

Bel took the scroll when it was offered, and watched the lady's silent retreat from the chamber before she read it. The lady's parting words, "You will be watched. Fail and you die," made unrolling the scroll a shaky affair.

The room now seemed to shroud her, around the edges the shadows magnified their office and she wondered again if her sister was here, but she edged closer to a torch to see the message. It was concise and not a little worrying. Still, with the specifics of her task clearly outlined, Bel took a turn around the room until she found what she needed; the little bowl was as the lady had written. She unwound the scarf she habitually wore covering her hair, and after much deliberation, wrapped the four items she needed in it carefully. She had been so tempted to take more than four items, but ... ah, she dared not. The package disappeared inside her clothing with no problem, for the thief does not go abroad unprepared for trinkets and monies and perhaps even small statuary to present itself ready for the light-fingered opportunist.

The room seemed to have enough of her after that. A shaft of gloomy light heralded the position of her bag, and she hefted it up over her shoulder again, and then she was led - there was no other way to describe it - back out of the building, to the very doorway she had come in by. Opening it, she stepped outside into the twilight. She had been inside longer than she thought.

It was a slightly longer trip down the mountain path than up it, for the bag was heavy and one wrong move would send her careening down the pass to a sooner end than she would like. She eventually got down to the stables and the Orc on duty gave her a dapple grey. Unwilling to quibble about this egregious discrepancy at this time, she strapped her belongings on its back and took the road south. South and west, if one was being accurate, but mostly south for a good long while before turning westward. She was probably a good fifteen miles hence before she stopped for the night, and though she did sleep, her dreams were dark, filled with fire and shadow and unseen watchers, waiting for her to fail.

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Ristare

Flames curled the edges of the little paper and illuminated Ristare's hard-set features. She let the heat scorch her fingers for a moment as if to sear the instructions from the missive into her flesh and, thereby, her memory. But really, there was no need. There was no forgetting the words she'd read by the flickering firelight. At last, she dropped the burning parchment into the campfire at her feet before choking it out with handfuls of dirt. For good measure, she scuffed her boot through the little heap of earth and ash to scatter the particles of the note, sucking at her index finger as she did so. Her finger still stung where she'd pricked it and brought forth blood to reveal the hidden message.

Ristare Narwa had traveled the south lands for an age, roaming first with conquering parties of the King's Men, envied by the Númenóreans for her lineage and feared for the rumors of her work in tribute to Zigûr on the isle. Any who attempted to take her long life from her in jealousy or spite were slain, and those who'd tried for other reasons had met their end at her hands as well. With the fall of Anadûnê and the dwindling of the Númenóreans on the mainland, her movements had become more covert by necessity. She had since flitted from colony to colony in the lands southeast of Mordor, going where the work was good or the people dull-witted, sometimes finding both conveniently true. This note, discovered in her pocket as she ate tonight, had interrupted her latest journey: southwest to Far Harad. She had paused for rest near the western bank of the River Harnen where it emerged from the Mountains of Shadow. Now her thoughts turned, inexorably, north.

Fire accounted for, she packed away her uneaten dried meat and bread. Her appetite had vanished as the words unfurled from the point where blood touched parchment, and where she had been weary, she was now pulsing with fervor. Ristare mounted her horse once more, and they rushed away with the wind. After turning north where the Ephel Dúath curved, they picked their way toward Castle Durthang. The journey went as fast as her horse could bear, and within a fortnight Ristare saw the fortress clinging to the mountain, the claws of its foundation sunk deep into the rock.

She stabled her horse before beginning the lonely climb. The weary thing had begun to stumble as they approached, and she thought idly that it should be dispensed with should it not recover quickly. It had done its worldly work, and there were always more horses.

Moving up the Dark Stair was nauseating, both from the vertigo-inducing drop off the path and the anticipation that overwhelmed her with the moment of true arrival so near. She swallowed and trudged on, one hand always on the wall hewn into the mountain to keep the dizziness in control as she followed the back and forth of the stone steps up and up. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked. Ristare could tell when she was being watched.

And then the great door was before her, cold iron set with the eye. She pressed her forehead to it in reverent greeting, then leaned back and lifted a hand; it glowed like a pale spider in the pervasive gloom. With one finger she tenderly traced the eye six times, as instructed. She shivered as the final stroke ended and the door shuddered open.

Ristare found her way through halls heavy with oppressive silence to the Chamber of Initiation. Immediately, she sensed the air thrumming with traces of spells cast. Beneath this, the atmosphere was humid and rank, as if the blood smeared on the floor had risen into the air, too. Through the soles of her boots, she sensed the ridges where symbols had been carved into the stone. She moved to the middle of the room as she had done so many times in the temple on Númenor: on silent feet, eyes alight and fingers tingling.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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She sat along the far wall of the room, shrouded in shadows as they wrapped around her silent form like a cold blanket. She could clearly see the woman's senses were tingling, likely knowing she was there, or merely sensing the old magic that permeated the very fabric of this place. Leaning on one armrest, one foot raised to the seat she sat on, she was lounging casually awaiting this one. Two weeks it had taken her, not wholly bad. She had almost ridden the horse to death to get here quickly. She did not make her presence known straight away, waiting to see how the woman would react to having to wait.

When she finally decided to make her presence known the shadows slithered almost imperceptibly as she nodded slowly, her voice a low whisper as she finally spoke.

"Your kind is dwindling.. pity.."

No sound was made, though the very shadows seemed to ooze, swell and shift, as if birthing her before the woman. She stopped a few feet before the woman, silence falling on the chamber once more. Slowly, almost as if she glided rather than walked, the hooded figure circled the woman before stopping before her once more. Again she studied the woman, watching for how she would react to the pauses, if they would unnerve her and if they did, how she dealt with that. One could glean so much from people when they were forced to wait while being stared at.

"So you are the one who paid tribute to Zigûr.." A long oppressive pause passed before she spoke again. "Long has it been since He was know as that."

Another long pause ensued before the hooded figure slid closer, close enough that the woman could see the glow of the fiery eyes deep inside the cowl.

"What took you so long?" The question obviously asking for an explanation as to why she had not presented herself to the Dark Lord before now.

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Hoðr “Âdhûn" Enguson

He awoke with a start. A meaty fist grabbed the handle of the war pick instinctively. It was night still, the stars hovered and simmered above him. The fire had died to throbbing embers. There was an orange glow to the shadows, an edge to the inky blackness of night. The world was utterly silent around him, there was no wind, no insects, no sounds of vegetation. Yet he knew he was not alone. There was a silhouette, barely distinguishable from the surrounding darkness. It was only there for a heartbeat. Before Hoðr could make a move, the imaging shimmered and melted away. He was fully awake now. He leapt to his feet, bringing the war pick around in a defensive posture. A dwarven curse escaped his lips. It sounded loud and harsh in his ears, the only sound at all in the hollow he’d chosen as his resting place. His eyes were keenest in the dark, having been made to see in the lightless tunnels of the mountains, but even he could see no sign of another’s presence here. There were no tracks, no disturbed vegetation, nothing, yet he was beyond certain that something had been here. The thought rankled him. How had he been so careless as to allow his camp to be breached. He cursed again, louder this time. If it had been one of his old clan they would pay dearly.

He stalked back to the ruins of his fire and prodded the embers to life. Sparks sizzled and whined as they rushed out to meet the air again. There was a note there, a single piece of parchment with a symbol scrawled across the bottom.

We have been watching you. The Shadow calls upon you. Do not disobey us. Bleed and you shall be shown the way.

Hoðr squinted at the letter. How had it gotten here? How had its deliverer not been seen or heard? These were questions he could not answer. He hates not having the answers. He ground his teeth and nearly through the letter into the embers to let the dying flames devour one more meal before their lives ended, but something stopped him, that little voice in the back of his mind. The Shadow. He'd only ever heard of them once, from a homeless drunk in an alleyway in Umbar, who almost immediately had some sort apoplectic fit then died as he watched. He'd counted passing strange but never gave it another thought. But this missive changed things. What was The Shadow? Some sort of secret organization. One bent on making sure nothing was known about it. One that wanted him. That sent an involuntary chill down his spine. Were they watching him now? Was that… whatever it was, one of them? His grip on the handle of his war pick tightened, the leather handheld creaking in protest. The hackles on the back of the dwarf’s neck rose.

He read the words of the letter out loud to himself, keeping his voice to barely above a whisper. What did it mean to bleed and he would be shown the way? He stared at the parchment for a long moment, turned it over to the other side, and held it over the embers again. He felt like a fool. Of course he knew what it meant. It was the simplest thing in the world. Setting his war pick aside, he drew out the dagger at his hip, pricked his thumb, and let something wicked this way come. A few drops on the parchment and, like ants to a carcass, the paper began crawling to life. A map, he saw. He nodded, watching as the blood filled out previously invisible lines. Durthang. The legendary castle. It was a map there. He looked over the new map intently, memorizing each curve and pathway. The instant that the map finished the parchment burst into flames. Startled momentarily, he dropped it. The flaming piece of paper drifted ethereally the charred remains turned to ash on the embers of his face. For a long moment, he sat look at it, considering.

It was a great honor to even be contacted by this most secret group of assassins, that he knew. But there came with this honor certain stipulations that made draconian seem like an understatement. Still. The siren call of the place was almost too great, too rich to be ignored. Hoðr leaned back and closed his eyes, imagining all the things he could do. The heavily sinewed dwarf smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. He had been a killer all his long life, enlisting in his clan’s fighting force much earlier than should have been allowed, he had an aptitude for killing goblins, and they were afraid of what might happen if he turned that aptitude on them. Eventually, he did. He had found it so easy to kill on the field of battle, he wanted to try his hand at killing in other ways. He savored each kill he made, tying a new braid into growing beard as a memoir for each kill. Eventually, the dark power that ruled the clan took notice of him, the human envoy that liaised between the Blackforge clan and the Eye grew greedy and tried to use Hoðr for his own ends. Instead of becoming a puppet, he killed the human and displayed his corpse in the great halls of his elders. That had been the last straw. He was cast out, exiled, branded âdhûn. He took that word, meant to be a scarlet letter, a brand of shame, and made it his strength. He had wandered through the east lands alone, hiring himself out as a mercenary for anyone willing to pay his exorbitant fees be a singular force of death, blood, and destruction. He honed his killing skills on Haradrim and Easterlings, on Variags and Númenóreans. No one was safe from him. Eventually, he’d grown weary of men and their endless squabbles. He did not long for home, but he did long for something. Perhaps this is what he longed for.

The next three weeks were tortuously long. He had made haste that very night moving back west toward the blasted lands of Mordor. The journey had been hard though, he travelled rough and dangerous terrain, where a single wrong step would spell his untimely demise. Still, he thought he made good time. His impatience made those three weeks feel like three years. His skin felt alive with electricity. There was a new strength in his arm, a new viciousness in his swing. He had been so eager to cross a river that he butchered a travel circus just to steal their wagon to ford across.

That was how he arrived in Durthang, blood stained and hungry. The Chamber of Initiation was vast and oppressive. Hoðr could feel the weight of expectation bearing down on him. It was empty, this great hallway, yet the scrape of his boots did not echo in an endless spiral. Silence, or that thing that laid beneath silence, the vacuum of nothingness, was thick and heady. He could feel and hear his blood pumping through his body. His muscles tightened and he inhaled the sweet, dead air. He was here.
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For a long moment she merely watched him from the doorway, a small snarl playing with her lips. While the dislike for dwarves could very well be blamed on her ancestry, it was not true for her. She hated all races that were weaker than her own. They were good for nothing, minions to run errands. Bait. Expendable. And yet here she was looking at a dwarf of all things. She had heard the reports about this one, ostracised from his clan for killing an envoy. Khalak. She remembered him well. And yet, here he was on the order of the Dark Lord himself.

Rankled that she had to train someone who had killed one of their own, another snarl flitted across her lips before she stepped into the room. Being a killer did not make you a Shadow. Anyone could kill. There was no need for brute force. The Shadows were elegance, subtlety and refinement. It was subterfuge at it's finest. It was sowing discord where there was none and watching it grow as you encouraged it along with measured actions and not being a whirlwind that just tore through the landscape. That would come later.

Her footfalls were as quiet as the room itself, the room seemingly swallowing every sound as they were made. She stopped just inside, sliding her dagger out of it's sheath and sending it hurtling towards the dwarf's back before the sound of it would even reach him.

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Ristare

Ristare breathed in the damp air and gazed up into the Chamber's vaulted ceiling. The Temple had been a mighty and imposing building, too. She licked her lips and tasted the metallic tang of blood on the air. The oil lamps flickered weakly, fighting the darkness that seemed alive with malice. Of course it was. She was being watched. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. With her eyes shut, she could sense even more keenly the crackling of sorcery in the room. She took several deep breaths like this.

It was an act of comfort but also an act that proclaimed her utter helplessness at the hands of her recruiters. So many had died eyes wide and screaming in the flames. But she would die blind and silent, if it was so fated today. She had chosen the long life of her mother's people but the ways of her father's. It seemed an ironic twist that those ways might end here, in this particular room and in this particular land, in death. She was not afraid to die, though she did not want to just yet. She was at the mercy of whoever had drawn her here.

And now the shadows came alive, swelling and undulating until they coalesced into the hooded form that now paced around her, speaking in a whisper. Ristare heard the voice clearly; in a room of these proportions, sound resounded on the stone and whispers traveled far. "So you are the one who paid tribute to Zigûr.. Long has it been since He was known as that," she - for it was a woman's voice - intoned. A shiver ran down Ristare's spine in surprise and pleasure: surprise at hearing that name spoken aloud, pleasure in learning that her work was known. This feeling dissipated during a long pause; she could sense the figure drawing closer, gliding toward her across the carved and bloody floor. She opened her eyes. Ristare kept her shoulders back and her chin raised. She knew the question was coming before it tautened the air between them. "What took you so long?"

She countered with a pregnant pause of her own, meeting the fiery gaze that hit her like a blow and doing her best not to quail beneath it. "The tale of my travels since He returned hither from the ruin of Anadûnê would be a long one," she began, her voice a delicate, unexpectedly sweet sound. Her voice had always surprised people who knew her first by reputation. "I can tell you all you like, but for now I will say I have made it my mission to teach the lesser men of this world." She let the weight of the word "teach" hang on the air and hoped this summary would not be considered reticence - for the tale was indeed a long one, and she did not believe it wise to test this one's patience with the full account.

"I did none of this subtly," she went on. "I raised my voice high to impress upon mortals the need to obey. My network was wide, my temper quick, my comings and goings known. On Númenor, they called me Lôminzil, night-flower, for the blooms of flame and blood that I brought forth in the night. I received the moniker Narwa for similar reasons. What could have been more conspicuous? After an age of unflinchingly working in the open - and enduring all the consequences thereof - I have realized that the subtle arts are often the more effective. I do not regret how I have spent my time in these mortal lands, but I am not unwise. One must evolve to survive. I have come to answer a summons that arrived just as I began to wonder what form my life would take next."

She fell silent with the lamplight dancing in her obsidian eyes.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Uigwann

The voice came from around him, as if the very chamber spoke. It did not, certainly, but the effect was unsettling nonetheless. "Why did you choose to accept? You do not believe you have a choice do you?" Was the shrouded figure trying to put the fear into him, make him think she could peer into the depths of his mind and read him like a book? Uigwann had long ago been taught to keep his mind closed. His pahtie was firmly set. Yet simple things, the minds of men. Easily pieced together with enough observation of just the flesh that bound it. He was no exception, and this was no ignorant before him. Damned watchers. Whoever she was, she had the advantage of him. Did she want acquiescence? Honesty? Conviction? Each had a track to take, as did not knowing.

Gwan the Left raised his right arm at the elbow, palm up, showing it to be empty. The fingers, curled loosely, fell back flat in slow, creeping jerks, until the whole of it was splayed as straight as ruined tendons could allow. 'I came in good faith...' He searched for a form of address. 'Mistress.' The word tasted like dust in his mouth. He let the hand fall, and it swung back to limpness at his side.

'Why did I accept? Because I must. There are secrets in this place. I have need of them. There is knowledge here to be found. I will have it. I ask you: where is the choice in that?' He raised his voice louder. 'No more than to move forward or to lay down and die. Is it choice for the worm, crawling through the dirt, that keeps them inching along?' Harsher. 'Is there choice for the birds above, to flap their wings, instead of plummeting to greet the earth below?' Louder still. 'For the snake in the grass—'

He coughed. It started in his throat, set in motion by the dryness of his journey up the mountain, and sunk to his lungs. Uigwann staggered, his good hand clutching at his chest, grasping at his garments and searching about. He chanced upon his waterskin and brought it to his lips, splashing the muddy, foul water on himself and the floor before managing a few mouthfuls. He coughed again, wetly, and breathed in deep, in and out. When he looked up at the hooded figure once again, it was with considerably redder eyes and a sag to his sneer.

'No, it is survival. It is necessity. And so for us. I am not here to play at choices. I am here to do what needs be done, while I still have the strength for it.'

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She held the woman's gaze, the long minutes ticking by silently. Without a word she broke it as she turned and headed over to the massive sideboard stood against one wall. What huge tree had been felled to create this was unknown, the information lost over the ages. Over countless years blood had spilled and stained the wood, though it glistened oddly in the torchlight as if fresh blood had just been poured over it mere moments before. Pale fingers slithered out from the long black robe to touch at the surface that seemed to ripple beneath her touch. They glided softly over towards a large silver pitcher, fingers unstained gripping the ornate handle. Tipping it, she slowly poured a blood red liquid into a silver goblet studded with glistening rubies that seemed to come alive as the liquid cascaded down into it.

Setting the pitcher back without a sound made she grabbed the goblet and turned back, looking at Ristare. Extending her hand with the goblet, she summoned the woman over. Two orbs of fire deep inside the cowl competed with the mesmeric rubies on the silver goblet. "Drink and fate will decide whether or not you can proceed.."

***

Watching his pathetic decrepit form try and regain control after the racking cough her lips curled in a disgusted snarl. She wanted nothing more than to give him a test that would surely be the death of him. Like make him climb the tower of the Castle on the outside. During a storm. Or have him fight one of the Uruks, to the death. But even she saw the value in having a diverse group and she knew some had more skill in one area than others and it was up to her to find what that skill was. But this one? Was this a test for her? To see if she could make something out of nothing?

Pale slender hands slid from the deep depths of her cloak and rose to push back the cowl of her hood, letting it slide down her pitch black hair. Paler than most of her kind she held the regal beauty that all Eldar were gifted with, though hers was tinged with an icy cruelness one would never see in any other elves. Her most striking feature were undoubtedly her fiery red iris', each of them now boring into the old man before her.

"Don't call me Mistress. Especially not when you cannot hide your disgust in saying it..." Her head twitched in a way to show she had heard it, giving him a look before she walked over to the side table where six scrolls were lined up. She picked them all up in her long slender fingers and headed back to stand before him, towering over his arthritic form. Extending her hands, she handed him the scrolls and as soon as he had taken them she walked out of the room without a word.

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Ristare

"Drink and fate will decide whether or not you can proceed.."

"Drink...fate...Drink."

Ristare crumpled to her knees, one hand grasping the great wooden sideboard, the other held over her eyes in a vain attempt to shield them from the immense presence that she both cowered from and craved. The room disappeared; the gentle snaps of the lanterns' small flames were overcome by a soft rushing which crescendoed to a peak around her, filling her ears with an echoing roar and words in an ancient tongue.

The goblet clattered to the floor, its last contents dripping out to seep into the cracks between stones. Rubies inlaid on the cup glinted dimly, but Ristare was blind to them. Her head spun and bile rose in her throat. She gagged and a long, thin rope of saliva fell from her mouth to mingle with the grime smeared across the floor.

And suddenly, like a great fog rolling out to sea, the vision faded and her mind cleared. Her senses sharpened. The room returned to its former state, quiet yet still alive with the residue of dark enchantment. Ristare stood slowly, leaning against the stained cabinet to steady herself. She turned to face the center of the room, expecting to see the hooded figure or to hear a judgement proclaimed in a soft hiss. Where were those eyes? Those red, red eyes? She scanned the full room and found that she was alone. Where before the air had quivered with the other's presence and intent, she now felt only emptiness in the enveloping shadows. She took this to mean she was free to proceed: she had orders to follow.

As Ristare swept from the room, there was a gentle tinkle of glass against glass in the bag at her side.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Hoðr “Âdhûn" Enguson

The thing about silence, real silence, the kind of silence that exists completely outside of life and light, is that any sound, any movement, has the potential to be like an avalanche. Âdhûn instinctively knew that he was not alone. The silence was too unnatural for him to be alone. He held his breath and closed his eyes, allowing his hearing to gain a greater mastery of the surroundings. While he was no bat, he could feel the dark surroundings better now. He sniffed the pale, cold air. It smelled empty, the way a frozen lake smells.

Then, he heard the slightest intake of breath, the slightest grunt of exertion from one of the corners of the vast hall behind him. It was so slight, so minuscule and innocuous that he almost ignored it. Then the air pressure around him changed. It too was slight, and the only reason the dwarf could feel such a change in the air was through years and years of training and practiced meditation. Something was coming his way, and fast.

Repressing his instinct to dodge the attack, Âdhûn merely shifted his weight from his right leg to his left and twisted his squat, muscular body toward where the sounds had come from. In that single heartbeat of time, he heard the just the whisper of a metallic whining, something slicing through the air with horrifying accuracy and dexterity. He lowered his shoulder, angling it so that the war pick still slung across his shoulder could either deflect or absorb most of the impact. He hoped his rapid calculation was correct.

A moment later, a knife PINGED hard against the steel head of his war pick. The impact of the knife was so strong that he was forced to take a step forward to regain his balance, he thanked the silver hells he had guessed right or that blade would have likely embedded itself in his spine and he would be warg bait. He opened his eyes and malevolent smile crept across his features. He had guess correctly. If that had been some sort of ill conceived test, he had passed it. A single chuckle escaped his cracked lips.

His guard was still up as bent to the ground to pick up the ornate but functional knife. He hefted it in his hand, feeling the weight. It was a good knife, and it was his now. With slow purpose, he turned to face the black, shadowy corner from whence the knife had flown.

“You know,” his voice echoed harshly in the utter silence of the hall, “if you want to kill a dwarf, you’re going to have to better than a knife in the back. Thank you for the knife though. I’m sure I can find a use for it. That was a gift right? And a dwarf never refuses a gift.” He chuckled again, a low rumbling sound that reached the very tops of the hall’s ceiling. He rubbed one of the thick braids of black beard that hung passed his chest. He looked at the knife again, inspecting it closely while still remaining aware and alert to the shadowy corner. “Well?” his voice was gruff “Are you coming out or do I have wait for someone more official?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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She waited a few more long moments before stepping into the room. Her long black hair was tied back neatly in a long braid, that ran like a whip down her back. Dressed in all black, from her tight fitting shirt, to the tight leggings, all the way down to the black boots that were made out of supple leather so that they did not make a sound when she walked. Even the fittings on her vambraces and belts were blackened so that they did not reflect light. Everything she wore was like the shadows themselves, however today she was not wearing the voluminous cloak where she could hide her fiery red eyes.

"If I wanted you dead, dwarf.. then you would already be dead." Her voice dripped with undisguised hatred. "Make no mistake, dwarf.. I am not one you want to ire." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, though the tone promised all kinds of torment that one could possibly imagine.

With silent steps she walked over to the large sideboard that stood to one side of the room and agilely lifted herself onto it, seating herself so that she sat crosslegged and looked towards him. Eyeing him for a long moment she finally spoke, not even trying to hide the venom in her tone. "I don't like you." She left it at that for a long moment before she reached out to one side to pick up the scroll lying there.

"But I don't have to like you to give you your mission.." She tapped the scroll against the palm of her slender hand as if she was considering whether she was going to give it to him or not.

"Hm.." Eyes narrowing, she tossed the scroll to him and slid off the cabinet. "Do us both a favour and fail.." Sneering at him, she turned her back on him and began walking out the room, hoping that he would throw the dagger at her and give her reasonable cause to kill him.

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Umoya

She had been relaxing in her tattoo shop when a letter had been dropped off for her. She had expected it to be from her father, the insane man who followed the wizards cult. She despised how much she had been raised in the rights of the Ithryn Luin, and she expected because one of the grand feasts was coming up where haradrim tried to show of their own forms of magic that she was being requested to return to help show off to the masses about how powerful their bloodline was. It was all smoke and mirrors and she hated it. She was surprised when she opened it that it was not from her father. Instead it was something else something darker, something that truly was more powerful than the silly cult of the Ithryn Luin. She'd gone back into her shop stall shutting the door so that none could see what she was reading in full.

She knew enough about the tales of blood magic that she hesitated for only a moment when she realized that she needed blood to show her the remainder of the message. Her dark eyes narrowed and she grabbed the knife that she normally used to create a slit to tie her needles into on the wooden sticks she used. It was razor sharp and she cut the back of her arm along the lines of one of her tattoos so that the scar would be less noticeable to any that saw her before it healed. The blood welled up and she let it drip onto the paper watching it with a mix of fear and curiosity. she spread the crimson liquid and saw the directions and her eyes went wide. She had never expected in her life to be summoned to such a group and yet... She debated on not going her life was relaxing as it was now, why spoil it? How else would she rise above the nonsense cultish whining of her desperate father. She would go. She would become more than someone that could deal in smoke and mirrors. She folded up the paper and put it on a ceramic plate and lit it letting it burn itself out and then she moved the ashes to her mortar and pestle and ground the find ash to nothing mixing it with her normal black pigments she pushed tapped it into her arm darkening up the coiled snake that was depicted on her arm that she had cut along the message gone for good she finished her day and then began her journey as night settled over the Dark lands.


The road was long and she glared at the orcs that dared to try to hinder her, she said not a word of where she was going and simply moved past them, and the green stained rocks she could see the spire far above her, and were she in any lesser shape than she was she would fear the portion of the journey that was coming as she caught sight of the towering castle on the ridge high above. She swallowed, looking up at the path that was left, the serpentine road twisted more than the ink on her arm. She pressed her full lips together as she took a moment to take a few deep breaths for a second before relaxing them and heading on. Soon she was leaning forwards into the climb her breath coming faster and deeper as she kept climbing until she was covered in a thing glistening sheen of sweat, and she was exhausted as she came to the Gate and shut her eyes glancing up at the arrow slits high above and caught her breath enough that she would not be gasping for breath when she was in the Chamber of Initiation.

She followed the path to the Lidless eye and raised her chin. Six times. That had been the instructions she stood back and lifted her hand and traced it the first time, her heart in her throat, she was certain her heart was thundering in her ears it felt like they would explode from how loud her heart sounded to her. She finished the sixth trace and the door opened and she stepped forward calmly continuing until she was finally in the Chamber of Initiation. It was... an oppressing place, and had far more power to it by her reckoning than anything that her fathers cult held in awe as power, she would laugh at her fathers sacred spaces in private, she saw no one here, and no part of her wished to break the silence in this place without permission. She felt that would be deadly to herself.

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Time flies when you are having fun and crawls when you are bored. Or so they said. Being immortal time was not important anymore, other than ensuring that her orders got seen to in a timely fashion. Sat on one of the crenellations, one slender leg swinging over the edge and the other bent, with her foot pressed against the next one, she watched as yet another chosen one arrived. She had long ago come to terms with not questioning who Sauron picked for being tested. Her opinions did not matter and never would and it was something she could take or die. There was no leaving it here in Mordor. It was literally do or die.

Her hood rustled softly around her face as a sudden gust of sulfurous air passed across the Tower and left her murmuring "Yeah, yeah.." as if answering a summons. She waited until the woman had entered the tower before she moved from her spot, agilely dropping down without a sound. With unheard footfalls, she made her way down the stairs that led to the roof and slowly traversed the twisting and turning corridors that were made to ensure intruders would get lost. But she knew this place like the back of her hand, able to make her way through the many winding corridors in the dark.

Leaning casually against the doorframe into the Chamber, she looked the newcomer over with a critical eye. A dark skinned human with several tattoo's, at least from what she could see peeking out from the coverings of her clothing. A small sneer flicked across her lips, again wondering why her Master bothered with the humans and their short lifespans. But she was not to question Him.

"So you think yourself worthy of joining?" Her voice rang eerily loud in the large empty chamber, though oddly enough there was no echo, as if her words were swallowed by some unknown presence. "Well, if you haven't regretted it yet, you might soon enough.." Flicking her head towards the massive side table where a stack of six scrolls were piled up, a small note laying on the top of one of them. "Best hurry up then and be on your way.."

With another disgusted look, she turned and walked away.

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Umoya

Umoya turned her head slightly in acknowledgement of the voice behind her. The sound rang as if it should echo and yet it did not she gave a small tip of her head at the question of her being worthy. That was not hers to decide. The Scroll she had burnt had decided that, otherwise it would not have found her. Of course she needed to prove whomever had decided she was worthy, she had no delusion that her simply arriving would be enough to grant her entrance to such a... secretive and deadly sect. Not even her father knew if these people, if that is what one could call them were real, and she would never be the sort to inform him one way or the other.

She caught the slight flick of the womans head, at least that's what she assumed the being was by the timber of her voice and the coolness of her words, men were far easier to sway with a smile and a bat of the lashes. Women were cold and calculating and gave far less cares to the plight of other women. She gave a small smirk as she heard the foot steps fading away after she was told to hurry up and be on her way. She walked calmly to the scrolls that were piled up and looked them over as she read the note laying atop them. She slipped them into her bag and licked her full lips thinking as she tossed the not that had been on them into the flames of some torch letting it burn away to nothing as she had the other missive that had summoned her.

There would be no proof of her passing from this land with theses scrolls she had an idea on where to go to slip the scrolls into the hands that they needed to fall into. She would have to go to the City of the Corsairs. From there her task would be far easier to fulfill. She would prove she had no doubts in her own abilities, or loyalty to...Him

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Umoya

Her task had taken her some time, not that she could help that. The winds could only carry one so far so fast and someone of her complexion would be well noted travelling on horse back racing across the western lands. No that would not have done what was needed she was certain of that. She had sped as quickly as she could once she was no longer at the winds mercy riding horse to the ground to get back to the tower. The beast collapsed less than a mile from the base of the winding path. She didn't care, there were more horses.

She slipped back up that long climb exhausted from the mad rush to get back swiftly to prove her worth in this matter. She blinked staring at that eye and her proud smirk returned to her face as her finger traced it once more.
And then again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.

And the door slid open, she walked now with a certain pride in herself, though she was still lowly and only an initiate, she had done as asked, and as swiftly as she could do it without raising suspicions of those around her. She stepped into the Chamber once more, her foot steps less quiet this time, though their echo was still swallowed whole by some darkness and waited. She was not sure if it would be the same woman as before or if it would be another. She kept her face schooled now not wishing to incur the wrath of someone that likely could slice her to haram ribbons with a wink because she was too proud of herself. She stood silent her hands at her side looking at the room now more closely seeing where the shadows in it fell deepest and waited to give what proof she had that her mission had been successful.

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She appeared in the doorway as if out of nowhere. There had been no sound of her footfalls, one second she was just stood there as if she had magically appeared. While this place reeked of magic, this woman had none. Her powers lay in hard work, persistence and the patience of an immortal. For a long moment she silently watched the woman again as the young woman tried to see through the darkness of the room. A small smirk graced her lips, knowing that the darkness that filled this particular room was thick with a living malice that was far beyond her comprehension. There would be no penetrating it. It penetrated you.

"Follow me."

Her words did not echo in the room, like the young woman's footfalls her words seemed to enter the chamber and then get consumed. Without waiting to see if the woman would comply, she turned on her heels and made it further into the compound. She led her down one long corridor after another, only rarely encountering others and when they did the orcs and uruks immediately stepped aside for her, pushing against the walls as if they were trying to get as much distance between her and them as possible. Unperturbed she continued on, the long corridors seemingly twisting in one direction as if going down.

Finally a huge opening like a gaping maw of a dragon ended the long corridor they were in and she headed straight through it as the flames flickered menacingly against the cavern walls. There was no way to tell how high the ceiling was, far up above them the flames were unable to reach it and it lay in permanent darkness. A massive forge filled the whole of each of the remaining three walls, the air thick with fumes and the heat from the massive fires that burned within. The smithy was never quiet, orcs and uruks working in rotation kept the three forges burning hotly and produceing the metals needed for the weapons they made. Hissing steam and crackling fires made it all but impossible to speak and be heard, the loud banging from the weaponsmiths off to one side loud enough to make your ears hurt.

Without hesitating she walked over to the far forge on her left, the orcs scattering out of her way before immediately returning to their work once she had passed, leaving the young woman to dodge them as they had no qualms about getting in her way. Along one wall hung seven branding irons, all hung closely together. She headed over to the far left one and pulled it from the hook and then unceremoniously shoved it into the forge. She did not turn to the young woman as she waited for it to be heated, instead she spent those few moments staring off into the fires even though they were blindingly hot. Using a wet rag, she picked up the branding iron after a few minutes and then finally turned towards the young woman once more.

Raising one hand, the room fell silent. Or at least as silent as one could make it with three roaring fires.

Blood red eyes bore into the young woman as she stepped over to stand right in front of her, her voice cold as ice when she spoke.

"Swear your undying fealty to the Dark Lord, Umoya. Do you give him your heart, your mind and your soul?"

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Umoya

She hear d the words 'Follow Me.' And knew that the woman that had sent her on the mission before had returned. She spun swiftly, the darkness that she had been looking at no longer the forefront of her mind. Keeping up with this absolutely silent creature, for she did not know if woman was the right term with how quiet she moved, nor at how Uruks and orcs flung themselves from her path. They certainly did not move aside for Umoya like that, though most days she felt like they should, and mentally some small venomous voice that drove her further, to do more, hissed that they would. It was a matter of time.

The dark skinned woman recognized the heat and smell of a forge as they neared, though never one quite so... She glanced up, that pervading darkness was there, she followed close on the dark woman's heels though not swift enough that the orcs that worked there did not get in her way. She had no doubt that here they out ranked her at least for now. She was light on her feet though and side stepped around them weaving through the masses as they parted and returned to their work like a seed of a dandelion, tenacious and unwavering in her goal even if her path was not near as smooth as the one that lead her. Finally the path ended at a forge and she looked at the branding irons on the wall. and her head tipped back slightly.

Strange that a sect so enamored with being little more than a terrified whisper would brand its members, she though was of no position to speak. Instead she watched as the brand was shoved into the forge. There was a long silence between the two of them as they waited. Umoya knew what this was, she was a purveyor of brands and ink to others as well as herself. Well ink at least. She had never wanted to brand herself but she had spent many long hours pressing needles smeared with soot and water and oils into her own flesh creating the binding snakes on her arm. She knew what was coming, she understood that pain she would endure it.

The brand came from the fire and a hand was raised. Umoya met the eyes of the woman, red and dangerous she did not flinch away from those eyes, perhaps a fools bravado but she would not be cowed away from this path. The womans voice iced steel as she spoke and Umoya kept her head raised looking the woman in the eye.

"To the Dark Lord, may my heart my mind and soul be ever at his service however it might be required." She said calmly her voice was not as cold as the woman she looked at but it was full of conviction, and she did not falter or flinch away from hot brand that was so near her skin.

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The slightest of smirks played on her lips as she looked into the young woman's eyes. She saw the questions within. Saw the determination to endure what she thought was coming. No one really knew just what they were getting themselves into. But they all soon found out. Or they didn't. Not everyone made it through this with their sanity intact and some even did not make it through with their lives. Not everyone was made to be a vessel for Him. Not everyone could cope with Him filling their minds, digging His claws deep into their very souls. There would never be any going back, there would be no changing their minds. Once it was done, they were His. For eternity.

She could see that the young woman was questioning the use of the branding iron, but she offered no explantion. It would become clear to her or it wouldn't, either way she did not care. Waiting for the woman to speak her words, she paused a moment longer as if giving the woman a split second to regret her decision. Should that come, she would be dead before she hit the floor. But foolish as it may be, the woman stood her ground. Raising her free hand towards the woman, she gestured for the young woman to pull the sleeve of her top up high and place her arm in her hand.

She could feel the warmth of the woman's arm as she complied with the unspoken request. It was warm against her hand, which was icy cold despite the unbearable heat of the massive room. Even while holding her arm her hand did not warm. She did not move her eyes from the young woman's as she pressed the branding iron to the woman's skin. They searched for any signs of pain and of regret, her hand clasping the woman's wrist like a vice in case she pulled away. She left the branding iron on the skin long enough for the skin to start smoking before pulling it away. Handing the branding iron to the woman, she then drew out an ornate dagger that had been sheathed in a scabbard on her back. The blade itself looked like it had consumed the darkness itself. It looked like it was alive, the blade swirling with malice.

"In fire and blood you swear your fealty to the Dark Lord. Your life is His to do with as He wishes."

As she spoke, she looked down at the brand that had left an angry red circle on the woman's dark skin and carefully cut two lines across it. One diagonal and one horizontal.

What the woman did not know was that her true initiation was right now. As the sharp blade split her skin apart it looked as if the darkness that was contained within the blade slowly seeped into the wounds that were created. When she was done cutting, the blade looked like any other blade and was swiftly returned to it's sheath and she let the woman's arm go. An eagerness that had not been in her eyes before, shone brightly as she waited to see if the young woman would survive the ordeal. Not many did. Some broke their necks with the violent spasms, others threw up so hard that their stomachs burst and they bled to death. Some survived long enough to go completely insane.

Her eyes followed as the darkness spread through the womans veins, colouring them black as they rapidly rose up her arm. Should the woman fail, then she would be just another corpse to stoke the fires.

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Umoya

She bared her arm for the woman no hesitation in her movements though the chill of the womans hand upon her skin was strange but she said nothing keeping her eyes upon the blood read eyes of this woman before her, as if daring her to hesitate instead, for Umoya had no plans on backing down from this. Perhaps it was bravery, or stupidity, likely a mixture of both for she did not doubt this woman could kill her in an instant if she so chose.

The brand struck hot and her only reaction was a tensing of her muscles to keep herself from flinching away as she let the red hot metal smolder on her skin hissing at the moisture beneath it . She did this to people for a living no she would not flinch before this woman. It wasn't until she saw the blade itself unsheathed coming for her arm that she broke eye contact with the woman. The blade swirled and changed reminding her almost of the blackness that had been in the room where she had been before. The cuts were swift and she watched in a strange sense of wonder at the...void. Yes that was the easiest way to describe the darkness that had been on the knife as it transferred to her. Her pupils dilated and her jaw clenched hard her muscles clenching and her hands balled into fists.

Time felt as if it was standing still, she did not know that her whole body was trembling something, what she was not sure felt like it was burrowing through her entire body as she watched unable to move at all as the black
spread up her arm like blood poisoning like those that idiots that went drinking in pubs rubbing against whatever filth sometimes go after getting a fresh tattoo. This though it went faster. Or did it? She wasn't sure about how long it took the world fell black as her eyes rolled into the back of her head as... she wasn't sure what happened.

She woke on her knees her mouth and nose bloody and her head and arm ached. She was still blinked and lifted her hand wiping the wetness from her face clearing the trickle of blood from under her nose before she stood back up slowly, something... something was different but she knew not what but she felt as if she was more powerful now, but her body felt as if she had been stomped on by a mumakil. Back on her feet she met the womans eyes once more, her breath a bit shaky and something felt like it was in her mind when she rememberd how the woman had said He and his.

My Lord? She asked mentally as if confirming her own thoughts, having never dreamed of this particular honor.

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If there was one thing she had learned over the years of working with pretty much every race known to Middle-Earth it was that most of the races responded really well to some kind of heirachy. The need for power and influence was greatest amongst humans she had found. It seemed they were the ones that wanted to be able to climb the ladder to greater power, greed often driving them as they sought to be more powerful than anyone before them. Fools. The lot of them. Why bother when you lived less than a hundred years? Foolish mortals.

A spark of interest grew as she watched the woman before her lose consciousness. Would this one survive? Or would she be just another body to toss into the flames? Apart from the roaring fire, the room was hushed, all the orcs and uruks having paused their work at her request and now looking on to see if this one would make it. Not many did. She knew there would be bets going on the outcome. Death, insanity or even surviving initially to then go insane after a while. Those were of course the most dangerous ones.

She did not kneel down to assist the woman when the woman's body began to convulse violently, having no concern for the woman's welfare or whether she would cause herself damage as she shook. It seemed like ages before the woman finally lay still, several of the orcs practically leaning in though not daring to move, to see if she was still breathing. As the woman stirred and moved to her knees there were several low murmured curses that only an elf could pick out above the roar of the forges and she sent them angry glares to be silent.

As the woman rose to her feet and once more met her gaze, she knew He had taken hold.

"Acolyte Umoya."

She offered nothing more in the way of congratulations. As soon as she had spoken the two words, it was as if a signal to those in the room to return to their work, which they all did instantly and noisily. Her lips twitched as she looked at the woman and saw the questions she had in her eyes. They were not questions she could answer though. Their Master would speak to her should He choose to, or if He had an order, but He was not one for greetings either. But the woman had better get used to the feeling, as He was now a part of her, forever.

"Now your work truly begins.." Handing the woman a folded note, she stalked out of the room not caring if the woman stayed or followed.

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