Minas Morgul - Free RP

"Going to Mordor!" Cried Pippin. "I hope it won’t come to that!"
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Black Númenórean
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Minas Morgul – The Dead City

Near the mouth of the Morgul Vale on the rocky knees of the Ephel Dúath, Minas Morgul sits, keeping a ceaseless watch in the arms of the valley. Once the silver-shining city of Minas Ithil, the Tower of Dark Sorcery now glows with a constant, sickly, green-tinged corpse-light, its every corner permeated by the dark power of its master, the Lord of the Nazgûl; the Witch-king of Angmar, and his minions. The light is hollow and casts little illumination upon the city, giving it a feeling of constant twilight and shade, and the hours between night and dawn when fell powers and creatures are most bold. The Witch-king and his fellow wraiths hold the city for Sauron, but he has established it as his own dominion, and rules utterly as Lord of Morgul. Since the year 2002 of the Third Age his hold on the city has been uncontested, crowned by his defeat of Eärnur in 2050 and the ending of the line of Kings in Gondor. Here he created the Morgul blades, bred the Uruk-hai, and continues to build his army and further his power in the black arts. He resides at the top of the city’s central and tallest tower, a revolving spire once known as the Tower of the Moon, where he may be both undisturbed, and cast his gaze over all his dominion.

As long as there has been Minas Morgul, there has been Sombelenë. And longer- an ancient Avari nís in the service of the Dark Lord, she came to Minas Ithil when Sauron first captured the city in SA 3429, and remained behind when he was defeated in the Last Alliance, insinuating herself into the retaken city. Sombelenë mined the secrets of the city, aided in the Witch-king’s siege, and welcomed him in upon his victory. A long-time associate of the Lord of the Nazgûl, Sombelenë’s official title is Personal Secretary to the Witch-King, but she manages far more than his correspondence. While the Lord of Morgul secludes himself, Sombelenë oversees the day to day running of the city, coordinates his affairs, and keeps his extensive archives. No one knows quite how old she is or from where she came, but she is known to have studied the arcanities of Melkor from the Elder King himself. Though surpassed in might and position by the Witch-king, she once tutored the wraith, and is known to be of terrible power. Whispers of 'witch' abound, when the whisperers think themselves out of her hearing.


***

Locations

The Tower of Dark Sorcery
The tallest and central tower of Minas Morgul. Residence of the Witch-king, Lord of Morgul. Contains his personal chambers, as well as receiving rooms, an armory, ritual chambers, his personal library, and other things besides. Gothmog, Lieutenant of Morgul, is among the few who may be found in conference here with the Witch-king.

Minas Mallen – Tower of Gold
A tower next to the Witch-king’s, slenderer and not so tall, and the corpse-light surrounding it has a faint tinge of gold. At the base of this tower is the arcane library, a repository of rare and ancient books, many to do with the black arts. Access is heavily regulated. Midway up the tower are the archives, endless rooms of endless shelves and drawers and documents in different hands, though the dominant is a neat, spidery script. At the top of the tower are Sombelenë’s chambers, where none may enter but by invitation. Just below her chambers is the entrance arched bridge which leads to the Tower of Dark Sorcery, providing direct access to the higher levels of the Witch-king’s towers, for those so fortunate to reach this door. The spiral staircase that ascends Minas Mallen goes up and up while seeming to go nowhere, until you reach your intended destination.
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Sombelenë, played by Moriel

Towers of Morgul
A number of other towers dot the city, of various purpose. Many are linked by bridges to allow for quick communion with one another. One of these is a more general library, with those willing to climb the spiral staircase higher and higher being rewarded with access to ever rarer tomes.

The Kennels
A disarming name for a place where such creatures are kept, here may be found hounds, wargs, and most dangerous of all, fell beasts. These vast, winged creatures transport the Witch-king and his fellow wraiths, and even on occasion Sombelenë, who keeps here a fell beast called Naquarpotë. Those who work in the kennels must have nerves of steel, and be unafraid of loss of limb.

Barracks
A sprawling complex where all denizens of the Morgul military reside, of all races under the thrall of the Witch-king. Here Gorbag, captain of the Uruk-hai of Morgul, reigns supreme, keeping order over and training the army.

Armory
In the center of the barracks complex is a vast armory, containing all manner of weapons, and those who care for and catalogue them. The Quartermaster (NPC, playable by all), an orc so burly he is suspected of being half-troll, suffers no fools and has been known to smash upon an anvil the hands of those returning issued weapons in deplorable states.

Marketplace
Retaining the general shape of Minas Ithil’s central marketplace, this area ranges over a broad footprint, now full of shops catering to the city’s current inhabitants and their tastes. Here you may also find the storefronts and workshops of many trades, clumped together in related districts, on streets named for their crafts.

Lingwinúrin
A unique offering among the seedy taverns that dot the city, this pub is owned by Saicië, the Southron pubmistress and one of the Seven Deadly Sisters. She is currently attempting to hand over management of the pub to Mozran, an orcish bartender recommended to her by a friend, and it is not going well. Lingwinúrin is named both for its temperature, its inside made hotter than anywhere else in the city by a proliferation of braziers, and for the serpents which inhabit it, chiefly a large monitor lizard that came to Minas Morgul with Saicië from the east. Since her arrival she has acquired a number of stray lizards and their relations of all sorts, all of whom appreciate the hospitable environment of the pub. Here you may find a wide array of more civilized food and drink, and comfortable places to sit, more or less secluded depending on your preference- and your willingness to pay. A number of lackeys of various races (playable by all) carry out the orders of Saicië and Mozran, and see to the whims of the customers.

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Saicië, played by Moriel
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Mozran, played by Frost

Shrines
The Númenóreans who built Minas Ithil worshipped the Valar, and as such built many small shrines to them throughout the city, from secluded porticos to small indents in walls. These were near universally defiled, profaned, or destroyed when the Witch-king took the city, and their remains over the years have been transformed into shrines to Melkor, Sauron, and the Witch-king himself.

Administrative
A great number of administrative and logistical buildings are scattered about the city, as well as offices in various towers. No great military force, nor any city, runs smoothly without an army of logistics workers. No one building or one person holds too many secrets, but together they comprise all the departments and their leaders that make a State run.

Spider Pits
Cockfighting is too boring for the denizens of Minas Morugl, though it may serve as a prequel to the main event. Here owners and trainers pit their spiders against each other in mortal combat, from tarantulas to arachnids so large they might be children of Shelob herself. The betting is fierce, and the combat fiercer.

The Grand Guignol
Once a center for art and culture in Minas Ithil, this theatre has been corrupted just like the rest of the city. Its fixtures and facades have been darkened and twisted, decaying and rotting until it resembles only the bones of its former greatness. However, over the years there have been just enough inhabitants of Minas Morgul with an artistic (or at least performatively sadistic) streak to keep it alive. Here are performed horror shows and other macabre entertainments, from scripted dramas to live flayings, and anything else the limelight’s inhabitants might dream up to keep their audiences amused. Troublemakers beware, fall afoul of your superiors and you might find yourself onstage at the Guignol as that night’s special amusement…

***

Rules
-Please mark your RP as Private or Open To All. If you aren’t sure the privacy status of someone’s RP and want to join, talk to them first! The Mordor OOC and RP Request Form thread are excellent places to do this

-Timeline: the present day is TA 3014, but you may write in whatever year you wish!

-Canon Characters: the general premise of the thread is that the Witch-king is largely an absent ruler day-to-day, deputizing through Sombelenë. Moriel has non-exclusive rights to playing the Witch-king in this thread- if you have an idea you’d like to use the WK for, please get in touch with me in the Mordor OOC or on discord so we can coordinate! All other canon characters (mentioned in the OP or otherwise) are up for grabs. In any year but the present, all duplicates of canon characters will be considered as existing in alternate timelines and not interfering with each other. If you see someone else playing a canon character you are interested in in the present, please talk to and coordinate with them. As long as there aren’t two copies of the same canon character in the same location in the same time in the present (eg, two Gorbags in the pub simultaneously), I don’t care about duplicates- but it’s first come first serve as far as who is where.

-The list of above locations is by no means comprehensive, if you know of or can imagine/have created another location you would like to use, feel free!

-If you are inspired by one of the locations or the thread in general and wish to have a character of yours added to the OP in a permanent role, get it touch with Moriel!

-Please white out any short OOC comments at the bottom of your post; longer discussion should be taken to the Mordor OOC or discord

-Please refrain from posting in overly bright/neon/extremely light colors, as they are difficult for some people to see and make reading your hard work challenging

-Icons and banners/images are welcome, but no moving gifs please

-Double posting is fine

-Have fun!

Posts made by Black Host minions in this thread will count towards Renown!


Many thanks to Frost for collaboration on a number of locations in this thread!
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
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Whisperer in Darkness
The Red Briar Estates

(Private with Tara)

The street was empty. The flame in the street lantern flickered and dimmed as if blown by an unfelt wind. A feral dog, its ribs visible under pale golden and matted fur, barked once then whimpered and vanished into the shadows of a nearby alley. Dead, dry leaves from gnarled, twisted trees skittered and bounced on the cobblestones before getting swept up into the eerie black sky in an invisible vortex. There was a faint smell of decay in the air, strangely fruity and alive, the rotting of autumn had begun. The moon was a silver sickle, a bright, sharp pearl against the onyx wall of night. Its light, however, did not reach the dreadful, haunted city. It shone on a silent quarter of the city, a part of the residential area that had survived the purge and reutilization that came with the fall of Tower of the Rising Moon. The streets were well tended, alleyways clear of debris and detritus, and street lanterns scrubbed of any rust. If a stranger to the area squinted and looked just right, they might think they were looking at one of a score or more affluent neighborhoods in Minas Tirith. It was not though. This neighborhood, this district, this closed off estate, was a domain of shadows and illusions, of trickery and shades and opulent malignance. It was not a peaceful street. It was a street simply devoid of conflict or strife.

The first house on the row was more dilapidated that the rest. All of its stained-glass windows faced the towering obsidian mountains of the Ephel Dúath, faded images of a red eyed fox, the symbol of the original occupants. Now the manse was hope to a group of fatherless, motherless children. Never call the Infernali orphans though, not unless you want to find your head attached to a spike along their perimeter rather than your head. The Infernali were a group of children, if children they can still be called, devoted to studying the necromantic arts. Their leader, a girl of around nineteen, imposes a rigid social structure. Each child has a place within the hierarchy and each child must pay their dues. Screams sometimes punctuate the night when they are active in their studies. Oft times they can be seen moving in the dark during storms, their overlong and sinewy shadows punctuated by the occasional lightning strike.

The second house, one with a yawning dragon mouth for an entrance, is less auspicious. It is the home of a wily old hermit, a terrible old man. They say he mumbles to himself while walking the length of the hallways. They say there are hundreds and hundreds of bottles in the house, all filled with a glowing, pale green liquid. Many have been known to go missing after trying to confront the terrible old man or steal a glimpse of his collection of bottles. On the full moon, some residents report a strange, unearthly humming coming from the highest room in the attic.

Another house, somewhat smaller than the rest but in magnificent condition, was her destination. She moved invisibly and soundlessly. The world was grey and dim to her eyes, yet nothing was hidden from her terrible eyes. An aura of fear, wonder, and horror preceded her. She’d grown used to it by now. The sound of her black robes swishing along the cobblestones of the Red Briar Estates was the sound of decaying skeletons crumbling into dust. There was a wind that swirled around her, a wind of pestilence and fever. Even in the City of Black Sorcery, her presence inspired screams of terror. She could move unseen, but not unfelt. Her passage was always marked with whimpers of uneasy lust. Terror had many uses and throughout the vast stretch of years she’d operated, she had found a thousand uses for a thousand damaged souls.

Adûnaphel entered the house, passing through the pristine walls as if they were mere illusions. The house was dark and unlit, the hearth was cold and grey. Her quarry was not at home. She could feel the woman though, she was nearby. Within the deep, black cowl, the Nazgûl smiled. She would wait here until the sorceress returned from whatever errand she was on. Like Adûnaphel, the woman preferred to work at night, from the shadows. She was from the last noble family still within the walls of the haunted city, a family spies and saboteurs. She was tied to the former Númenórean the same way a fish was tied to the line of the fisherman. If Adûnaphel closed her eyes, she could almost see through the eyes of the sorceress, feel the cool wind on her skin, feel the exhilarations she felt. There was a tingle down her spine. She reached out in the empty space in front of her and touched the stone wall the woman stood beside, it was rough and poorly hewn, orc work and its shoddy best. She purred. The woman’s house did not lack for taste. Even in the utter darkness, the Ringwraith could see the rich, scarlet fabric on the couches, the obscene tapestry proudly displayed before a wide window, and all the books. There were more books in this house than in the homes of any so called noble in Umbar. The hallways were lined with shelves, all full of manuscripts obscure, mundane, occult, and vile. She smiled; her patronage had served this family well over the many, many years.

She closed her eyes again and focused. She reached out and whispered through the woman’s own tongue. “Come home, darling. I have a task for you.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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Skitter, Skitter, Amble, and Chitter
Minas Mallen

(Private)

They were gone. She crept out of the shadow and skittered to the nearest crevice. The whole place smelled of death and blood and sweat and poison. The Pale One crept about slowly, lest those terrifying golden eyes spy her as they had her sister. There was still a ruddy stain on the dark stone where she had tried to flee. She’d barely known her sister. They were only alive moments before they were separated and smashed. The Pale One didn’t know what she felt. Relief? Anger? A desire for revenge? Not that any of that mattered. They were borne into this cold, webless place for a purpose. Her sister had failed their mother, yet she would not, she would sit and wait and watch.

The air was thick and humid, there was something more than foul that crept through the hallways and hidden passages of this place. Finding out what was stalking these halls would go a long way in pleasing her mother. The Pale One could slip through the cracks and crevices and spy anything she needed to know.

When she was sure it was safe for her to move, the tiny translucent white spider skittered across the floor, going as quickly and as deftly as her tiny eight legs would carry her. She flew across the floor, under richly woven rugs that smelled of anise, blood, and musk. The scents nearly overwhelmed the tiny little spider, the air here felt thick and clingy, the hairs on her legs felt sluggish, they didn’t respond to her the way they should. Something had happened here, some sort of magick ritual. For a spider, she was brilliant, but even then she only knew the most basic of things. Magick was dangerous and unpredictable. Her mother used it. The Pale One wished she didn’t.

There were sounds, unnatural sounds all around her. There was something else inside this tower. The golden-eyed lady was not alone. Curiosity and fear mingled, as they so often did. What should she do? Should she sneak into the inner sanctum of the woman that could (and would) easily squash her to risk finding some horrible, eldritch secret? Her mother would expect her to find everything she could. The Pale One had been born with nothing but the knowledge that she must please her mother, and that she must stay in this tower for a very long time.

She crept forward slowly, warily. Against the dark, rich stone and wood she could be easily seen if she hurried. If she moved slowly, there was a chance she would be unseen. She climbed up at table, the hooks on her feet barely finding enough purchase for her to crawl up. This room was filled with things that were all wrong. The underside of the table was going to have to do. The door was too far away and there was no route that offered her any sort of protection. She spun out threads of silk in the darkest corners and wove them into a tiny web. Anything too large and she’d bee discovered, anything too small and she’d be exposed.

This place made her nervous. There were voices, two of them, but the non-Euclidean architecture of this room made it impossible for the tiny spider to tell where the sound was coming from. She couldn’t make out what the voices were saying either. One as the voice of the golden-eyed lady, her voice was honey and thunder; the other was an orc, his voice was a rancid bog in comparison to hers. What were they talking about? How had he come to her without the Pale One seeing him? There were hidden passages indeed. She would stay in this corner under the table for now and hopefully to catch a glimpse of the orc, her mother would love that. But those passages would need to be explored. The tiny little spider had her work cut out of her. It would have been easier with a sister, but she was nothing if not resourceful.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Whisperer in Darkness
The Ephel Dúath, The Red Briar Estates

(Private with Frost)

In the cracks and crags of the Ephel Dúath, where no plant by rights ought to grow, Theririel searched for her elusive, potent friends. The ragged, luminous flowers she called blue nightshade had been sprouting from cruel, cold stone for a thousand years, both alongside and in defiance of the oppressive sorcery which smothered the Morgul Vale. So rare and delicate were these flowers that she trusted the errand to none but herself. The lesser orcs who served her were clumsy fools with no regard for preserving the nightshade’s most important qualities, and the humans she commanded were scarcely better. And so she climbed up secret, rubble-strewn paths into the mountains in search of her prize.

Beside her trotted a dog. It was a ragged, mud-brown creature with a chunk missing from its left ear. As they ascended the path, it kept its ears forward and its tail stiff. It knew what sorts of dangers lurked at these heights, and its every lean muscle tensed at the slightest sound, longing to leap forward at any who might seek to harm its mistress.

Thus far, they had climbed uninterrupted. Small stones and the dry remnants of trees bone-white in death crunched beneath Theririel’s boots. Her cloak trailed behind her in a cool, unpleasant breeze, and a thick evening mist settled on her eyelashes in droplets. She blinked regularly to clear her vision. The pair, woman and dog, paused only when they happened upon a patch of pale blue light. With care, Theririel tugged the flowers from the stone, roots and all, and tied them into a growing bunch hanging from her belt.

Nearly satisfied with her harvest, the woman paused upon a cliff where the entrance to an abandoned mine stood. Orcs had long ago made sloppy, haphazard work of hewing the stone back from the cliff’s edge and toward the gaping maw of the mine’s entrance. A lonesome wind whistled from the depths of the mine. Below her, the city seethed silently with creatures as insignificant as insects; as a rule, she reserved a proportionate share of her attention for them. She focused her gaze on the Red Briar Estates. She still smirked with pride to look upon that little corner of the accursed city. Besides the secret of the nightshade, her family’s wealth lay in its cunning, wily determination to survive once the Tower of the Moon had been taken.

Without warning, the world seemed to spin around her. An inexorable urge to reach for the rough mountainside wall behind her overcame her, and she turned and raised her arm as if she was a marionette on strings. The raw stone traced ragged scratches across her palm as her hand slid downward, and she inhaled sharply. Then, she exhaled words that were not her own.

“Come home, darling. I have a task for you.”

Theririel knew who was calling. “My eyes and ears in the city” was more than simply an expression in her case. Her mind and body were not her own - not in moments like these. She took several deep breaths and swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. She let her mind go blank and slid into the shadows, an umbral blur, so as to guarantee a swift, undetected return home. Her dog, too, vanished into the mountainside mists with a light skittering of legs.
* * *

The pair materialized from the shadows at the door of Theririel’s family home. She passed a hand over the lock, murmured a word, and entered as the door vanished. Her dog, as ever, trotted beside her. Once they had crossed the threshold into the house, the door rematerialized and locked itself with a great thud.

The air was still within the house, but a familiar dread swept over Theririel’s skin like a noxious breeze. She pulled down her hood and strode through room after room, sensing her way toward the wraith as the dire knot in her stomach tightened.

She found Adûnaphel, a shadow to put all her own tricks to shame, standing in a room filled with books - a collection amassed over the centuries through no small measure of both gold and guile. The dog crept to its habitual place on the rug before the hearth and curled up, but kept its black eyes fixed on the spot where the wraith stood. The knot in Theririel’s stomach twisted unpleasantly, as if urging her to speak.

“My lady called,” she stated plainly to the shadow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

🧚
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Balrog
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Bad Little Boy
Lingwinúrin

(Private)

“Man, this place sucks!” Mozran dropped rag he was using to pretend to wipe down the bar for the seventh time in the last two hours when he heard a familiar voice, a voice he thought he’d found a way to avoid, a voice he thought to whom he’d paid his debt. He swallowed, winced, and looked up. It was exactly who he feared. The young man (if young and man were appropriate terms at all) was tall and thin, his skin was an eerie shade of blue, pale but not ghostly. His hair was short, black, and seemed to want to go everywhere at once. And his eyes. Mozran groaned when the eyes fell on him. They were red, iridescent and sinister. The man was standing with the shadows covering much of his face, but the eyes pierced the humid darkness.

“What are you doing here?” Mozran asked, his voice returning to him. He reached for the dagger under the bar, doing his best to slow the beating of his heart.

“Is that any way to great an old friend?” the young man stepped out of the shadows and into the dim lamplight of the bar. He hadn’t aged a day since the orc had seen him last. How was that possible? He wasn’t an elf, Mozran would have smelled that on him. He sniffed the air again. No, definitely not an elf, they had a stink of overly floral bouquet that followed them around like an aura. Marshall Lee had no scent. None. There was not a single whiff of anything coming from him, not body odor, not flowers, not cinnamon, or whisky. He found the hilt of the dagger and tightened his grip.

“I wouldn’t call you an old friend.”

Marshall smiled. His canines dripped lower than the last time Mozran had seen him, they almost looked like… no. “Well, then call me an old debt collector.” He sniffed the air and made a face as he walked to the bar and leaned over the edge of the marble. “This place really does suck. Why in the nightosphere is it so humid? And why does it smell like a bunch of lizards?” as if on cue, a salamander slithered passed, sticking a forked tongue out at Marshall before slipping through a crack. “Aren’t there standards you have to meet to run a bar? Or can any wannabe just walk into a place and call it a pub?”

He loosened the grip on the dagger for a moment. “Don’t!” He hissed, looking over his shoulder then back to Marshall. “Don’t say that sort of thing so loud!”

Marshall rolled his eyes and laughed, loudly. “Mozran, what happened to you? Last I heard you were running the bar at the Necromancer’s Guild, great name by the way props to whoever came up with that one, and now you’re a glorified pet sitter. And not for anything cool either. Iguanas and geckos and dude you are whipped.”

Mozran brought out the dagger and slammed it on the counter. Thank the black stars there were no patrons in right now. There hadn’t been any in several hours. The only living souls he'd seen all day were the blasted lizard. “Enough Marshall Lee! You can’t be here, what do you want?” his voice rose in pitch so that he was nearly shrieking by the end of the sentence.

Marshall Lee looked as unbothered as a sleeping orcling, Mozran was almost envious of him. He chuckled, looked around at the empty bar, and cast his glance back at the orc. “Dude… seriously. This place sucks. It’s not going to due at all for what I need.”

Mozran was taken aback. “Wait, what? What do you mean ‘for what you need’? You’re not planning a…” his eyes widened. “No! Marshall Lee, this is not the city to throw one of your little soirees. This is not a fun city. This place isn’t like that place down by the Sea.”

“Relax!” Marshall laughed and patted the orc’s hand the way a parent would steady a child. Mozran could feel his skin turn clammy and uncomfortable. “I’ve got it all covered. I just need you to work your brewing magic.”

Mozran wasn’t convinced. There was something going on that the boy wasn’t telling him.

“This is the perfect place for my kind of party, Mozran. A little violin, a little bass, and some serious scholarly debate.”

This was a joke. It had to be a joke. Marshall Lee didn’t do “scholarly debates” he threw alcohol infused brawls. They were all well and good in the towns around the Sea of Núrnen, where authority was limited. Minas Morgul was not such a place. And how did he even get in the city? Who had seen him? Black stars, who had seen him come here?

“Okay, fine. It’s a little more than that,” Marshall said after a long moment of blank staring from Mozran. “But don’t forget, you owe me. Still.”

A snarl escaped Mozran’s lips and he grabbed the hilt of the dagger again. “I paid my debt to you and your father and I paid dearly for it.”

Marshall, unbothered, gave him a smug smile. “Oh honey,” his voice dripped with sarcasm, “you barely paid off the interest. You’re mine for a long time yet.” The young man leaned across the bar and placed and deathly cold hand around the orc’s neck. “But don’t you pretend like you don’t like it.”

He pushed Mozran back and climbed over the top of the bar until he was sitting on the opposite side. Another salamander, or maybe the same one, crawled out and skittered up Marshall Lee’s arm. He looked at it incredulously. “Where do you keep those old magic brews?”

“I… don’t have them…” it shamed Mozran to admit he didn’t have his massive cache of various brews and ales. It shamed him even more than being indebted to a lad who couldn’t be bothered with anything remotely serious and his daemonical father. He’d been forced to leave his brewery behind at the Necromancer’s Guild. There was no greater shame for a sommelier of such prowess and finesse. He wanted to throw up. He hated this lizard infested stink house. He hated that he didn’t have any room for his wares. He didn’t have the options to create better things than grog, whisky, and what might as well be toilet wine. He wasn’t even here of his own volition. He’d been “loaned” by a man he thought he could trust. He could taste the bile in back of his throat as it constricted, readying the gag reflex.

“What?!” Marshall Lee looked at him in disbelief. He could only hold the gaze of those red eyes for a moment before looking away, staring at the tiles on the floor hoping they’d swallow him up. “Dude, what the heck happened to you? I’m kind of embarrassed for you.” He sniffed the air and made a face. “Look, I can help get you what you need. I know how to get around the gold witch’s snitches. No one’s immune to my charms.”

“How did you get in the city?” Mozran asked, eager to steer this conversation away from his shame.

Marshall winked. “Oh Daddy-o, there are secrets you can’t handle yet.”

Mozran felt his stomach churn. Maybe he didn’t want to know how Marshall Lee got around. Still, what the hell was he really up to? There was no way he was just in this for a party in Minas Morgul. There were too many eyes here and too many asininely serious folk parading about the city like they were the king and queen. He was right about one thing though; this place really did suck. He flicked a lizard that crawled onto his shoulder.

"Tell me, old friend," the orc said. "You still like snails?"
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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