Minas Tirith City Gaol & Dungeons

[Winddancer]

At the northernmost point of the Second Circle stands the City Gaol, where it is in proximity to the Market Place. The Market Place is the most common scene of petty crime in Minis Tirith, and so the proximity of the Gaol to the market is logical. Carved into the rock of the mountain, the men of Minas Anor in the depths of the past crafted claustrophobic confines in labyrinths of gated tunnels, forbidding escape for any prisoner. Common thieves, drunks and thugs are likely to spend more than a night in the cells. Those guilty of serious infractions await sentencing at the City Court, and could spend years incarcerated without ever seeing the light of day, or perhaps receive less severe sentencing, to pay off their debts in manual labour.

In the past the most despicable of villains might have been taken to the Upper Circle, and thrust from the Widow’s Peak over Citadel Rock. This practice ended long ago during the Kin-strife, when the death of a dishonoured nobleman left the stone beneath the ledge blemished by his blood, after he literally ‘lost his head’ following a poor misjudgement of the hangman. For years after, those skirting the edge of the law or inviting disaster with criminal activity were often told they were ‘flying the blood pennant’ in reference to the stained stone visible on the high wall. The long years and partial reconstruction of the wall have diminished this unsightly smear though some claim they can still espy it. Few know the origin of the phrase which has outlived its source.

High above these myriad stone chambers but deep below the Tower of Ecthelion in the Seventh Circle are the Royal Dungeons of Minas Tirith, reserved for political prisoners and figures of note, who could not be placed below due to their significance, import and value. The status of such traitors and conspirators would forever be tarnished even if proven innocent of wrong-doing in the High Court. The rumour is of a Black Door through which all such prisoners must pass, whereupon the Warden would speak the words:

‘Here pass you through the Door of Night. In the darkness beyond consider well the folly of the path which thou hast walked, in the hope that thou find wisdom in that path that follows.’

None have confirmed that this door exists, but if it does it is likely crafted from the same stone as the Othram, said to be impenetrable.

Again, thanks Naith!

[Turin Ringhûn]

Days after Battle of Pelennor Fields

Bregor was leading a small group of soldiers, two carrying a stretcher with an unconscious elf upon it. He’d sent Hilton and the other guard home, stopping on their way to inform the other guard’s family of their demise. He normally would have done that himself, but he wanted to make sure his charge got to the dungeons without any more craziness. Once there, he could, to a degree, keep away and not think about it anymore. He’d already spent a few days on this rather than helping clean up the city. Not to mention, the rumors of the king returning to Minas Tirith. He had to have all of his men ready for a possible coronation.

Adrahil and Halbarad were with him as they had been the ones to find the elf in the fields. Yes, he’d questioned them, and they’d discussed how little they knew about the elf, but the folks in the dungeons would likely want to question the men too. And he was going to make sure the transfer and questioning went as smoothly as possible.

The trip went smoothly. The last dose of medicine Shaela gave the elf seemed to have helped. Not to mention, he felt a lot better with the cuffs on the elf’s wrists and ankles. The splints … well, that’d be for the dungeon guards to decide. He may make a suggestion about it, but he wasn’t sure at the moment.

They passed through the entrance. And one of the guards standing at the entrance called a halt. “Name, rank, and state your business.”

Bregor couldn’t help but chuckle. “Bregor, Captain of the Tower Guard. Prisoner transfer.”

“I wasn’t aware of any prisoner transfer. I’ll have to clear it.”

“Oh, you should know of this prisoner. Gokin, front and center.” Bregor called.

Gokin came forward. “Sir.”

“Show the fool.”

Gokin pulled out a parchment and handed it over. It was a copy of the transfer order. It detailed all the requisite information. Unknown elf, being sent from House of Healing to the dungeons for further investigation. It also identified the items that had been found with the elf – the sword, the clothing the elf had been wearing when found, and a drawing of the unknown steed the elf had been found under. Bregor had ordered he have a copy of the transfer order for just this scenario.

The guard reviewed the order. “Looks like you need to go see Bolton. Down the hall, second door on your right. Then take the third left after that.”

Bregor nodded as he took his copy of the transfer order back, and led the detachment onward. It was dark and dusty. Sparse torches gave just enough light to see. “I really hate coming here. I don’t remember when I was last here, but even that seems too recent.” He thought. After a few minutes, they found who they were sent to find.

“Ah, Bregor. Long time no see.” Came a deep voice that seemed like it should come from a troll or giant. Instead, it came from a guy about five feet five inches tall, but looked to be nothing but muscle.

“Bolton. Thanks for the quick turn around on the transfer. I know you’re busy. Especially with all the insanity right now."

“Of course. I’ve already sent for some of my best people to take care of our … princess here. You can place her in that cell there. Oh, and take off those braces too. Don’t want any possible weapons. The bandages you can leave. We can always call for a nurse to replace bandages if we need it.”

Bregor turned towards his men and nodded. They did as ordered. Almost all then started to leave, but Bregor had Adrahil and Habarad hang back. “These two are the ones who found the elf. The bundles they have are the sword and clothes the elf had when she was found. You can question them, but you already have my report on what we’ve learned so far.”

Bolton smirked. “You two, enter my office.” He said, keeping his eyes on Bregor. “We’ll see. You sure you don’t want to know what we learn from the elf?”

Bregor shook his head. “I’m sure.” He said as he turned to leave. “Enjoy your dank tunnels.”

“Enjoy your blinding hillside.” Bolton said watching his old friend leave. He then turned back to look at the elf one more time in the cell. He made another check on the door to make sure it was locked, then entered his office. "Alright. Now you two, let's discuss the finding of that elf again."

(OOC: Bregor’s findings from House of Healing- the sword is from Mordor, the steed too large to be normal horse, likely came from some kind of Mordor devilry. Faded brand on elf’s arm, again coming from Mordor. Possible slave brand?)

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin, On Duty
Days After the Battle of the Pelennor Fields

Sunlight had never reached down here, would never reach down here. The air was foul and dank, every breath he took, Cordin felt like he was breathing in some insidious poison. There was a dampness down here that followed him home, it clung to him like pond scum. Today was particularly bad. There was a dripping sound somewhere deep within the gloom. It echoed hungrily off the walls; the more he listened, the more he was convinced there were words in those drops. Messages. Coded so that only he could discern them. He wasn’t sure what time of day it was. It was impossible to tell down here. The torches flickered and danced and sputtered but they could only cast their light so far. The darkness down here at the light, consumed it and destroyed it. Yet this was the White City, the City of Guard, how could the shadows reach out like this here? He was feeling sleepy. Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him. He would watch the shadows dance on the wall and imagine a scene from a play being performed solely for his benefit. Those were the good days. Today was not a good day. The shadows danced and pirouetted but there was something dark in their movements. They were expecting something, someone. A sick feeling washed over Cordin. He did not want to be here today. Something bad was going to happen today. A chill ran through him. Suddenly, he became very aware of how cold it was down here, so far from the sun.

He could here boots in the distance. Several pairs. They were bringing someone here. Who could they be bringing down here, so far from the light? Who could they have found that was bad enough to throw down here? There was something coiled in the pit of his stomach, something icy and hard. He fought the urge to run. He desperately wanted to escape whoever it was that was coming down here. He leaned against the wall. The feeling of the cold, wet, slimy stone helped to center him. He relaxed. His mind was just running away with things, dancing along with horrid suppositions trying to manifest themselves out of dreams. The stone was hard, the stone heavy, the stone was real. Whatever or whoever was coming down the hallway, Cordin would be able to handle it. He must, down here, so far from the light.

[Winddancer]

Bolton stared at the door as it closed behind the two men who had found the elf. He had not been able to get more information out of them, other than they had shared that the massive horse and the wounded elf had been found near a dead oliphaunt. 'Well at least a part of this crazy puzzle seemed to have been solved', he mused, though annoyed he did not have more information to go on. There were far too many questions that needed answering and it was becoming clear that the only one who was going to be able to answer these questions, was the elf herself.

Drumming the table in annoyance with one hand, the other fingered the sword. Slowly his thumb slid over the pummel. It was simple, nothing fancy or elaborate like you would expect from an elf, but it was clearly forged in the Dark Lands. But it was not the kind you would usually expect from Mordor. It was nothing like the ones they had been finding on the slain orcs and uruks. This one was made by a craftsman, the steel hammered to perfection and the blade lovingly kept in the best of condition by being wiped and the edge sharpened regularly, though obviously right now it was covered in blood still from the battle.

Bolton stopped the drumming and leaned back and balanced the blade on two fingers, the blade settling perfectly horizontal. "Perfect balance.." he murmured to himself as his brows furrowed. No lowly minion would get a sword crafted this well. So had the elf stolen it off a higher ranking minion? Or... was she the higher ranking minion? Bolton shook his head slowly, not able to make the connections, as why would an elf be a high ranking minion.

Sighing loudly, he rose from behind his desk and headed over to a cupboard and locked the sword within, placing the key in his pocket. Giving the elf's torn and bloodied clothes a quick look, he tossed the remnants back onto his table and headed out of his office. With a flick of his fingers he ordered two of the guards to come with him and told the third to go get some shackles and meet them at the cell.

"Um.. Sir? Darek's voice trembled slighty as he spoke, letting out a nervous cough. For long moments, the Warden had merely stood watching the unconcious elf without speaking, even long after the other guard had arrived with the two sets of shackles.

"What? Oh, yes. Remove the cuffs and shackle her, though bind them in the front.." His voice trailed off for a moment as if he had changed his mind, though thought better of it as he did not want to send his men into her cell to feed her.

Darek and Halfur each took a set of shackles and all three men moved into the cell, Bolton locking the door after them. With not much room, the two of them pressed against each other as they alternately removed the cuffs and placed the shackles. "Yes, just sit the ankle ones over the bandages, she has no wounds I was told, so the bandages will have to do as braces for her broken bones.." Bolton instructed, keeping a careful eye on their progress as well as a firm hand on his drawn sword.

As soon as the last shackle was bolted shut, the three guards slowly edged away one by one, though the third guard, Hemlas, paused for the briefest of moments, pure hatred in his eyes and without any of the other men noticing, he stepped hard of the elf's hand, giving it a grind before he too left the cell as he mumbled "That's for my uncle you baggins.." under his breath.

"There is a guard stationed down here at the moment, isn't there? What's his name? Corryn? Codin? Whatever, get him to take the first watch and have him send for me as soon as the elf wakes!" Bolton paused a moment, staring at the unconcious form of the elf within the cell and not seeing one guard looking like he wanted to protest. "Set an eight hour watch, around the clock. Dismissed."

The three men all gave Bolton a curt nod, though only one of the guards gave a last look into the cell before leaving, none hearing Hemlas' promise "it will be my watch next you baggins.."

Bolton did not watch the three guards leave, instead he watched the slow rise and fall of the elf's chest. For the briefest of moments he felt a pang of guilt, seeing her lying there in the darkness only lit by the one torch outside her cell wearing nothing but the short shift from the houses of healing, her legs bandaged tightly from her feet to her thighs. It was cold and dank in this section of the prison, and undoubtedly she would be getting cold lying in there on the stone floor. "No.." he murmured under his breath. "She is an elf, they don't get cold and she is a murderer, she does not deserve warmth."

Bolton's face hardened, his jaw setting with determination as he turned and walked back to his office.

***

The sound of drums pounded louder and louder in a steady rhythm. It was distracting, making it harder for her to concentrate, to find a way out of this sludgy swamp. Where was she? Why was she here? She needed to get back to the battle! Tripping in the darkness, she fell forward, sinking into the depths of the sludge. Panic rising, she opened her mouth to scream, but the sludge filled her mouth and she was left desperately fighting for air. Kicking and clawing her way up, or at least she thought it was up, she finally emerged, coughing and spluttering in an attempt to get the vile darkness out of her mouth. Though as soon as she broke the surface, the drums returned, this time louder and quicker, forcing her to cover her ears in pain as she cried out in agony.

With the low groan, the elf stirred, her hands slowly rising as she tried to raise them to her pounding head. She cracked one eyelid open and almost screamed in agony as the torch light sent a flash of pain shooting through her skull. With a whimpered groan she managed to lay one arm across her eyes to shield them from the painful light, her mind not yet comprehending that the tinkling sound of metal was coming from her shackles around her wrists and the chain that connected them.

Slowly she turned on to her side, leaving the light at her back and curled up as best as the bandages and shackles allowed, neither yet alerting her to the fact that she was imprisoned and unaware that her shift was barely staying closed across the back as several of the ties had opened when she was dumped on the floor. Waves of nausea ripped through her stomach and it was all she could do to stop from vomiting, trying to lessen the pounding in her head by trying to cradle her head in her arms, though even that took a while as she struggled with the bonds.

Finding it hard to stay awake, she was unaware of where she was. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she flitted in and out of conciousness, though finally the wave of nausea won and she emptied the little she had in her stomach onto the cold stone floor before her. Long she fought the dry heaves that followed until blissfully her stomach relented. "Water.." she croaked out in a whisper.

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin (human, he/him), on duty

The echoing footfalls grew manifest, black shapes materializing out of the ether. Three men, carrying something between them. Cordin couldn’t see what, or who, it was though. The air around whatever it was they were carrying was different somehow, the light and shade from the torches didn’t dance and dart about on this figure the way they did across the faces of the guards. They were gruff, sullen looking men. Cordin stood up as straight as he could and gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to swing into action should whatever it was they were carrying down here burst to life.

“Keep a hard watch on this one,” one of them said. His face, obscured by shadow, was completely unknown to Cordin. He looked to the others, searching for some sign of familiarity as they hauled the creature into the cell and locked into place with shackles. There was none. Cordin barely even saw their faces, they were a blur of shadow and orange light, like melting candlewax. “When she wakes, Bolton wants to know. Think you can handle that?”

The reprimand stung. Cordin could tell, though, that they were upset. Something had happened up top. Something bad. It was written on the man’s face. Grief. Anger. Sadness. Hatred. They contorted his face into a nasty scowl that he was force to be bear the brunt of.

“Aye,” he finally said, too preoccupied with watching the other guards lock the thing in place and lock the cell up. His voice was scratchy and thin from disuse, the air in his lungs was papery and hot. He swallow the lump in his throat. “I can do that. “

The man grunted and all three disappeared without another word. Their bootfalls hollowly bouncing off the walls until they faded into a tiny clip-clop, then nothing. The only sounds Cordin could hear were the sounds of his own breaths, haggard and unnerved. He watched the person through the cell bars. They were turned away so he couldn’t see their face. Whoever this was, they looked more like a panther or a wolf that a human. A thought crawled up his spine like a spider and wheedled its way into his brain. This was not a human. This person was something more. Why else would the guards have been so brusque, so angry, so strange? Was the person laying in the cell across from him… an elf? A giddy, excited feeling rushed through him all of the sudden. A strange warmth that had nothing to do with the torch on the wall. There was an elf not ten feet from him! Cordin had never seen an elf before. He had heard talk of them all his life, how they were so alien and unknowable, how they fought more like wild animals than sentient beings. His hands shook with excitement. He squeezed them and shoved them by his sides.

“Compose yourself you fool,” he mutter softly to himself.

You fool…

You fool…

The whisper echoed ominously deeper down into the blackness. The echo seemed live much longer than it should have, like there was something in the pitch black void that was giving strength. Cordin’s skin crawled.

He stood opposite the cell. He couldn’t tell how long he’d stood there. The darkness creeping around the edges of his sight, slipping in and out of the torchlight. The smell was dank, there was a foulness down here.

By their foulness, ye shall now them the old saying went about Mordor and its inhabitants. What did that say about this place? Supposedly the greatest city of light, the beacon on the hill, the shining example of goodness.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Somewhere, up or down he couldn’t tell, there was a steady stream of water feeding the damp foulness. The torch flickered over the walls, orange and yellow light painted the patches of mold, making them look hungry and mobile. Cordin could taste it in the air. He tried to breath through his nose but the smell was awful.

Hours passed. Hours and hours. Cordin couldn’t tell if he had nodded off, his dreams, feverish and strange as they were, all focused on the elf. Who was she? Why was she here? What had she done to be thrown into the worst cells the White City had to offer? Dreams gave him strange answers, answers that there was no way he could believe. She was an assassin meant to kill the king before he could set up his rule. She was a sorceress trying to take control of the city in his absence. She was his lover, exposed as a traitor. None of it made sense. His dreams were too fantastical.

More hours passed. The silence was growing heavy. He wanted to speak. To say something. But the more he thought about what he would say, what he could say, the more his throat seemed to tighten up. Eventually, he could feel the oppressive silence bullying all around him, pushing in closer and closer, compressing his limbs, wrapping invisible hands around his throat and squeezing and then…

“Water…”

The sound was almost lost in the oppressive, heavy silence Cordin coughed, startled by the sound. “I…” his voice cracked. He nearly lost his balance. Where was his water skin? He began frantically grabbing at his sides, before remembering he threw it on the ground earlier. He uncorked the water skin and with a shaking hand, walking forward to the cell.

“Hello.” He finally said, “I have some water you can drink.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the order to report to Bolton as soon as she awoke dissolved into nothingness.

[Winddancer]

The darkness was beckoning once more with it's promise of silent black nothingness. She wanted so badly to give into it, to just slip away into the dark, to just slip away and not have to think, feel or endure more pain. But her world was pain. It had been for thousands of years now. Her very being was moulded around pain and to be honest she would not even know what it would be like to live in a world without it. Pain was who she was. Pain was what she caused.

Groaning again she pulled herself back from the inticing brink and turned her back on the silent nothingness. Moving slowly she slid her hands down her face, trying to wipe the feeling of sluggishness from her mind. Why was she having such a hard time thinking? It was like fighting her way through the Dead Marshes. Again she heard the faint metallic clink, knowing she had heard that sound before, feeling that it was definitely familiar though her addled mind would not let her connect the dots.

She tried prying one eye open, the act harder than it should have been, though again was assaulted by the brightness of the torch that was burning at the far end of the room. With another groan, she flopped her arm over her eyes and instead tried to move to her back. The shock of the cold stones as they touched her naked skin was enough to make her gasp in surprise and the fog that was holding her mind imprisoned lifted just enough warn her that something was not right.

Her instinct was to curl up, make herself into the smallest target and move away, however the sluggishness that was still impeding her did not allow for her to move at any pace but a crawl and the tight bandages on her legs stopped her from curling into a ball. Though while her body would not do exactly as she commanded, the feeling of danger grew, forcing her to open her eyes despite the pain the torch light elicited. Biting back the pain while blinking her eyes furiously, she struggled to get into a seated position, the shackles and the bandages making it an almost impossible task as it was aided by the remnants of the drug she had been given.

Finally making it to a seated position, her legs straight out in front of her and her head hanging forward, she raised a hand to rub at her face and found it pulled the other up with it. Confused she looked at her hands and saw the iron shackles wrapped around each of her delicate wrists, each fitting perfectly tight with only the slightest of gaps and with a small chain link to connect them. For a long moment she merely stared at her hands, her mind taking long to catch up with the explanation, first offering silly explanations like she was just dreaming. That there was a big red mark that looked like a boot heel and a couple of her fingers were swollen on one of her hands did not even penetrate the foginess of her mind. Blinking her eyes furiously she managed to lift her head and peered out through her wild long black hair and saw that her ankles were shackled as well, the fear and panic growing rapidly. Her eyes moved from the shackles to the tight bandages that almost looked like leggings and up to the open backed shift she was half wearing.

Pushing back down a violent urge to throw up again, she muttered out "Where am I?" in black speech as she tried to rub her face again and once more ended up pulling the other hand with it. Testing the strength of the chain, she let out an angered groan as she tried to push her hair out of her face so that she could look around. It took a few times blinking furiously to make her eyes focus, the panic rising even more as she saw she was in some kind of cell. As her gaze fell on a figure on the other side of the bars, she hissed out a gasp and tried to back away, though again hindered by the shackles and the bandages. After what seemed to her a long struggle, she felt a wall against her bare back and tried to pull her legs in closer to her as best she could, and spoke out to the man before her in black speech. "Who are you? Where am I?"

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin

That sound. That voice. There was something very wrong with the sound of that voice. Cordin nearly tripped over himself trying to move back from the bars. The voice was nearly angelic, but the words that forced their way out of her mouth were vile, terrifying. The sounds were slimy and thick, they clung to the walls and crawled over them like sightless lizards. Cordin wanted to scream. He heard a sound like a yelp, but his attention was so focused on the elf that he could not tell.

She was an elf.

She was beautiful. Even in the weak, flickering light of his torch, Cordin saw enough. She was covered in dust, dirt, blood, and grime, but she was more beautiful than anything he had ever laid eyes upon. Her eyes though, her eyes made him want to crawl in a hole and die. They made him want to tear his own out and offer them to her. His hand absently scratched at his face, he jumped and slapped his hand away. His gaze, though never left hers. He was terrified, but his sense of fascinating and desire overrode his fear. The longer he stared at her, the more the rest of the world, robed in decaying shadows as it was, began to fall away. Her image filled his head until he felt woozy and unbalanced. She was like a ray, void of the sun. Hungry and ravenous.

The spell of her eyes, those terrible, beautiful eyes, was broken only when he tripped and fell flat on his face. He shook himself and regained his head and his thoughts. When he stood back up, brushing off the clinging bits of fungus and rot, he saw her for what she was, a prisoner in a cell, at least that’s what he wanted to see her as. He couldn’t though, not entirely. He was not sure if it was the air, the environment, or those eyes, but there was something that would not let him go. He felt a tugging at the back of his mind, an easy, gentle pulling, a whisper saying “just let go, let her in”. He desperately wanted to let go.

His hand’s fidgeted at his side, fingers twitching and writhing.

“No.”

He said the word out loud. He had no clue where the will had come from. It had not come within him. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but something held him back, a force of will not his own. He snarled. The sound echoed down into the deep black void that yawned up around him. He heard something down there answer his snarl. A wet, sticky sound.

“I don’t know what you said…” he ventures slowly, after some time. “Do… do you need some water? I have some.”

Tentatively, like the fumbling of an over eager teenaged boy, he untied the water pouch at his side and pushed it through the bars.

Something in the blackness smiled.

[Winddancer]

It had been a long time since she had felt fear like this. Just like it had been ages since she had felt as helpless as she felt right now, shackled and bound on a cold dank stone floor. Flashes of horrifc memories that she thought she had long buried sprang to mind unbidden and forced her to rub her eyes in an attempt to wipe them away and leaving her fighting not to sob, not even noticing the pain in one hand. No.. not again.. she could not do this again. Why was she here? She had done as bidden, why would Sauron imprison her? Had she displeased him? No! She had fought just as hard as all the other minions.. wait, the battle. Slowly she stopped wiping her eyes, both sliding down to cover her mouth as she frantically tried to recall what had happened.

There had been a battle, they had fought the Free People, right? Her brows furrowed as she tried to remember, the pain in her head returning as she strained to recall. A sudden thunk startled her out of her reverie and she flinched back, her hands going out in front of her to protect herself, though nothing came at her. Looking around wildly, she saw a man getting off the floor through the bars. A man? They did not have any human torturers or prison guards. Looking around the cell she realised this was not a cell in Mordor, unless it was a private hidden one. Though guarded by a human? Unlikely. Not to mention it was slightly cold in here. No cell was cold in Mordor.

She flinched again when the single word reverberated through the small cell, her brows furrowing as she realised he had spoken the word in Westron. A Gondorian maybe? Blinking the remaining stars out of her vision, she looked at him more closely as he stepped closer to the bars. She saw his uniform and nodded to herself. Definitely a Gondorian. Did that mean she was in Minas Tirith? How? With a small groan she rubbed at one temple, the pain in her head making her nauseous again.

The man, the guard rather, spoke once more and offered her something to drink. Was this some kind of trick? She watched him incredulously as he fumbled to unhook the water skin from his belt and finally offer it to her through the bars. She eyed him warily, instinctively leaning away from him though she could go no further than she had, though as she looked at the offered water skin she realised just how thirsty she was and almost gagged at the weird taste she had in her mouth. Had she been drugged? Were they trying to drug her again? Or had she thrown up?

She could not afford to get drugged again, she needed to find out where she was and why she was in here. But on the other hand, if she had already been drugged and this was merely water, then it could help flush it out of her system. She fought a long internal battle before finally giving in and slowly began shuffling towards the offered waterskin. Half sliding, half scooching, she finally made it to where she would be able to reach out and take it, though again hesitated for a brief moment as she pulled the loose open backed shift back into place over her as it had slid down and revealed her shoulder and upper arm and the faint brand on it. Cautiously, she reached out and quickly snatched the waterskin, immediately shuffling out of reach. Making it back to the back part of the cell, she paused for a moment to look at the man as she raised the waterskin to her nose and sniffed it.

Not smelling anything but the leather, she opened it and sniffed it again. She knew there were drugs that were tasteless and without smell, however the only way to find out if one of those had been used was to take a sip. Reluctantly she raised it to her blood red lips and took a small sip. She waited for a moment to see if it would make her feel any different and when it did nothing she once more tipped the waterskin and drank more.

Her thirst sated for now, she spoke again, this time in Westron. "Where am I? Why am I here?"

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin

There was a brief moment of panic when the elf took the water bottle. A surge of wrongness washed over Cordin, making him momentarily nauseous. It wasn’t so much the elf herself as much as the aura around here. The closer he came to her, the more he felt as if he were not himself. They very nearly touched and for a moment, a brief heartbeat of a moment, Cordin felt like he was something truly something else. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it was definitely not him, he was not sure whether he liked the sensation or not.

Something caught his eye in the flickering torch light. He couldn’t be sure, it was only for a brief second, but he thought he caught a glimpse of a brand on her shoulder. The design was completely alien to him, a twisted shape that made him want to recoil. He fought the urge, fought his own mind to stay close to the elf. He… he needed to be close to her. He couldn’t have said why he needed to but he did, he was absolutely sure of it.

Her voice, when she spoke his own tongue, seemed strained and bored, as if the language she was speaking was beneath her. Unaccountably, he felt ashamed. He knew only a smattering of words in Elven, mostly just place names, he wished he knew more. Still, her voice was something. It didn’t have that hollow sticky, slimy feeling it had had earlier, when she spoke the… the other language. There was a lyrical quality to it. The strangest thing though, he barely noticed even, it didn’t echo at all. The only sounds that seemed to echo off the walls were the sounds of his ragged breath. The darkness did not want to feed on her the way it wanted to feed on him.

“You’re in Minas Tirith,” his reply was weak and discordant. He cursed himself for being so oafish and uncouth. He was speaking to an elf and he sounded like some dirty sewer sleeper.

Before he could say more though, another voice began ringing clearly down the dank, spiraling corridors. As if suddenly aware that he had been mesmerized by the elf in the cell in the deepest parts of Minas Tirith’s dungeons, he yanked himself back, slamming his back painful in the blank stone wall behind him. Something popped and his breath was pushed hard from his lungs. He coughed and sputtered, trying to regain his equilibrium and his breath.

“Hey you!” the voice called out, even harsher and uglier than his own had been a moment ago. “Hey! You were supposed to come off duty an hour ago.” The torchlight revealed a face of ugly, mundane horrors: acne scars, bruises, cuts and knicks, a nose broken several times over and a slightly lazy eye. His frown made his unattractive sallow skinned face even more unpleasant to look at. He looked like he belong down here. “Bolton wants a word with you, Cordin.” He spat the name, a thick globule of greenish yellow mucus narrowly missed Cordin’s shoe. “You were s’posed to come running when that thing woke up.”

A sudden spurt of rage filled Cordin’s mouth, spittle flew wildly as he spoke. “She is an elf!”

The man chuckled, it was deep and wet. “You’re in trouble already. Didn’t take long for it to work it’s magic on you.” A hand sprang out of nowhere and bashed Cordin on the side of the head. His mouth exploded in pain. He didn’t go down, he thanked whatever it was that stopped him from doing so. He couldn’t go down like that in the sight of the elf. He couldn’t seem weak, not to her.

“Get out of here you little rat, and report to Bolton!” The man pushed Cordin away from his spot, rounding on him and tossing him toward the spiraling passageway upward.

He took another longing look at the elf, his eyes begging her to tell him to stay, but when she didn’t he turned his gaze up the passage. He put a hand out on the wall, steadying himself.

“Won’t be so easy as that boy. Now, you and I is gonna have a chat.”

The words echoed as he climbed, trudged, up the long pathway back to the light. The grey sky was painful, even in the light of the evening. He wanted to run back down into the tunnels, the primordial boreholes of creatures older than time itself. He wanted to go back to the darkness and the echoing mockery. He could understand that. He understood the world dripping fungus and sinister giggles in the shadow. It was this that he did not understand, the light of day. He did not hate it, not yet. But he resented its existence. The surface of the world had no right to exist the way it did. The creatures, the things, underneath the world, the things with minds so crystalline and fractal that no mortal could hope to unravel their anticosmic mystery, they deserved to have this world back. It had been theirs once, long, so long ago.

Cordin pressed on through the streets, huddling as close as he could to the shadows, feeling a sick pain of unease filled him when he heard the laughter of children, the somber, solemn conversations of adults, the barking of dogs and the yowling of cats. It was all too normal, too horrific to quantify. He made it back to his apartments finally. He closed the door, leaned against the frame, and began to weep.

[Winddancer]

Minas Tirith..

Her brows furrowed and caused more pain in her head, making it hard to recall what had happened. Try as she might she could not piece together how she had gotten here, the last memories that she could see clearly being flashes of battle scenes. They had been making great advances, cutting down the middle of the Free Peoples army leaving death and destruction behind them as they chopped down anyone that was not a minion. She raised her hands to rub at her throbbing head again, though no matter how hard she tried, all she could recall was a sudden pain in her back and then.. darkness.

Moving her loose shift she could see the bandage wrapped around her stomach and awkwardly managed to follow it around to her back, feeling the spot where the wounds was. It seemed as if it was mostly healed as there was not much pain when she pressed against it. Who had stabbed her? Her hands moved from the wound down to her legs, wondering what had happened to them. They were bound tight enough that she could not bend them, which would make it near impossible for her to get up. She wanted to unwrap them to see what had happened to them, though before she could she heard the voice calling out, her head rising quickly to see where it came from and casuing a new wave of nausea and dizziness.

Slumping back against the cold damp stone, she fought not to throw up again, barely paying any attention to what the two guards were saying. The smack echoed sharply, breaking the opressive quiet that seemed to be pushing in all around her. It did not phase her that one guard beat on the other, it happening all the time in Mordor, her mind instead wondering why she could not hear any screams or begged whimpers. Was she alone in here? That thought grabbed at her stomach and clenched it hard, making her gag. Had she been the only one to be caught? Fear and humiliation bubbled horribly in her stomach and she had to turn to the side as the saliva rapidly built in her mouth. Though luckily a few deep breaths kept the dry heaves at bay and she slouched back against the wall, her head dropping forward.

Breathing raggedly she raised only her eyes, her head still hanging forward when the newcomer addressed her. “Won’t be so easy as that boy. Now, you and I is gonna have a chat.”

She couldn't help it, she laughed. A soft weak one, but she laughed all the same at his pitiful attempt at being menacing.

"Have you lost your wit, elf?" He sneered as he stepped closer to the bars. "Did the Captain hit you a little too hard on the head? Hmm?" He grabbed the bars as he looked down at the elf only a few feet away. "Not hard enough, if you ask me.." He noisily hawked up more phlegm and spat it at her between two bars, almost hitting one leg. Her laughter grew as he missed her and she raised her head slowly to look at him, his eyes bulging in rage at her laughing at him. How dare this murderous elf laugh, at him!?

"Silence, you crippled crone! Or I will slit your throat! Try laughing then!" His rage grew, his hands becoming white with how hard he was gripping the bars.

But her laughter only grew louder as she realised that no matter what, he could not get at her.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UUUP!!" Rage and humiliation building by the second, he shook the bars, but they did not budge. "Shut up or I will kill you, you maggot loving wench!"

She continued laughing, shaking her head at him. He lost it, first reaching in through the bars in an attempt to grab her, though found she was a couple of feet out of reach and when that elicited a new round of laughter, he saw red and grabbed his dagger and without a second thought he threw it at her.

The laughter stopped instantly as soon as she saw what he intended and though a cripple as he claimed, she managed to throw herself to one side, the sound of the blade hitting the stone wall where she had been, ringing out in the new silence. Though before he could recover and make a run for it, she twisted back and grabbed the blade, sending it back towards him with practised precision and rapidity despite the shackles binding her wrists.

The soft wet thunk was all the sound it made as the blade penetrated his lazy eye. He let out a soft "Huurr" before staggering back against the wall, slowly sliding down into a seated position, his head drooping to one side, his other eye looking at her accusingly before the light in it slowly faded.

"Noo! Oh shuk.." Scooching across the dank cold stone floor as fast as she could, she moved awkwardly towards the bars, her arm reaching out in an attempt to grab either his leg or his boot so that she could pull him to her and retrieve the dagger. But however hard she pushed herself at the bars, all she could manage was one fingertip brushing at his boot as the shackles prevented her from stretching her arm out fully.

"Aaaargh! Skai!" she cursed in black speech as she slumped against the bars.

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin

“Twice Cordin. You disobeyed my direct orders twice, in one day.” Bolton was standing behind his desk, Cordin was cringing on the other side. “You never done this before Cordin. Never. And then you do it twice in one day? What’s going on? Is it the elf we brought it? I put her down there with you because I thought you could handle it. Was I wrong?”

A cold sensation seized Cordin’s gut. The realization that he might not get to go down and see the elf again came over him like a spider crawling up his spine. No. That couldn’t happen. He would not allow for something like that to happen. He had to convince Bolton to let him stay down there.

“No,” came to reply, weak but somehow resolute. “You weren’t wrong. No, I just,” he fumbled for words. Absently he began picking at the wood on Bolton’s desk. “Yesterday was a rough day for me. They still haven’t managed to find my brother’s body and… I think they’re giving up on all the people they can’t identify now.”

It was not a lie. In fact, every word he had said was true. Before her, before the elf came into his life, that’s what had been troubling him. His younger brother, Melkin, had joined the Rangers and was a trainee at the time of the battle. The entire group had been wiped out, only three of them had been found. Cordin felt guilt and shame when he thought of Melkin. He should have been down there in his place, Melkin had no business being in the battle in the first place.

“…but I know how hard things are,” Bolton said. Cordin had zoned out and hadn’t heard what his superior had said. “Still, Cordin. This is bad. With someone like her, you have to be on your guard. You can’t do what you did yesterday. That’s unacceptable. That was potentially dangerous! Do you know what could have happened? Do you know what she might be capable of if she escaped? You’re the first line of defense against people like her. You. I can’t have someone in that position that won’t or can’t follow orders. I hate this, but I have to put this down as a mark against you Cordin.”

The words fuzzed in and out, Cordin couldn’t keep track of what Bolton was saying. He could, though, read the man’s face. It was normally an impassive stone slab but now there were hints of desperation, of frustration and anger, of… fear?

“I don’t like this Cordin. I trusted you. You aren’t as hard as the rest of them. Yes, I know some of the things they get up to down there. But I knew I could count on you, until yesterday. You messed all that up yesterday. First you didn’t report immediately upon her waking, I found that out from Dollem. I don’t like finding things out from that man Cordin, not when I should be finding them out from you. And second instead of speaking to me after your shift like you were told you went AWOL! Cordin!” he slammed a fist into his desk, jolting Cordin back into the real world. He had drifted off into his subterranean paradise, where all the things in the dark crawl and squirm and click. He watched Bolton, his features so hard and implacable, as he sat and slumped in his chair.

“I’ll give you today. Take some time to breath. Take some time to mourn. Varda knows we all need it right now.”

Bolton didn’t see Cordin flinch at the mention of Varda.

Cordin stood when he was dismissed, saluted, and exited the offices. He then stood at a crossway. One way led back down to the tunnels, to her, to his place of refuge and solitude, the other led back to a life that was full of pain, heartbreak, shame, and responsibility.

He turned toward the tunnels, making sure Bolton or one of his cronies wasn’t watching him.

He was going to have to be smarter, he knew. If he wanted to be around the elf, if he wanted to be in the dark, he was going to have be clever. He could be clever. He needed to stay in the darkness and to do that, sometimes he would have to venture into the light.

As a foulness, ye shall know us.

He paused at the threshold of the tunnels. He was wearing his uniform and was able to pass through without question. They all knew him, they all stayed away from him. Not one of those sun loving ash heaps could understand him. Not the way the darkness could, not the way the old things did.

The darkness embraced him, caressed him. It held him like a lover. He felt safe here. Once again, he was in his true home.

The dripping of water off in the vast distance was soft, the ping was gentle and playful. He smiled in the darkness. His lit a torch, but took only the smallest one he could find. The darkness needed him today, and he needed it. The less light he would require the better. Perhaps the elf would appreciate that. She… she was somehow from the darkness as well, he just hadn’t figured out how she was.

There she was. She was still in her cell, it rankled him to see her that way but he did not know what to do about that. Where was Dollem? The nasty man should have still been on duty. Had he left already? He stepped in something sticky and wet. When he thrust the torchlight down, a blackish liquid filled his vision. It was all over the floor. And… there was Dollem. His body slumped against the wall, a blade protruding from his ugly, corpulent shape.

“What did you do?” he hissed, his gaze turning back to the elf. “You… how did?”

He looked back at the corpse. This wouldn’t do. If anyone found out, they’d take her away, they’d separate them. Didn’t she know that? Did she want to be brought out into the light? He growled. There was only one thing to do. He set the weak torch in a sconce and kicked the body of Dollem. It felt satisfying. He did it again. The corpse was rigid but the blow sounded and echoed, the hungry darkness ate the sound.

Carefully, he removed the blade and tossed it to the floor, purposefully close to the cell she was in. Then he dragged the corpse into a cell further down, a long empty one covered in a lower of grime and soot. The door closed with a ringing clang and Cordin went back to stand in front of the elf’s cell.

“My name is Cordin. What’s yours?”

[Winddancer]

She rested her forehead against the cold iron bars for a moment to cool her face, the anger and frustration still burning hotly in her belly. Damn him, she cursed under her breath, her voice too low for it to echo. Other than her own breathing, all she heard was a soft drip of some water leaking somewhere in the distance. Even with her enhanced hearing she could not hear any voices or sounds that were common to daily routines, meaning she was either deep underground or deep inside the mountain that Mians Tirith was built on. She knew that she would still have to navigate her way out of this prison even if she did manage to leave this specific cell, the prospect of that quite daunting as she could not help but compare it to the Pits in Mordor, knowing just how many minions one would have to fight their way past just to get to the entrance and then there was the whole getting out of Mordor itself.

But not only could she not hear anyone near, she could also not sense Him anymore. Even when she drew in a deep breath, relaxing her racing heart and concentrating, there was nothing. No opressive malice, no evil hum, none of the heavy weight that made her feel like she was carrying a mountain on her back, no more sensing that he was reading her mind. She was so used to Him, always present, always pressuring or prying or watching her every move. One hand slid subconciously up to the brand on her arm, dragging the other along with it, her fingers lightly tracing the sign of the Abhorred. "Why can't I hear you anymore? Have you forsaken me?"

If he had, she deserved it. How could she have let herself get caught. And by humans!? The disgrace was almost more than she could tolerate, the humilation burning deep inside her and making her want to lash out. But there was no one here, it was just her and a dead guard. As she looked at the guard, his head slid down a few more inches, the blood having now stopped leaking as his heart had finally stopped.

Sighing deeply she pushed back from the bars and rubbed absentmindedly at her temple as she looked down at her legs. She was going to have to take the bandages off and see just how bad it was. For a long moment she just sat there and stared at her legs, terrified of what she may find. She could not ever have any hopes of surviving in a place like Mordor if she was crippled for good. If she had lost the use of her legs, then she was as good as dead and she might as well use the bandages to hang herself with.

The dark loneliness and soul-crushing despair that she had fought so hard to bury deep inside her seemed to be stretching, pushing and trying to break free of the confinements deep in her heart and mind. No.. Delothil, do not forget Delothil. He is your reason to stay alive.

Letting out a soft sob as her heart broke at the thought of the reason why she had endure these past many years, she reached out and pulled at the knot on one of the bandages, barely able to see as her fiery red eyes filled with tears. "Don't be such a human" she sneered to herself, angrily wiping away the tear that broke free before returning to the knot.

She carefully unrolled the bandage, carefully rolling it around her hand so that it could be used again, or be used to.. She angrily shook that thought out of her head. "They will be fine.. they have to be.." Finally the last bit of the bandage fell free, her eyes narrowing as she inspected every inch of her pale skin. Leaning forward, her dirty fingers traced along a newly made scar on her shin, evidence that something had indeed happened to it. "Broken?" she muttered under her breath, her brows knotting as she slowly bent her leg at the knee as far as the shackles would allow. It was stiff from lack of use, but there did not seem to be any evident pain. She had not broken any bones in ages, but last time she had mended quite quickly, though even so it had been a few weeks. Rolling her foot at the ankle, causing the chains to tinkle metallically, she felt sick to her stomach. How long had she been unconcious?

She unwrapped the other leg far more quickly, this time not even bothering with rolling up the bandage neatly, her fingers pushing the last bit down so she could look for any scars. However there were none on this leg and no pain in it either other than the same stiffness from being immobilised for some time. "HOW LONG!!" she screamed her frustration out into the darkness, but the only reply that the darkness offered was her own echo and the constant drip-drip-drip of the water.

Several sobbed cusswords later, she finally calmed herself enough to attempt to get to her feet. Stiff and unsure she moved to her hands and knees and then slowly rose from there, swaying dangerously for a moment as the blood rushed from her head, causing a wave of nauseating dizziness. Reaching both hands up to the bars, she steadied herself, resting her pounding head on her arms. She fought to breathe deep and slowly in an attempt to stave off the violent need to vomit. "What did they do to me.." she grunted as the dizziness relented.

The hours that passed before she heard the faint sounds of someone approaching were not wasted as she slowly but surely limbered her legs up to where she was able to move without falling. She slowly stretched the muscles and did some easy excersises to get her legs working again, though it would be a while before she would do any running.

As the footsteps neared, she crouched in the furthest corner away from the door, readying herself for the consequenses of having killed the guard. She would not let them sedate her and rob her of more time ever again. With one hand holding the iron bar of the cell and the other dangling by the connecting chain, the bandages hidden in the corner, she held her breath as she watched the familiar figure of the first guard arriving.

She found herself leaning forward as if that would help her see better as she watched the guard kick his dead colleague. Kick? What the.. jaw dropping she watched as instead of calling out the alarm the guard grabbed the dead guy and dragged him away, the sound of a door further away clanking shut. She rubbed her eyes as best she could with the shackles making it difficult, not truly believing that she was awake. But she must be, right? She could feel the shackles bite into her skin, the cold wet floor under her bare feet, the ache in her leg muscles, unused to the crouched position she was in and even the cold wall against her back.

As soon as he was out of sight, she darted forward as best as the shackles allowed for, almost tripping as her feet kept getting caught in the short chain, and grabbed the dagger. It was only as she settled back into the corner she had been in again that she thought it could possibly be a trap. She eyed it for a long moment. He could be placing the evidence back in her hands. But as she heard his footsteps again, she stuffed it into the bandages around her stomach, lowering the shift back down. If that was the case, then she would at least be able to kill someone before they got her.

Surely he was not helping her. Why would he? She was a minion of the Abhorred's army, his enemy. She flinched as he spoke, his voice sounding unnaturally loud given the time spent in absolute quietness. However what if.. what if he did not know she was an enemy.. No, that was silly, of course he knew and surely this was a trap. But the doubt roiled in her belly and after a long pause of silence she muttered her name. "Winddancer.."

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin

“Winddancer…”

That name. Had he heard it before? It sounded so strange from her lips to his ears. He had heard elf names were strange, coming from a language older than mankind itself. But Winddancer, that was a name he understood. The idea that this woman wad not an elf never even entered his mind. Her name though, unique and unpretentious. His own lips and tongue could form the name without issue. He did say her name then, a faint whisper, nothing more. Yet even the sound was moving passed his lips something burned in his mind. The horrid sibilant sound of some thing waking. There was a hissing in his mind, like the hissing of a cockroach. The sounds of great, eldritch coils unfolding. The sound of stone grinding against stone. Had she… had he… awakened something? He looked down the tunnels but nothing issued forth. No ghastly thing strode forth to call upon him. He looked back at her, at the elf, at Winddancer. She didn't seem to hear it. Was that meant for him alone then? He wanted to scream with ecstasy, to fill the mountain’s hallowed depths with the ululations of his mangled joy. But that moment would have to wait. There was another sound, the sound of… people. Voices. There were two of them, men. Cordin panicked. His gut seized up into a great knot and he wanted to puke. His face blanched as he gazed dumbly up the tunnel. Who was coming?

“I… I’m not supposed to be down here, I could get in trouble,” he admitted. “I came to… see… you.” The words came out in a syrupy mess, spilling stickily down his mouth as he tried to make sense of things. “I’ve never seen an elf, ‘specially not one from,” he gulped, “from over there.” There were so many things he wanted to say, to ask, but none of the right worlds would come into his mind. The voices were nearly coming around the corner now. In a rush, he dove into a cell opposite the elf, but far from the corpse of Dollem. It wad cold, dank, and smelled of piss. He felt his stomach spasm, but forced the urge to vomit down.

“Where’s that bastard now?” came a voice, not one Cordin recognized. He wondered for a moment who he was talking about.

“Dollem left his post again? Suppose he just went for a quick pisser at the pub.”

“Maybe got scared by our newest guest,” the first voice said, clanging sound hard and metal against the bars of Winddancer's cell. “You scare him off with your creepy eyes princess?”

Cordin seethed. How dare they speak to her like that! How dare… no, he mustn’t get too excited now. He could not afford to get caught down here. A third violation of Bolton’s orders would result in his termination. He could not afford that. He stayed quiet.

The two guards talked for a minute longer then the one that belonged to the first voice left, Cordin watched through the hidey hole he found as the man's face appeared, like a blob of molten wax, misshapen and elongated. The torchlight passed and so did the vision. Another vision slowly took its place. The face of his brother, Melkin. It was alive. He was alive! But something was wrong. He was not where he should be. He was trapped by something, by someone. The face tried to form words but nothing made sense, it was all a garbled mess. Cordin strained his mind but he could… not… see it.

The sound of coils came to him again. What if… what if they could help him. What if he could find them? They would certainly aid him, once he proved a good and faithful servant. How though? How could he prove his worth to beings so old and mighty? What sacrifice must be made? What great task? Her. He should free and rescue her. They had no right to hold her here. She ought to be served, not caged, by these creatures of the light. She was mystic starspawn. Yes. This would be his great task. The great old ones would receive such a blessed act with malignant kindness and horrid generosity.

[Winddancer]

She heard the unspoken question when he whispered her name, almost as if to taste it on his own tongue. She snarled with digust at hearing her name from this loathesome being, though she had purposefully given him her Westron name. She would never again speak her true name. That person had died the day she had been caught several thousand years ago. She used the Westron name, rather than a Black Speech one, as there were no such words in Black Speech. And as to why she chose to stick with a semblance of her former name, well even that she did not like to discuss, same as the reason she did not kill herself than rather be enslaved. She still had hope that one day she would find him. One day..

Her brows furrowed as she watched the human, seeing his jittery jerk of his head as if he had heard something. Straining her own ears all she could hear was the constant drip of water. But then she too heard the sound. Voices. How had he heard them when she hadn't? She had never met any human with better hearing than an elf. But the question would have to wait as she saw how the man reacted to the sound of the voices. Even in the gloomy light of the torch she could see him pale as he looked towards the sound. Curious.

His rambling admission completely caught her off guard, her brows creasing even more than before. Her jaw dropped as she watched the nervous man quickly dive into one of the vacant cells to hide. What the.. She barely had a chance to hide her obvious confusion before the two men came into view, huddling as far back into the corner as she could, snapping her mouth closed.

“You scare him off with your creepy eyes princess?”

She did not dignify that with a response, her fiery eyes just staring at him. She remained quiet when the two men spoke as if she was not there, one heading off to go get what she assumed was their superior. As the other waited, he quickly tired of trying to taunt her when she did not react and instead headed over to the wall to lean against it as he lit a pipe, unaware that he had just walked through a pool of his colleagues blood.

It seemed like ages before she heard the sound of approaching footsteps and a moment later so did the guard who had remained behind as he pushed off the wall and banged out the tobacco on a boot. Had he looked down when doing it, he would have seen the blood stain it left on the pipe, but his head was looking in the direction of the oncoming people.

She watched the man with as much attention as one did studying a bug crawling on the floor, however she did note that he straightened up as he heard the footfalls, surmising that he still held enough respect for whoever was arriving to not look like he was slouching. She filed that information and her eyes rose to look at the two men as they came into view, the first guard she had seen who had left, hanging off at a respectful distance to the other man. He on the other hand stepped right up to the bars and stared straight at her, his height almost making her laugh.

She barely managed to keep her face neutral as she confidently returned his stare. "You are going to be trouble, aren't you?" He did not seem to be expecting an answer, his hands moving to grasp each other behind his back. "I don't supposed you are just going to offer up why you were fighting for Sauron's side?" Bolton was merely guessing, though all the evidence so far seemed to be pointing to this. She failed to hide the snarl that curled her lips back as the man used the derogatory name of her Master, her eyes not hiding the hatred for the man for being so disrespectful.

"Oh, touched a nerve did I? Though I guess that answers that question." He could not help a satisfied smirk from playing on his lips, triumphant that he had at least guessed right. "Don't supposed you would just fess up to the murdering of one of my guards and forgo the whole trial thing, would you? While he did not hold his breath that the elf would comply, there was still the little niggling hope that this could all be over. But one look at the glare the elf gave him told him it was not going to be that easy. "Fine.. have it your way then." He shook his head in disgust, mostly for the wasted time it would take to put her on trial and keep her incarcerated.

"Find Dollem and send him to my office, I will not have people just disappearing from their watch whenever they want to." His voice barely hid his annoyance and only Winddancer heard his mutter "what the heck is going on with my men lately, like they all lost their minds.." Still graspng his hands behind his back, he gave the elf one last disgusted look before heading back to his office, knowing he now had to prepare for a trial.

"You are in for it now.." the other guard chuckled as soon as Bolton had gone, pulling his pipe back out and starting to stuff it with more tobacco as he stared at the crouched form of the elf even though he could barely see her in this light.

She was staring right back at the man, though her mind was trying to find the missing information, as when had she killed a guard? Well other that the Dollem one..

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin

Bolton! Bolton had come down into the bowels off the dungeons! What was he doing here? Cordin's gut churned with a mixture of emotions at the appearance of the head jailer and city guard. Anger, a roiling sense of injustice and indigence, filled his mind; just underneath was fear, a cold, hard knot that wrapped around his stomach and climbed up his throat. He was certain he was going to get caught. Bolton would glance over and he'd be done for. No, no, no, no. He closed his eyes and tried to make himself smaller, tried to press himself into the shadows. He was desperate not to be seen. The anger in him was strong though. Even with his eyes closed he could see Bolton’s smug face, hear his condescending voice, smell his freshly showered foulness. Bolton was questioning Winddancer, speaking to her as if he was an equal, as if he were not as far from her as the worm is to eagle. Bile reached the back of his throat. His fingers tightened into a fist. The glorious, terrible sound of hissing reached his ears, overwhelming every single one of his senses. It was by the merest chance that he did not black out. He wanted to scream, but he could not find his voice, could not even find his breath. His lungs were full of water. He choked and gagged silently. The hissing roared in his ears. The entire earth shook, up became down and down became up.

When Cordin came back, Bolton was gone. The shadows had grown. The only light was the feeble light of a torch, and fading embers of a pipe. Cordin could smell the sweet, acrid scent of tobacco. He picked his lips hungrily. He could make out the outline of the guard, a slight, hunched man. Cordin couldn't see his face, couldn’t recognize him from any one of Bolton's hounds. Cordin knew what he had to do, knew the task that had been set in front of him. He crept from the shadows.

Slowly. Slowly. Slowly.

He moved quietly, like the great coiled things below. He peered at his prey from just outside the torch’s light, the man wad clueless, needlessly piping away at his tobacco. A crooked, broken grin cracked Cordin's face. His lips parted and revealed his maniacally slithering tongue. He tasted the air. With a gentle push, he opened the cell door.

The guard did not stand a chance. The madness that fueled the man gave him a hideous strength. He pounced, leaping through the air with the silent grace of a panther. The crash of body on body was muffled as Cordin wrapped his fingers around the guard's neck, holding onto him from behind. His legs wrapped around the man's chest. He squeezed. And squeezed. And squeezed. The guard fought, and if his foe had been one of natural make, he would have managed to free himself. He tried slamming Cordin into the wall and slammed the back of his head into Cordin’s chest. He gagged.

“What… are… you… doing?”

The sound of the man's gargling voice caused him a single moment of indecision and in that moment, the guard's fingers fumbled about, found his pipe, and slammed the ashes into Cordin’s face. He howled with pain and rage, his breath ragged with exertion.

“You must… be… given to the… Coiling Ones,” he snarled and squeezed again.

There was a snap, a loud popping sound and the guard's body fell limp to the ground, his pipe slithering off into the darkness.

Cordin sniffled and licked his lips. He tilted his neck to an extreme angle and looked at the body. It was so empty now, so sad, so quiet. His spirit would feed the old ones, the coiling nameless things so far below.

Suddenly, he remembered Winddancer, the subject of his great trial. He pressed his face between the bar’s, his twitchy fingers wrapping around the cold iron. The red eyes of the elf were reflected in the wormy, pale light of Cordin’s eyes.

“You don’t belong here,” his voice was greasy and slick, “you belong on a throne of shadows. A throne of the Coiling Ones.” A thin line of drool dripped off the corner of his chin. “They love you. And they see you.”

[Winddancer]

She had tired of staring at the guard as he lazily puffed on his pipe, her eyes dropping to the shackles that were locked around her slender wrists. Two fingers moved to grasp the connection of the chain to the shackle itself and sighed. If there was one thing these loathsome creatures could do, it was creating strong iron. They probably collaborated with the disgusting little dwarves. Fiddling with the link, she tried to make sense of the past few hours since she had woken, the information she had been able to glean, which was near to nothing. It was like a fever induced nightmare, or at least she thought so given she had never had a fever before. A nightmare. Maybe that was what this was? Sighing once more for being foolish, she knew she was not dreaming, already having rejected that.

Whether it was a slight sound or the sense of something happening, her fiery red eyes shot back up looking around uneasily. Her whole body tensed, slowly sliding into a better position where she could defend herself, or as much as the shackles would allow for. Suddenly her ears pricked the moment before she saw the cell door across from her's suddenly sliding open. Was that weird guard going to reveal himself now with the other guard still here? Foolish idiot.

Rolling her eyes, she was about to settle back when the man came flying out of the hiding place and slammed into the other guard. Eyes wide, she shifted to the balls of her feet, her hands going to the hilt of the dagger under her loose shift. Her mouth opened slightly as it dawned on her that the man's intent was not to just knock the guard out and make a run for it, he was actually choking him. One eyebrow lifted and yet again she thought she had lost her mind. What the heck was going on? Testing herself to make sure once more, she bit into her lip hard enough to cause pain, hissing softly and licking away the blood as the guard's neck snapped.

As the demented man suddenly turned his head towards her, she snarled as her hand gripped the hilt and drew the dagger out, holding it out defensively. She wanted to retreat when he pushed his face in against the bars to get as far away from him as possible.

“You don’t belong here, you belong on a throne of shadows. A throne of the Coiling Ones. They love you. And they see you.”

Not much in this world surprised her anymore, she had seen it all. She had seen tall, grown men break down and cry for their mothers, she had seen men's minds break, leaving them catatonic or raging lunatics. But this? What was this? He had obviously lost his mind. She snarled with disgust as he drooled. But could she use this? Without looking down, she rolled the dagger in her slender fingers as she remembered how carelessly he had tossed it aside, towards her. Had he meant for her to have it? But why?

Thousands of questions burned to be asked, but she doubted she could trust this deranged human to tell her anything useful. However.. He had said she did not belong here, maybe..

Mouth dry, she slowly slid the dagger back into the bandages around her chest, making it clear her hands were empty. Painfully she rose from the crouch, wincing at how her muscles complained, cursing her legs under her breath. Standing she eyed him warily before she finally took the few steps forward between them, her bare feet not making any sound as she moved. She knew she could stab the dagger into his throat and kill him before he could even blink, her fingers twitching expectantly at the prospect of feeling the sharp metal slide through his esophagus and watch as his blood gushed out while he choked on it. No, she needed him. He could maybe be the only way out of this insane place.

Filthy, hair that was greasy and matted from lying on the floor crowned her pale dirty face. Her shift had opened in the back and was hanging off of one shoulder. As pitiful as this man looked to her, she knew she must look far worse to him. Slowly she lifted her hands, fingers spread to show she meant no harm before she placed one on the bar and the other on one of his hands as she hid the disgust of touching him.

"Help me.. please.." Her voice sounded desperate and pitiful and she hated herself for doing it, but she was guessing that pleas might work better than snarled threats in this case.

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin

Just as the drool dripped from his chin onto the slime slick ground Cordin changed, for lack of a better word. The madness, the delirium, the psychosis that had overwhelmed him for the past few minutes suddenly vanished and he was left staring at the elf behind the bars, half mesmerized by her hypnotic, red eyes. The colors, sensations, smells, sounds, everything became clear again, unmuddled by the hissing sounds. He exhaled. Had he been holding his breath? Cordin couldn’t tell. His lungs eased and relaxed and he felt the tension in his shoulders and neck release as well. The touch of the Coiling Ones had worn off for now. He was both glad and disappointed. Their touch was a horrifying fire, but at the same time it was like the gentle caress of a lover. It burned and it soothed. When they touched his mind like that, when the revealed themselves to his feeble consciousness, he would often act with wild atavisticity, reverting back to a primal state. They were reworking the pathways of his mind, slowly mending the way he thought and way he acted, the way he saw and sensed things. It was a slow, painful process but each time it happened he felt closer to them. His mind would sink deeper into the earth and he would glimpse their great, terrible shapes with more and more clarity.

The elf, Winddancer, touched him. The sensation was different. It was not the warm, soothing, surge of magical energy that he had always imagined the touch of an elf would bring him. Her hands were grimy and dirty, cold and dry. There was no magic at all in them. He blinked away his disappointment. It was still strange to be touched at all. He liked it.

"Help me... please..."

The pleading in her voice sound thick and tinny, like her voice was fading in and out from his perspective. Instantly, he became suspicious then chided himself. If there was something wrong with her it was because she was down here when she ought to be out under the night sky, under hanging black stars.

“I will help… you,” he whispered, wiping his chin with his free hand.

He extricated his other hand slowly, still craving that touch even if it was not the thoroughly magical experience he had thought it would be.

He needed to take care of something first. He turned and looked at the body, the husk, the shell of the guard that had been here. He tilted his head to an extreme angle and looked at it. He felt to pity, not remorse, no sadness. Neither did he feel joy, elation, or satisfaction. He felt nothing. The man had never been known to him, and even if he had, Cordin knew that the will of the Coiling Ones were supersede his own tenuous connection to humanity, these day dwelling monkeys. He bent to the ground, hoisting the body up over his shoulder and heaved upward. The body was surprisingly light. Cordin had thought it would be heavily and burdensome. He smiled, the pale light in his eyes glinting. He carried the body away from the light, away from Winddancer and her cell. He carried the body into the bleak unknown twisting tunnels further below. The world around his slowly changed. The shape of the tunnel was rougher hewn, older. The smell of decay and mold grew less and less. In fact, the more he tried to smell anything, the more he smelled the absence of anything. There was sill water dripping somewhere deep within, far, far from where he was. The sound was tinny and harsh, but it helped him keep track of time. Time was so meaningless down here, the further he traveled into the darkness, into the ancient lair of the Coiling Ones. He was not sure how long or how far he traveled until he finally stopped. The tunnel became narrow and cramp. He would no longer be able to carry the body on his shoulder. The ceiling was low, he had to stoop. He dropped the body like a sack of potatoes and dragged the corpse further, further, further…

He returned to Winddancer’s cell sometime later. He had no idea how long he had been gone. He wasn’t thirst or hungry. The torch was still burning, though it was low. Had it been replaced? He shrugged.

“Are you ready… to be helped? Winddancer?”

[Winddancer]

She did not like not knowing what to expect. And she certainly did not like leaving her fate in this deranged man's hands. But what other choice did she have? The overseer of the dungeon had threatened a trial, a laughable notion if it were not for the fact that she would immediately be found guilty and likely executed. Even if there were no trial, the prospect of spending hundreds of years here in this dank dark dungeon with this crazy person or other crazy people was not particularly appealing.

For a long while she had stood by the bars of the cell and rested her head in against them, eyes closed as the man had carried off yet another guard to dispose of him somewhere. Surely he could not keep killing them without someone noticing their disappearence. She did not really worry about being blamed for the murders, though it would not reflect well on the crazy guy seeing as he was hiding the bodies and not reporting them dead, even if it was just to blame her for their deaths.

Again a feeling of disconnection washed over her, causing her legs to shake. Hissing in a ragged breath, she pulled her face from the bars and opened her eyes to reorientate herself, her head shaking slightly with disbelief at the predicament she was in. Raising one hand, she rubbed at her temple, her dirty fingers leaving more marks on her pale face. She did not know how long the man had been gone, only that he had been gone long enough that she thought he might have done what she thought he should of done, namely take the body to his superior and report the death, even though he had said he would help. Though who knew what kind of "help" he thought she should get? Maybe he thought putting her out of her misery was helping her. Her teeth clenched at the thought, lips curling into a snarl, her mind going to the hidden dagger, determined to take as many with her as she could if that was the case.

Just as she was about to return to the corner of the cell, she heard a faint shuffling of boots on stone, her head jerking up to listen for who it could be. It did not seem to be coming in the direction that the overseer had come from, more as if it came from where the crazy man had walked off to. Had he gone further into the dungeons? Finally her question was answered as the guard reappeared, without the dead body. Even in the dying torch light she could see him as he asked “Are you ready… to be helped? Winddancer?”

At the last moment she stopped her lips from curling at the disgust of hearing her name spoken by this deranged human, instead stepping towards him warily. "Yes, please.. help me.." She used her most pitiful voice, lowering it and making it sound more whiney and fragile, even changing her facial expression to match it. Her whole stance changed, allowing her legs to shake slightly so it looked like she was cold, her hands grasping each other in front of her chest, shoulders slumped. Inwardly she felt like vomiting, hating herself for trying this ploy, but she knew that threats would not work as it would likely scare him off and send him running out of here, never to return.

"Please.." She wracked her brain for the name he had given her for a second, "Cordin.. please help me..Help me get out.."

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin

She needed his help. She did. She had said it herself. His ma had told him that elves never lied. She had never been wrong about anything, she was a seer, she was. If she told Cordin that elves never lied, and she must have meant the bad ones too, then Cordin could trust her. He could trust Winddancer when she said she was ready, that she needed his help. A wild sense of euphoria burst through his chest, a warm glowing sensation that filled him with pride and purpose. “I will get you out of here, I promise. It’s what they want. I can tell they want you, they might want you more than they want me. I would receive many blessings from the Crawling Ones if I were to rescue you. They will have such sights to show you, Winddancer.”

The Gondorian took a step back and stood against the wall. For nearly an hour he stood utterly motionless. His eyes remained fixed on the cell the elf was in, empty and without recognition. He stared into the cell with his pale glowing eyes and vacant. Time wore on and Cordin stood with recognizing the passage of time. In the back of his mind, somewhere deep and far from the light of logic, reason, and reality, he began to formulate a plan.

Finally, another torch made its way down through the maze of tunnels and cells and passageways. The light in Cordin's eyes flared to an almost hysterical level, his hands and fingers twitched angrily. Two voices roared within him.

Kill him. Kill him for daring to look at her. She’s not his to look at!

No. You can’t kill him yet. He will get suspicious. If he gets suspicious then all hope is lost.

Kill them all. Save yourself.

Save her. Save her. Save her. Save her. Save her. Save her.

Another voice, not from within his head, broke the endless debate. “ Hey Cordin. Good to see you back on your feet. Bolton wanted me to make sure you were doing okay.” The voice belong to a man that was almost as young as his but infinitely brighter and cheerier. His ashy blond hair and smoke colored eyes were the utter antithesis of Cordin. “Said he’d love to have a word with you, he did.”

He stared in shock. No, it couldn't be. No. No. This wasn’t his brother. No, it was just trick of the light, or whatever passed for light down here. He nodded and mumbled a few incoherent words. He sounded like his brother though. How could light manipulate sound. It must be him. It must! He gulped down his shock. But… who… why… he was so utterly confused that he nearly he dropped the keys as he handed them over. His hands were shaking.

The young man smiled and clapped him on the back. “Easy there Cordin. I know. She scares the daylights outta me too. Don’t worry. She’s locked away safe.”

He mumbled again and nodded. He would speak to Bolton. He needed to speak to him anyways. He needed to talk to him about his missing guards. Cordin could make up a story about how the last guy was gone when he arrived. That Winddancer, no the elf, the elf, was trying to pick at the lock and he stopped her.

“Listen for the chanting…” he said aloud as he was about to turn the corner away from his goal. What he meant by that or who he was saying off to he had no idea.

The man that looked nothing like his brother with limp black hair, a pox scarred face, and green eyes and who had not said a word at all looked at his retreating form strangely.

“The hell was that all about?” He asked himself. “What have you been filling his head with, Bolton? Boy's nuttier than an almond tree.”

Of course, Cordin heard none of that. His head was full of buzzing and clicking and chittering the closer he came to the daylight. It would still be light outside, and the harsh, cruel sun would beat down on him.

As a foulness, I shall know me…

[Winddancer]

Her mouth dropped open, shackled hands falling down in front of her as she heard his words. "Lat gortag.." she muttered under her breath snapping her mouth shut. She was doomed. Biting at her lower lip, she shuffled noisily over to the far corner and lowered herself down into a squat, bare back against the cold wet wall. She would have to find some other way out, there was no way she could trust this man, he had obviously lost his mind. She suppressed a shiver at the thought of him using her name, wanting to slit his throat so that he could never speak it again, though he had stepped back and out of reach before she could and now he was stood there like he was a complete lost cause staring emptily ahead of him.

Sliding all the way down to sit on the cold floor, she pulled her bent legs in towards her, wrapping her shackled hands around her legs and placing her forehead on her knees so she did not have to look at him. As the minutes slowly ticked past, all the aches and pains started to return, pushing to the front of her mind and making it hard for her to concentrate on trying to figure out another plan. Whether it was the remnants of the drug or a way to escape, she closed her eyes and began to doze, grateful for a reprieve from her predicament.

Whether it was the crackling of the torch or a sound of footfalls that alerted her was debatable, though her ears immediately perked. She stayed where she was, though her whole body tensed and readied for action, her head shifting just enough that she could look above her knees to see who had arrived. For a brief moment she thought the mad man was going to kill the new arrival, holding her breath in suspense. However while that did not occur, her keen eyes did not miss the keys being passed to the new guy. Keys! Skai âth! He had the means to let her out and he didn't! She was a fool to ever have thought he would help her.

But with the keys, she would have a chance. A miniscule one, but it was all she was likely to get.

Jumping forward like a coil wrung too tightly, she ignored the pain in her legs as she made it across the small cell to the bars, both hands reaching out through the same opening so that the shackles did not hinder her. The guard had stepped aside to let the mad man pass and was muttering about how crazy Cordin was and although they agreed, she was not about to spare his life. Grabbing his shirt, she yanked it hard and unbalanced him enough that he stepped closer to regain his balance. That was all she needed, one hand pulling him by the neck, downwards so she could get the chain around his neck.

"What the.. GAAAH!" the man screamed, arms flailing in an attempt to both right himself and fend off her groping hands. However he was not quick enough to avoid the short chain being wrapped around his neck and could not prevent being pulled down as she pulled him in towards her as well as down towards the floor where she could get better leverage. Unluckily he ended up facing the bars, staring straight at the woman who was clearly trying to kill him. Face pushed roughly against the bars he screamed again, the pitch of his voice rising as he looked straight into her homicidal red eyes.

Muttering a curse at the way he had turned, she knew she had to end him quickly before his pitiful scream brought the entire guard here, so she raised a leg and braced her bare foot against one bar and yanked the chain as hard as she could, hearing the satisfying crunch as the man's spine shattered. His pititful shriek ended immediately, the light in his green eyes slowly dying as she eased the slack and let him slide down to the ground, making sure to keep him close this time. Breathing rapidly, she unhooked the chain around his neck and awkwardly pulled him to where she could reach his belt where the keys were hooked.

With her breath held she unhooked them from his belt, fingers almost shaking as she pulled them to her and quickly stood, making her way over to the door. There were several keys on the large ring, so it was a matter of trying them one at a time, at the same time trying to listen out for whether or not the scream had been heard or another guard was coming. At least the clanking metallic rattle as she tried the keys could not be heard, though her curses grew louder with each one tried that did not work. It was also not made any easier by the fact that the lock was on the other side and her hands were shackled.

"Please.." she muttered as she got to the last one, staring at it for a moment as if to will it to work. But no. The last key did not work, despite her trying it several times. She let out a ragefilled shriek almost tossing them across the room only just managing a moment of clarity and sense to keep hold of them.

"Durub zak izish!!" she cried out hoarsely as she stumbled back against the wall, sliding down onto the floor. "Why.. why have you abandoned me.."

Slowly she slid down to one side, hugging the keys to her chest, pulling her legs up and curling into a ball.

[Ercassie]

The Visitor (@Pele Alarion)
Current Day

Days had come and days had passed since the Return of the King. Years rather had run their ruinous course and changed the complexion of Minas Tirith, back to order. And Minas Tirith would have order. This was not Mordor, where murder smirked and malice reigned supreme. This was Gondor. And in the name of the new monarch, in the name of a new age, a new wind of change had chased what shadows it might out of even the most deep and dark cracks in the pale cobblestone. Civil life would not be corrupted. And so, below the surface, out of sight of the glorious sun, were stowed all the stubborn vestiges of what would claim the kingdom if true hearted men and women did not keep it ever safe. Here those weeds were left to wither, or to recognise the need to alter their alignment.

Here, candles lined the walkway like an assembly of wizened old men, squatting in their seats and squandering what small degree of air ventured this far. There was a distinct tang about that air that lingered, unsatisfied. Unsatisfying. For here none could be said to live, nor die. Simply exist. Awaiting that moment of release, the one way or the other. Sounds carried, some defiant, some distressed, an endless orchestra of the incarcerated. A cacophony of those captive, unheeded by their custodians.

Here the animals were watered, fed, and else primarily ignored until their sentence served, or their conclusion upon this Middle Earth commenced. Guards were here to keep them, not to cater to them. And the Guards were changed with frequency, on a haphazard schedule known only to those in command. The lack of comprehension or consistency for long-time residents was a required unkindness, measured to ensure they did not build rapport or any relationship with those who held them in their cage. Mistakes had been made before, and new mandates established accordingly.

There was a new neighbour come amongst them, adding an exotic flavour to the typical city-wide plague of thieves and murderers in this human zoo. She could be assigned into either of these two common categories, and yet stood removed from any genre of the usual clientele. She had not been awarded the solitude or peace that came of privacy. She was not granted any illusion that she were any more important than another deviant, or miscreant. Chances were she would outstay the lot of them.

It was more than she had paid her dues to earn a place here. People had literally paid to see her interred here, off the streets. Out of harm … out of mind .. maybe not so much. But therein lay a stalwart tenacity to have her where she might do the least harm. For as long as it took. But whether trial or tribulation awaited her, none had readily explained.

And now, in the blinking, stuttering light of those compromised candles, a single man was come. He strode over to the forest of stern, iron bars which separated them, both physically and functionally. He was not garbed in the dress of the Tower guard, nor the gaol’s wardens, yet he carried himself with the confidence of permission to be here. What other permissions he had been handed remained to be seen.

“I shall be your representative in any legal proceedings,” he lied behind a wayward fence of too-white teeth and appraised Shamara. “What can you tell me ?” he provoked, though surely the mere presence of the incongruous woman was telling a tale, assumed by the scrutiny by which his endless eyes pawed over every inch of her.

[Pele Alarion]

Shamara
Enjoying the hospitality

She had been delivered to the dungeons and processed as a piece of goods without much ado. At least she had been released from the ropes, which were apparently considered needless in the cell. Shamara had relentlessly been telling the guards that had taken her here, and anyone else that she was quite innocent, and yet it seemed that no one even cared to listen.

Bored of interactions that did not provide any benefit to her, the Umbarian had settled on exploring the space allotted to her. Just a bare cell with an old mat and a blanket for a bed. At least there was that, as well as some meager food and water. Enough to secure her survival. However, she wondered how long she'd end up being locked here, and whether she'd be killed eventually if she did not manage an escape.

She sat on the mat and looked at the stones of the wall, noting that someone had scratched barely visible lines there, perhaps counting off days, months, years? Shamara yawned and wondered whether she should start doing the same.

The words sounding next to her cell roused her from her boredom, and the woman looked at the man on the other side of the bars, meeting his searching eyes. Curious, she tilted her head slightly and observed him.

"A representative? You mean there'd even be a trial?" she queried in return, getting up and brushing the dust off her dress daintily. Then she came closer, stopping a mere step from the bars to see the visitor's face better. "And here I thought the whole purpose was to lock me up here until I draw my last breath."

Shamara had not really educated herself in the matters of the Gondorian legal system, and she wondered how just it could really be. Would they really hear her side of the story, as she would unmistakably be labelled an enemy.

"What do you want to hear?" she asked, covering a small yawn with her hand. "I maintain that I have not done anything to deserve being locked up here. All I was doing... I was merely trying to earn a few coins as a house maid so I could afford a meal and a bed." The Umbarian wondered whether the man had read the reports, and what Kaylin had written therein as a basis for collecting her.

[Ercassie]

The Visitor

It took small time for the prisoner to respond, and her visitor grinned. It was the sort of grin where lips dissolved into a protrusion of gum. But how could he not be so thrilled ? When everything goes to plan. For when you put a pretty bird into a cage, you expect that it will sing. It can not fly after all, so what else is there in the world for a pretty bird to do ?

“We all must face our little trials, our tribulations,” the man returned to her enquiry, leaning so against the bars that it seemed an attempt to fit his head through the steel divide. “But see,” the man’s hands reached wide as he stepped back suddenly, indicating all the stark bland scene about Shamara, “you have earned yourself both a meal and a bed. Just as you’d hoped ...”

Anybody else might have struggled to express this without some trace of sarcasm intruding upon their tone. But he seemed far too genuinely pleased with her to strive for derision. His accent was not especially Gondorian, nor recognisable by even the most travelled soul. For after all, he had made it up on the spot. It might even alter during the course of their exchange.

“My, but aren’t you the pretty one ?” he asked aloud, with a yawn that matched hers in it’s apparency. “I wonder that you could not talk your way in or out of any situation you could want.”

It might have been a compliment, although the gaol was no place for such courtesies. He wondered if she had yet noticed how often the other prisoners, once thrown this way, were moved. As though their lives, as though the world beyond her, moved. Progressed. Moved on. And here she sat, as a butterfly speared by some pin to a display case for strangers to gawp at.

“So I know you can do a little better than that, if it comes to it,” he wagged one finger, shook his head, and lost his lips again behind that wall of shark-white teeth. "Care to try again ?

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin

“Wait. Stop. Slow down Cordin. You aren’t making any sense.” Bolton’s jaw looked slack as Cordin told him the news.

“They’re all going missing, all the guards,” he said with exaggerated slowness, mocking his commanding officer. “They’ve all disappeared. Torlund was supposed to be on duty when I came down, but he wasn’t there. Just a bundle of clothing.”

Bolton eyed the boy with a look Cordin didn’t like. He followed the man’s gaze. He was looking passed Cordin to the outer courtyard. He wasn’t even paying attention to him! Cordin seethed, but he didn’t let it show. He daren’t.

“Nothing of what your saying makes any sense Cordin. I’m sorry. My guards are disappearing? Well yes Dollem has run off but I’m more than certain he’ll show up in a few days with a hangover and an excuse that involves the brothels and dice games. He’s done it before. Torlund, well what you said just doesn’t make any sense. You’re saying he’s running around naked somewhere? Do you think he tried to do something with the prisoner you’re guarding? None of that makes sense Cordin. Come now. Tell me what’s going on. And speak plainly.”

The captain of the guard crossed his thick muscled arms over a barrel chest, his dark green eyes piercing Cordin’s soul. He… he must know. He must. Why else would he not believe Cordin’s story? Who would not believe that those monstrous guardsmen had disappeared? It was a perfectly good story. He had thought about what he would tell Bolton the entire night. He’d constructed a story over the hours and hours he’d spent staring into the utter blackness. It was perfect! Why didn’t Bolton believe him? Why was he questioning him? Why wasn’t he looking at him? Why was…

An answer came to Cordin then. He’s trying to trick you.

Cordin smiled at Bolton, a crooked, bent smile that looked utterly out of place with the man’s disheveled appearance. His eyes flickered pale and iridescent.

“They’re gone, Captain Bolton. They’re gone and they aren’t coming back. They went to the Coiling Ones and they aren’t coming back.” A small line of spittle dribbled down from Cordin’s twitchy smile.

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Bolton scooted back, trying to put some distance between the two of them.

“The Coiling Ones, the true masters of Arda. They’re becoming. They are awakening.”

“Cordin. I’m warning you now.” Bolton was standing now, his right hand crossing his waist to rest on a sword hilt.

“You’re warning me?!” Cordin’s eyes bugged. The coward! “You’re warning me? You who sent a man that looks like my brother to see me! To deceive me! What have you done with my brother! I know you’re keeping him! I know it! Where is he? Tell me! Liar!”

He lunged over the desk, crashing into Bolton. The captain acted quickly, managing to avoid the full brunt of Cordin’s weight but the wiry young man’s arms flailed about and with their momentum, knocked both men prone.

Cordin was the first to recover. There was something fueling him, giving his movements more speed, more strength, more conviction. The Coiling Ones! He sighed contentedly as he wrapped his hands around Bolton’s throat. Bolton was a big man though and managed to rip Cordin’s arms away from him. He pushed the former guardsman off him, slamming a heavy fist into the young guard’s face. Blood misted the area. Cordin tumbled backwards but recovered. He bent down on all fours like an animal and sprang at Bolton before the man had a chance to stand. He was caught mid shout as Cordin speared him. A whimpering gasp was all the sound he made as the air was knocked from his lungs. They crashed again, this time into the stone walls.

Cordin’s hands failed, hooked into rudimentary claws, he raked the captain of the guard across the face, ripping a chunk of flesh from his cheek. Bolton pulled out a knife from some secreted location under his arm pit and stabbed at Cordin. The blow scored, the knife pierced Cordin’s shoulder. He bit back a howl of bestial rage. With two hands, he wrested the knife from Bolton’s grip.

“Guards! Guards!” Bolton managed to shout as he took in a lungful of air.

It was too late. Cordin stabbed with the knife, already slick with his own blood. He stabbed Bolton in the stomach.

“Where is my brother? What did you do to him? You think the Coiling Ones don’t see what it is you’re doing? They know your dishonesty. They told him. They helped me see through your falsehoods.” Cordin’s voice was a rasp, a hiss that sounded both inhuman and far, far too human at the same time.

“Cordin…” Bolton managed, blood spilling from his cracked lips. “What… what…”

To the end the man was false! Cordin, totally overcome with rage, bit down on the man’s neck. His teeth ripped through skin and blood vessels, releasing the blood held within. He was soon soaked and covered. Bolton gurgled, twitched, convulsed.

He swallowed the chunk of flesh mechanically and wiped the blood from his mouth, smearing it across his face. The keys. He must have the keys. Only Bolton had the mater keys, the keys that would free Winddancer. She would help him find his brother. She would aid him. She was not faithless like this sun dependent beings. She knew the agony and the ecstasy of the darkness. He frantically, atavistically began searching through the body, ripping away clothing. He broke down into giggles of triumph as he searched. The Coiling Ones gave him a vision, a gift, a picture of his brother alone in the darkness, scared and alone. Deep, deep, deep within the earth. Cordin knew where he was!

He began searching faster, more frantically. He began to rip at the flesh, tearing and rending through dead muscles and sinew until the floor was covered in a red sheen and the air with the tingey smell of copper. Finally, he found it, buried on the man’s belt. Cordin ripped the keys from the corpse’s grasp and stared at them, triumphant and transfixed.

Like a greedy child, Cordin stuffed the keys in his pocket and looked around to make sure no one saw him do it. He sniffed, wiping a bloody hand over his nose.

He vanished from the office, darting the line of streets and alleyways unseen until he came back to the entrance to the dungeons. Soaked in blood and covered in gore, Cordin made his way back down, back through the maze of cells until he came to her cell.

There was another dead man there. Had he killed him? He cocked his head to one side, considering the man. He shrugged. He must have. This was the imposter, the man pretending to be his brother. But he looked nothing like him. The fool. Did they think they could trick Cordin for long? They did not know the power and influence of the Coiling Ones.

He kicked the dead man savagely and howled until the entire dungeon was alight with the sounds of his feral nature.

He went to the cell containing the elf, Winddancer.

“I’ve come to get you out. They believe you are ready. I need your help now.” He pushed the key into the lock.

“I need you to help me.” He turned the key slowly.

“My brother, he’s locked away down here.” He felt the lock finally disengage.

“We have to get him out.” He swung open the door.

[Pele Alarion]

Shamara

Her interest peaked, the more she observed her would be representative, and she could not quite make out where his allegiance belonged. He did not seem to be hundred per cent Gondorian, and yet... He seemed to know quite a bit about her, and she doubted it all came from the few moments of observation.

"Well... a meal and a bed indeed, though a bit more frugal than hoped for, and in a boring setting," Shamara admitted, wrapping her fingers around the bars not far from her visitor. "There are many more worse places, so can't quite complain either."

Her dark eyes observed the man closely, as her voice dropped to a whisper: "Pretty looks and skilled words do not always work when you are facing someone who strongly believes that you have hurt their friend. But you should know that it happens so, right?" A corner of her lips raised slightly, the Umbarian ran her right index finger down a bar, tracing its rough surface. "Though I really did not do anything that could be considered wrong at the moment of arrest. Besides... I could claim that I was put here merely on the basis of suspicion of the words I spoke at some point, years ago."

Shamara sighed and took a step back, her hands now at her sides. "What do you really want to know, though? There are things... and then there are things."

[Winddancer]

She didn't even bother to look up to see who was coming as she heard the hurried footfalls coming down the hallway. She was already locked away, what more could they do? Other than maybe speed up the trial. Well at least it would be over sooner then. Once more she reached out her mind, calling out to the Dark Lord and yet again hearing nothing. Why was He not answering her? Was this her punishment for having been caught? She tried again and when no response came yet again, she curled into an even tighter ball on the floor. He had filled her mind with His thoughts, His demands for thousands of years. At times she hardly knew her own thoughts from His and now.. nothing. Why?

She heard the unmistakable thunks of a boot kicking into flesh and though she did not move, her eyebrows knit together as she fought to pull back her thoughts from the void that was left behind in her mind. Even the metallic clinking of key against the lock did not make her stir. She had tried the keys, all of them. None of them worked. Why have keys if they did not work? she mused, almost chuckling at the ludicracy of it. It was like she was being mocked. Not only had He left her here, all alone, but everything that was happening was as if she was being mocked. Taunted.

Without looking she recognised the voice of the madman. He was spewing his insane babble again, though this time he was being even more cruel as he was saying he had come to get her out. She wanted to scream her frustration at him, wanted to hurt him like she was hurting right now. Wanted to end his stupid insane chattering. Rip his tongue out and feed it to him.

However she swallowed her rage, like she always did. Swallowed it deep into her gut where it could fester and ripen and be brought out to use against him with a cold and clinical precision so that she could savour every last second of his anguish.

The door. It was open. Blinking she stirred and warily raised her head to see if her hearing was deceiving her, though it wasn't. Pushing up into a seated position slowly, she looked towards the door, her only means of escape and then at the man who stood between her and freedom. She could barrel him down, kill him. Snap his neck like a twig and run. No.. she couldn't run, not with the shackles on. Looking down at her hands and ankles, she shook her wrists angrily, thinking the keys might not even fit on these. How far could she even get? Half dressed and shackled, running through the streets of Minas Tirith? No, she did not stand a chance. She still needed him.

Hating herself she forced tears to appear in her eyes, raising her hands towards him to show him the shackles. "I can't help.. Not with these on.."

[Ercassie]

The Visitor

If Shamara had been bored, she did not seem so now. And surely having explored possibilities of all those meagre tools placed in her reach, he was possibly the latest of these that she might consider, to change her circumstances. She was not resolved to her fate, he decided, though what that fate might be, he still did not allude to.

“Oh, there are indeed. Many worse places than this,” he agreed, and caught the wisp of a straggled beard in the fingers of one hand and ran cadaverous fingers through it thoughtfully. The dark shroud of his hair clung to the fall of his long-tailed coat in a similar long, spindly tail. His eyes, when the candle light caught a glimpse of them, shone green, like a cat.

The man inclined his head to one side as the woman came to whispers, glancing first to one side and then the other, as though expecting to find anyone around to hear them. Having ascertained that there were none about but he and she, Shamara’s visitor approached. The feet which must have bourne him closer to her were swallowed by the darkness that painted this portion of the cells. Obliging, he leant her an ear to better hear the secrets she had wont to share. The woman had her wiles, and he suspected that this was but the barely polished hint of what might lurk beneath the surface. More there than a pretty face. But all were guts and gore behind their skin. Words and smiles did not change that. They merely drove the length of time that gore, those guts, remained behind the seamless skin. Hers was especially beautiful, a fact that even the bleakest conditions could not disguise.

“I do not have friends,” he confided. “Sounds to me as you have enemies.”

When she stepped back, he stepped back. As though the man were her reflection, though he was in no way her mirror image.

“Details,” was the only answer that he loosed at her demand. It took several moments before he made any attempt to clarify the vaguest subject. “I want to know anything that might help,” he admitted, though he did not declare who exactly he might be truly here to help. Maybe just himself.

[Pele Alarion]

Shamara


The Umbarian had to admit that she was rather much intrigued by the man. This far she had only been visited by someone bringing food and water, but this guy... she could not even pinpoint his intentions, and she was not all that sure that he was what he claimed to be and that his purposes really were as stated.

"I don't have friends either, which might not always be good, especially in a foreign land," she shrugged. "Enemies, yes. Well, I suppose most Gondorians would see me as an enemy, but in this case, yes."

Shamara assumed a thoughtful position, her forehead pressed against the cold iron bars, and the fingertips of her right hand lightly tapping one of the bars, while her other hand was wrapped around it, though not very tightly.

"What can I even say? I did not expect to be taken into custody. However, that fiery redhead, Kaylin I think she was called, nearly killed me and insisted that I had harmed her friend. Not even sure what all she has told the dungeon staff I had done. I was not harming anyone, nor kidnapping, nor anything else that could be seen as a crime." A sigh escaped her, as she added: "It's not like I have really done much harm before either. Only explored and such. And I doubt pub crawling can really be called a crime."

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin

He looked at her. He’d been looking at her for quite some time these past few days but there was something different about her. Or, perhaps, there was something different about him. She looked small and weak now. She was like a rabbit cowering before a wolf. Was he the wolf now? Cordin reached out, then stopped and pulled back. Something wasn’t right here. This was not the way he envisioned any of this. He took a step back from the door and narrowed his gaze at her. Had he come all this way, metamorphosized and grown for this. He and emerged from the chrysalis of Bolton’s corpse and he was made anew. Why should he doubt? He strode back in, his confidence fully reasserting itself. He could the clicking in his head, the chittering of his patron deities. They were but a stone’s throw away now. He must give her to them, an acceptable sacrifice. Why had he not seen it before? His luminescent pale eyes darted back and forth, rolling around in his hollow sunken sockets. She was not meant to serve the Coiling Ones. No, she was meant to be an offering. She was one his minions, the failed Dark Lord. How could a failure ever serve the Coiling Ones? The hissing began to grow and grow in the back of his mind; he could feel their thoughts scurrying through his brain. He was not failure.

“I am not a failure,” he murmured out loud, barely audible. “The Coiling Ones do not take failures. They take the lost and broken. They remake the broken and surround the lost. I can feel them… I can feel them…” The words slipped out of his mouth with a hard, sibilant edge. The darkness drank the sound and seemed to pulsate.

Your brother is waiting here; he is waiting for you in the shadows

A sick sense of elation filled the young man’s heart. His brother was here? But Bolton… Bolton had—

You have freed your brother. He is here. He is with the Coiling Ones; he sits on a writhing seat awaiting you.

“The time of molluskation is at hand.” He said aloud, in a clear, undisturbed voice. Strength wormed its way from the shadows into his form. He could feel himself swelling and expanding. He was becoming.

“It is time for you to prostrate yourself to the Coiling Ones and beg for their chittering mercy.” He said, pale, sickly eyes gleaming.

Key in hand, he unlocked the manacles that bound Winddancer to her terrestrial prison, it was time for her shed her existential prison as well. “As a foulness, shall ye know us…”

[Winddancer]

She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as the man pulled back from her. Part of her felt vindicated, doing the "I told you so", sure that the man was merely taunting her. How could she blame him? She had done thousands of variants of this exact ploy, many of them working. Give them hope and rip it away, until they never hoped for anything but death. She also felt stupid, for ever believing he would let her go, he was obviously becoming quite unhinged, the feral howl he had unleashed was still ringing in her ears and prickling at her skin.

Again her thoughts darted to leaping up and barreling him down, try and catch him off guard before he managed to lock the door again, but she doubted her legs would cooperate the way she wanted them to. And then there were the shackles, she would not be able to move freely with those hindering her movements. His low murmur broke her chain of thoughts, her ears prickling as she managed to catch what he said thanks to her enhanced elven hearing. Her brows knitted a fraction more at his mumbled words, realising that the man was completely mad. Her keen eyes darted over his looming form and even in the murkiness of the poorly lit cell she could see large stains on his clothes as well as on his face. Blood. He had killed someone before he came here. Cursing silently to herself, she realised she was running out of time. If the man had killed someone on his way here, then there would soon sound an alarm, which would increase the guards and make it even more difficult to get out.

It changed everything, she now had no time to try and play into the man's madness, to try and talk him into helping her, to try-

“The time of molluskation is at hand.”

“It is time for you to prostrate yourself to the Coiling Ones and beg for their chittering mercy.”

She blinked, her mouth opening to respond. But how did one respond to something like that? She flinched as he leaned down and unlocked her manacles around her wrist, mouth gaping even more. She reacted on pure instinct, based on thousands of years of training. As he knelt to unlock the manacles around her ankles, her hand slid under her loose shirt and withdrew the dagger hidden within and in one fluid motion she plunged it with precision and strength garnered from desperation right at his neck.

[The Good Hunter]

Cordin

“What…?”

He didn’t have a chance to stop her as she moved toward him. He barely had time to even register that something was happening to him when the knife entered his neck. He’d heard stories told by veterans of great battles say that they never felt the initial cut, that their bodies simply rejected the reality that they had been stabbed or slashed. He lost all sensation in his limbs. He saw himself falling. When he hit the cold, harsh stone he didn’t feel them either. He felt cold, so inexorably cold. He didn’t understand. He tried to move, but his body would not respond.

His eyes rolled around madly in his head, each of them seemingly now with a mind of their own. He could see something red pouring from him. Blood? No. No. No! This can’t be! This is wrong! No! He tried to right himself, trying to scream, but nothing worked. His body might as well have been a sack of potatoes. He shuddered and something snapped, broke, ripped, tore. Blood was pouring out of him. How could this be? He was promised to life in the embrace of the Coiling Ones! He was promised molluskation. He was the chosen of being more antient than anything that walked upon the sun cursed earth! No! One eye went dark, exploding from the pressure he was trying to exert. His limbs were like thousand-pound blocks of ice. He was trapped here while Winddancer was…

Where was the elf? He closed his one eye and tried to remember what happened to her. Who had been the one to stab him? She had been on the ground; he had unchained her and opened her manacles then… then he couldn’t remember. There was a blur of shadow rimmed by an abominable red light. What had that been? Cordin’s mind raced as fast as it could but it felt like moving through syrup. He was slow, sluggish, it took great effort just to stay awake. “Wind…where?” Had she run? Had she escaped?

There was sensation in his fingers. He dug them into the ground and tried to drag himself into the hallway, out of cell. He would not die in here. He… would… not… die… “Help me!” his voice was like razors on glass. He coughed, it was wet and thick. His thoughts, slow as they were, moved back to the shadow wreathed by red. Who was that? No… No!

It had been here! That was Winddancer! Winddancer had betrayed him! He emitted a scream that was akin a groan.

“Melkin…”

He could see his brother; the Coiling Ones had not lied to him. He could see his brother seated astride a giant cockroach; he could feel the hissing deep in his chest. He smiled.

Bright, shining creatures welled up through the stone floor, creatures bright and incomprehensible and so indescribable that Cordin, even as he was dying, wanted to hasten his death. A being hissed and extended something, a tentacle or a proboscis. Cordin felt it touch him.

Then he remembered nothing else.

[Winddancer]

The feel of the blade slicing through skin and muscle felt good. It felt familiar. Her simpering weak appearance drained away with the madman's blood, her lips twisting into a sneer as she made sure that the artery was severed before she slowly slid the blade back out. She stepped back so that the guard did not fall on her or bleed on her, leaning in to wipe the blade on his body. His useless attempts at trying to speak set off a round of giggles that she had trouble suppressing. Here she was condemning him for being mad, when chances were that she was just as crazy.

Shaking her head she rubbed furiously at her forehead, nausea returning with a passion at the empty feeling in her mind. Why was He not responding? She did not even hear the whimper that escaped her lips, attributing it to the dying man as she shoved at him to retrieve the keys. Grabbing them she quickly moved to the other guard, having concluded that his clothes were far less blood-stained than the mandman's.

Cursing and grunting, bones creaking and snapping she worked to get the man undressed, quickly pulling the garments on as soon as she had them off the dead man. As she worked feverishly, she pushed all thoughts aside though the panic loomed like a black cloud overhead, relentlessly pushing at her defenses. With a sob she finally got the last boot off and shoved her foot inside before bending down to retrieve the cloak he wore. Grateful it was a hooded one, she quickly tied her dirty and tangled hair back with a shoestring from the madman's boot and flipped the hood up to cover her face.

Armed with just the dagger and the set of keys, she made it down the tunnel that she had seen the men enter by, making sure that her steps did not make any sounds, though moving as quickly as her wounded legs and too-big boots allowed.

[Ercassie]

The Visitor
with Shamara @Pele Alarion



He had not come to bring her food. He had not come to bring her water. He had not given her too much of anything so far, save for curiosity. He watched. He listened. He waited until she might wonder why he was suddenly silent. What had she said ? Had she misspoke ? Why would he simply … stop ?

The Prisoner had took up a place now at the forefront of her confines, hands curled like vines around the cold steel of the iron bars that held her in. Her visitor shifted in the shadows beyond reach, almost beyond proper sight. Slipping like spears of sunshine through a grate, his whole never visible from amongst a crowd of shadows, not all of him, not all at the same time. There were no footsteps, there were no more words. Not for an hour.


“Perhaps it is not to pay for a crime that you are come here. But to escape one.”

This time the words are quieter, the mere suggestion of sound that he meant for her to crave. But would she now believe it real or her imagination ? He watched for any reaction which might be garnered from that word. Escape. It was a word that all finding themselves here found in contemplation sooner or later. For some the concept meant hope, for others torment. But it always meant … something.

“No friends you have, powerful enemies you have. I imagine you are safer here than out there. What keeps you in, keeps her out. No ?”

[Pele Alarion]

Shamara with the mysterious visitor @Ercassie

Her visitor was silent much too long for her liking; apparently she had now met someone who was as good in the game she could play, or perhaps even better. Needless to say Shamara's curiosity grew with every moment of silence. Had he come to interrogate her, perhaps to torment her, or maybe to help her? Yet, she did not say a word either, and sat down on the floor by the bars that made up her everyday scenery lately.

When the man spoke again, the Umbarian looked up at the shadow that he was among other shadows, thinking over his words. Did he know of her? Or did he rather referred to Kaylin? Or maybe Pele?

"I am not wholly blameless..." she eventually admitted. "Though I would not admit to what they say I've done." Not until it would be in any way useful, she added in her mind. "It might be safer here, and then again it might not be. Depending on who you mean by saying 'her'. Apparently a Gondorian prison is not what keeps me safe from Gondorians... As for other her... I doubt any walls would really prove to be any protection."

In fact, Shamara was not too convinced of what should be her next step, and what she should really strive for at the moment. Things had turned out into a bit of a mess, but it wasn't wholly her fault now, was it? At any rate, she had no clear game plan, and it was difficult to figure out how much she should reveal to this interesting stranger.

[Ercassie]

The Visitor
with Shamara (@Pele Alarion)


She was ‘not wholly blameless’. She ‘would not admit to what they say’ that she had done.

She was exceedingly clever, and had clearly managed to stay alive this long, by relying on her none-too-unimpressive wits. Her Visitor was pleased enough to smile. And now the prisoner had committed to two separate cases of ‘She’. One Gondorian. One not. If it were not all lies. She was a living breathing lie, after all. Oh how he did enjoy the intrigue .. of a lie. You could learn so much truth about a person by how they lied.

“Well since only Gondorians can know where you are, you must at least hope the walls of morality keep you safe from ‘her’ retribution. The other can have no means to suppose where you might be. So whether she might be stopped by your shelter is no concern. But you don’t seem concerned to me, not one little bit concerned.”

He ran his tongue along the back wall of where his teeth must be, though it was too dark to see. The candles were wasting away. Shamara must not. Her wits, her guts, must remain intact.
Else what would he do with his time, if he could not toy with hers ?

“I think you are happy here, Shamara. Happy to have rest from making difficult decisions. Here you can assign your life to someone else. Here you do not have to trouble over what to do. All you have to do is what you are told. Eat. Drink. Sit. Rest. I think we might keep you. And I don’t think you would mind one little bit ..”

It was a cue meant to incur a reaction. From anyone less practiced, less professional than he had been led to believe she was … it would have done the job. He wondered then quite what it would do .. to her.

[Pele Alarion]

Shamara with the Visitor @Ercassie

Shamara shifted backwards, so that her back was now against the wall, and her legs stretched out and crossed before her. She could still observe her guest from this place, or as much as could be seen of him at any rate.

"Huh. I am rather sure she would be very well aware of my exact location, if she cared to be aware, that is," she observed. "Either way, what does it help to be concerned? Is it going to help me any way? The approach of wait and see seems to be the most feasible, except for asking to be allowed to go and beg before the King for mercy, which I would not, even if anyone took note of my request."

As if to showcase her boredom once again, Shamara began a vain attempt of trying to clean her fingernails. "Happy? What is happiness anyway?" she asked of her mysterious visitor. "And even if I didn't mind - what would it even help you to keep me here? An idler eating away at the precious resources of the White City." She chuckled and glanced up at the man. "I wouldn't mind if it wasn't so freakishly boring in here. No company, no drinks, no luxurious food. Eh."

It wasn't that Shamara did not know that dungeon was not a luxury inn, but she rather enjoyed the word-spinning game with the man, even though she could not guess the purpose of it, or the rules. Not yet.

[Eriol]

- Chains of the Past -

This is an open-to-all series (you can plot with me)
spanning multiple threads between Gondor
and Fourth Age scenes within Ever Beyond: The World Beyond Free RP in Imladris.
This second part coincides with Beren's investigation of Iole's
disappearance in The Undertaker's Daughter, a Tower Guard story

"And looking thither they cried in dismay; for black against the glittering stream
they beheld a fleet borne up on the wind: dromunds, and ships of
great draught with many oars, and with black sails bellying in the breeze.
"The Corsairs of Umbar!" men shouted. "The Corsairs of Umbar!
Look! The Corsairs of Umbar are coming!"- from The Lord of the Rings:
The Return of the King - The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

"For now men leaped from the ships to the quays
of the Harlond and swept north like a storm.
There came Legolas, and Gimli wielding his axe, and Halbarad with the standard,
and Elladan and Elrohir with stars on their brow, and the dour-handed Dúnedain, Rangers of the North,
leading a great valour of the folk of Lebennin and Lamedon and the fiefs of the South.
But before all went Aragorn with the Flame of the West, Andúril like a new fire kindled..."
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Return of the King - The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

"East rode the knights of Dol Amroth driving the enemy before them:
troll-men and Variags and Orcs that hated the sunlight."
- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Return of the King - The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

"Not all of those Southerners mean well."
- Aragorn, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Fellowship of the Ring - A Knife in the Dark

"He is a skin-changer. He changes his skin; sometimes
he is a huge black bear,
sometimes he is a great strong man..."
- Gandalf, from The Hobbit: Queer Lodgings

Tarchlorn, a bulky square-jawed sergeant, unlocked the iron-bound wooden door. A herald had announced the arrival of Tower Guard Lieutenant Beren Camlost and Sanya, Imrahil's Ambassador who was liaison to the Gondorian Rangers. Tarchlorn beamed at them both in the guttering torchlight and gripped their forearms in fellowship. Sanya's father, a Swan Knight, drove off the Variags which slew Tarchlorn's brothers in the War of the Ring; Beren had been there, too, in the Pelennor with his Northern Dúnedain kin and King Elessar, leading a great valorous host from Lebennin and Lamedon and other southern fiefs.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Lady Sanya! Swan Knights don't often tour this shadowy labyrinth." Tarchlorn gestured toward the smothering gloom enshrouding the claustrophobic passages behind him. The twisting corridors were only sparsely illuminated by lanterns, candles, and torches.

"I have a ship to catch so I'm accompanying Lieutenant Camlost until I sail for Lond Côl," replied Sanya. She carried Hattie, the Patterdale which Beren and Addhor's son rescued. The squirming black hound was now the sole reason of today's visitation. Before they came to the Gaol, Sanya wanted to make certain Sarabeth Gameela was still incarcerated. The notorious Corsair captain, a prominent leader in Harad, once terrorized Lindon and Gondor. She was captured in the War of the Ring. The Umbarian pirate still languished in solitary confinement behind the Black Door of the Royal Dungeons.

"You have answered my summons, Lieutenant."

"Did he kill himself?" guessed Beren, looking more irate by the moment.

"Someone paid Angol's bail," Tarchlorn admitted with a resigned composure. "I don't want to let him go but I have to, Bear." Tarchlorn stood with a rigid forbidding stance when Beren glared stonily at him, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest.

Beren and Nal saved Hattie from her master, Angol. They saw him attempting to drown her in the Erui river where Beren was giving Addhor's son a swimming lesson. Angol refused to remove the pup from the water and give her up to the authorities - Beren and Nal - and attacked the Tower Guard Lieutenant once he flung the dog to her death. Beren defended himself and beat Angol into submission while Nal plucked the mournfully wailing Hattie from the swift current.

Angol faced criminal prosecution in City Court for animal abuse and assault on a Ranger. Beren and Nal were lauded for upholding Queen Arwen's edict securing the safety of domesticated creatures. They had been subpoenaed by the clerk of Bainbadhron, the esteemed judge of Gondor's judicial bureau, to testify when Nal returned from Pelargir. Rumors circulated in Minas Tirith that Queen Arwen would be attending the trial which, citizens assumed, would signify the seriousness of her decree's legislation and foreshadow Angol's fate. The secretive man owned a large waystation by Ethraid Erui, selling goods he came out of the North with in great waggons with men, dark strangers like himself. His upcoming tribunal was already the talk of the White City.

"Don't fret, Beren!" counselled Sanya. "You and Unalmis will beat him in court." She consoled him in a soft reassuring voice when he started pacing, fists balled up in a rage he was desperately taming. Beren muttered that he wished Nal was here. Hearing the name of her other new master, Hattie renewed her energy and wriggled free of Sanya's grasp. She joyfully plunged into the murky unknown. Although they lost sight of her, the Warden and the Ranger and the Swan Knight heard the Patterdale barking happily into Gaol cells in a fruitless search for Nal.

Beren gritted his teeth. He insisted an audience with Angol.

"I must be with you, my friend." Tarchlorn knew how vengeful the Lieutenant could be. He was relieved when Beren earnestly agreed.

They journeyed through the intricate maze of gated tunnels, passing chambers of wailing and weeping prisoners, until they neared Angol's barred cell. The scrawny man, a Southerner with a swarthy face and a scraggly beard he had grown in gaol, raised his thick black brows when he saw Beren looking surly. He narrowed his dark soulless eyes at the Ranger.

"You're free to leave, filth." Tarchlorn opened the gate and removed the steel manacles binding his hands. "Keep yourself out of trouble and no trouble will come to you. Don't think you have a clean slate now. You have not yet been judged."

"If you run before your trial, soldiers of the Crown will find you," Sanya warned Angol. Although Beren and Tarchlorn had greater jurisdiction this side of the country, she was a woman of law and order. "Arnor and Gondor are again united as one Kingdom," said the highborn woman with a proud lift of her chin. "No matter where you hide, a gibbet will be waiting for you. Elude us in the wild, we will pursue you with a noose and no doubt we will have our pick of trees to hang you on."

Angol spat on the Swan Knight's teal and silver gambeson then many things happened at once.

Beren lunged for Angol, swearing. Tarchlorn stood between Camlost and the captive. Sanya shoved Beren away. Hattie appeared from the ether; she rushed at Angol and bared her teeth with a ferocious growl. He called her a cur and aimed a kick at the Patterdale. She whimpered, dodging the launch of his boot, then charged forward with the bravery of an Aman wolfhound. Angol sprinted in the opposite direction, gasping in dismay. He tripped over his own feet, screaming in Dunlendish.

The terrier's bark was like the ominous blast of an Orc-horn, portending dismemberment and glorious malevolence. She leaped on her erstwhile owner and assailed him with the viciousness of her namesake. The small hound bit and clawed him like a great troll-chief of Gorgoroth. Beren called her off him under pressure from Tarchlorn although Hattie had been almost injured by Angol.

"So you speak Dunlendish, eh?" addressed Beren in a smug drawling voice. "I was curious where you hailed from in the South and why you had a Sindarin name, kin to the herdsmen of the hills. Who are you really? How did your company get the waggons and the merchandise? Who are your victims?"

"I acquire my profits legally!" shouted Angol, ignoring Beren's barrage of questions.

"You will answer the Tower Guard's queries!" Tarchlorn demanded but again Angol refused. The Southerner protested his mistreatment and ordered the Warden to put Hattie down for hurting a liberated man but Tarchlorn snorted laughter.

"You did not obtain your wares legally," Beren boldly presumed, "and I will prove it somehow in court. Now that I know where you come from, I plan to do some digging. I'll add robbery to the list of your offences and murder, too, if my team finds evidence of either."

Angol gazed at Beren with hostile intensity, wringing his hands in despair. "You and that boy are thieves!" he acerbically accused. "You stole my dog! You and the cripple's imp!"

When Addhor was slighted, Beren's anger reached the boiling point. He made a bestial sound no Mortal could mimick...a bear's growl. Tarchlorn shuddered, knowing what Beren was capable of. Sanya did as well but, undaunted, she allayed Beren's volatile fury by only speaking his name in a dulcet beseeching tone at odds with her rough handling of him seconds ago.

"We delivered Hattie from a watery grave and we have witnesses," Beren objected. "I am certain at this point you might have even have taken her from someone else. There's no Patterdales native to Dunland. Don't con me. I've been everywhere."

"Gara, to me!" Angol commanded the Patterdale by what appeared to be her former name. The despicable fool actually had the gall to call her to him after trying to kill the pup and nearly hurting the girl mere moments ago.

Hattie looked from Angol to Beren twice then trotted to the Ranger's heel and sat obediently. She looked up at Beren with soft adoring eyes, tongue lolled out.

"She knows who her daddy is," Beren uttered, stooping down to rub the precious girl. He smiled a lopsided grin, straightening. "She has two, in fact." Beren turned away with Sanya.

"Watch your back."

Beren said nothing, unafraid, and kept walking.

"Do you hear me, Ranger?" hollered Angol. "Watch your back! You can pass this warning to the boy...and your daughter."

Beren's smirk vanished.

He staggered to a halt.

A burning wrath seared him from the inside out.

Haloed in a dim numbus of candelight, he whirled with a startling suddenness.

Beren no longer looked human. Patches of luxuriant brown fur covered his rugged face and strong hands. His nails sharpened into claws, fell as his elvish blade. Pupilless green eyes gleamed, hatefully peering from his ursine head. The dusky quivering Southerner fled into the tenebrous halls and Beren pursued him with an inexorable menacing tread. His low malicious grunt and threads of saliva slicking his hirsute jaw kept the Warden and the Swan Knight frozen still, wide-eyed in awesome dread. Angol shrieked only once before the mighty skin-changer barrelled into him. He threw down his prey and slashed his throat, splashing stone walls in spraying gouts of blood....

Beren restrained his primal urges. He walked toward Angol until he met the edge of the stoic Warden's broadsword.

"Beren, please."

He was conscious of Sanya's tender pleading which further weakened his resolve to murder, soothed by her honeyed voice. He recalled the scathing words of Prince Faramir at the Great Gate and the taciturn countenance of Mourgan. He remembered the disappointment of Aileen finding him in his study waking from a drunken stupor. He heard King Elessar promising him a reward one sunrise in Kingsbridge years ago in Eriador. He dreamed of Airien with her red hair bound in a mithril carcanet, tossed by the briny summer air...she wore a lace wedding dress of Nariel at a marriage feast by the sounding sea with the snow-capped peaks of Dor-en-Ernil burnished in golden-red splendor beneath the setting sun....

He raised a fist....and pointed a finger at Angol. "You're flying the blood pennant." That was all he said, all he did. Angol gave him a mistified look but Tarchlorn knew what Beren meant. He gave him an approving nod.

"This sodding lout would have harmed the dog a second time," spoke Sanya to Tarchlorn with a baleful glance at Angol.

"Acknowledged, Milady."

"He threatened the family of a Ranger to boot." She spoke her words with a crisp matter-of-fact timbre. "Criminals released on bail have privilege of freedom until sentencing unless revoked due to improper behavior. Is that correct, Warden?"

"Rightly so!" Tarchlorn responded cheerfully. He returned the broadsword to its scabbarad so he could use his manacles.

"Beren?" The Belfalas dame gave him a gracious smile, flourishing a hand grandiosely.

"Cuff him," Beren ordered the Sergeant.

"No!" Angol darted aside. "A friend paid my bail!"

"The Reunited Kingdom will compensate him for his loss," Tarchlorn assured him in official manner.

Angol bolted off. Beren had been patient long enough. He struck a swift, jarring blow. The sickening loud punch drove Angol to his knees, whimpering. Another strike sent him crashing to the floor on his side, groaning.

"That's enough, friend." Torchlorn shackled the bloody prisoner. "Someone send a healer," he directed one of several guards who had stopped to eavesdrop on the dramatic spectacle. "You lot saw everything, including Angol resisting arrest?" Receiving dutiful confirmation he told them to meet him, Sanya, and Beren in his office to sign the damning paperwork. Nal and Beren would need as many witnesses as they could present at trial to speak honorably on their behalf.

*

"You did well, Bear."

Quiet, he nodded absently at Sanya but didn't meet her admiring gaze. They were leaving the Gaol now since she needed to embark for the estuary of the Azrubêls and Dimaethors soon.

"I know you wanted to kill him but instead you championed the Kingdom's code of justice. You've changed. You're not the man I knew five years ago."

Beren was annoyed. Not with her. It was easier and satisfying to follow his own creed. He preferred to exact cruel punishments on his own terms and not obey anyone's regulations. If he wanted to become respectable Ranger and give Aileen a father to be proud of he needed to be a different kind of man though.

"Gondor isn't the wild west of Eriador, Beren, and you are not an animal in the Harad jungle. This is a civilized society. We have laws and you are its custodian-"

"Spare me another righteous lecture, alright?" Beren snapped, coming to a stop and stood akimbo with a flinty demeanor. "You want me to play an honorable knight for you. If that's what you want, fine."

Sanya smiled wanly. "It's your chikd you want to be a knight for, not me." She laid her hands palms against the white eradicated tree of Gondor emblazoned on his leather surcoat. The light of candeflame glittered in the mithril-accented steel of her gorget and spaulders, vambraces and poleyns. "Justice is about fairness. Revenge is about what makes you feel satisfied." She touched his scruffy face, surprising him since she had been adamant earlier about their displays of affection. "You chose wisely today, my love."

Airien wasn't here but this princess was. "It won't be the last time, Sultana." He kissed Sanya's forehead, a lasting press of his lips drawing a small joyful noise from her he hadn't heard in a long time.

They disengaged from each other with desperate immediacy, hearts quickening, when they heard the Gaol portal opening around the corner. "To Harlond," Sanya murmured, recovering her Belfalas poise but he saw the longing for him in her sorrowful eyes.

Beren felt himself falling though he was standing warily still. They couldn't have a relationship like this. She was so high above him...like Airien. He couldn't destroy everything Sanya had built for herself and he couldn't allow Airien to mourn his eventual death...

I cannot have what I want. I can never be what I want. I can never stop...wanting.

"I'll escort you to your ship, Ambassador," he replied just as somberly as a troop of grim guards strode past with captured villains in tow.

They departed the Gaol in awkward silence with Hattie, unaware of a hulking lynx-eyed fellow observing their departure. He stood in a pink garden of strawberry trees, drinking Umbarian firewater. The hooded spy watched the Ranger and the Swan Knight until they vanished in the crowd of shoppers then decided to give Arambil, his gang leader, a report across the river.

There's a somebody I'm longing to see
I hope that she turns out to be
Someone to watch over me

I'm a little lamb who's lost in a wood
I know I could always be good
To one who'll watch over me
Won't you tell her please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh how I need
Someone to watch over me
- Ira Gershwin, from Someone to Watch Over Me

[Ercassie]

The Visitor
with Shamara @Pele Alarion


“No company at all …”

It was not clear from the man’s tone whether he had been insulted by her remark, or whether he was in fact confirming it. He was after all the only one she’d seen for some time now. The guards here were not those in the gaol. Those here, here in the dungeon, all wore helmets so she would not know them, delivered her only the essential food and drink, and left, without sharing a word.

He was not one of the guards. He licked the tip of his thumb and his index finger on one hand.

“So you do not want mercy Shamara.” The stranger walked his way along the pitiful parade of candles, snuffing out each but one, in it’s turn between his finger, and his thumb. He turned back to his captive audience with only the single solitary blink of light to dance when he leant in as though to kiss the flame.

“What is it you do want ?” he asked of the woman now sat at her furthest, at the wall, behind him. Slowly, he slid around to face her anew, dressed in the darkness. And shrank silently down the wall at his back, to mirror the prisoner’s stance. Set on the other side of her bars, but his reflection was held in the open corridor with exits off both left and right.

“You want to know what shall become of you,” he supposed. “How long shall you remain here. And where do you go .. after ..” The Visitor shook his head as though it was in fact a thing she ought not want to know.

“Do you want to know what I want ?” he tripped a long tongue over the words. Crocadile green eyes widened, as though they might swallow his thin face. In the swollen shadows, he might be a trick of the light. He might be nothing at all.

But those eyes. That voice. That sensation he urged her to accept, that she was under scrutiny. That anything she said might make a difference, or not at all. What did she have to lose ?

[Pele Alarion]

Shamara
With a mysterious Visitor
@Ercassie : (This was the only post lost, so it brings us to where we left off if you want to continue. )

"What I want..." she began, and then hesitated, listening to the suggestions offered by her visitor. He seemed to be shrewd, perhaps even more perceiving and skilled at the game then she was, though she hated to admit it. There was no doubt that he guessed her indecision and doubt; that she both wanted to be here and wanted to be free, though both at the same time were not possible. At any rate, she hoped that she would not be found guilty of any crimes worthy of death penalty, or that she would not be held imprisoned forever, until she died of natural causes or otherwise.

Shamara did not finish saying what she had begun, and instead watched carefully every move her visitor made as he extinguished all the candles except for a lone one still shining. The Umbarian felt baffled by his whole behaviour and found that whatever experience she had gained in learning of human behaviors fell miserably short in this case.

But indeed. Why was he here? And what did he want from her? She could not even deduce whether he was a friend or a foe, and thus was not at all sure of how to react. Apparently she had to be careful, very very careful, so as not to make a costly mistake.

She glanced at what could be seen of him in the faint light. "What is it that you want?" she asked slowly, appearing thoughtful and somewhat weary, "It is not like I have much to offer, as whatever I had was stripped from me when they placed me here. Though I doubt very much that you'd come to see a prisoner to get something of material value. So what do you suppose I could have that would be of value to you?"

[Ercassie]

The Visitor (Lowendir)
with Shamara, @Pele Alarion
on the Penultimate day of the Pelennor Fayre


It would not be long in coming now. He had snuffed all but a single candle’s light, fearful that there might be any witnesses, to what was about to happen. More so than that though. The room fallen to darkness was the sign he had been bidden. The signal to declare that the prisoner was woke, and alert, and ready. He could not delay this any further, though his round about interrogations of the woman had granted him little in return. He was only wasting time now. She would give him nothing.

Questions, questions, now ever more questions. Damn her ! The performance had been a little showy, even for him, and this was exactly why those fool actors had never let him on the stage before a real audience. So for what might prove his last ever appearance, she would be his captive audience. He *might* have become a little carried away. He might never have another opportunity. But he’d based his untruth on one whom he knew was false. He could not have managed this as himself. He could not manage to keep it up much longer, and at any moment they might be uncovered.

“What do I want from you ?” the question was not so much put to the prisoner, but rather reflected on her own rendition of those words. “What I want, Shamara and what I suppose that you might gift me here, is freedom. I want you to free me from the cage I can not walk away from. It may not have metal bars or iron keys, but I am trapped all the same. And you are apparently the only one in all this city who can set me loose.

I need you to come with me, come with me, and the guard, Shamara. Justice for the both of us awaits, but there will come no trial. You will be granted an escort out of this hole, this hideaway. And only then will you understand. You have no friends. You have powerful enemies. And She knows where you are. This is your only chance. You are my only hope ..”

The speech had grown ever more hasty, tumbling over itself in the delivery, faster and faster the further that it went. Like a rolling stone, picking up speed on the way down a steep hillside. But in the silence that followed, the Stranger gathered up from where he’d slunk against the far wall. He stood though yet supported by the lightless structure, as though legs were boneless of a sudden. For they two now had some company approaching. Friend or foe or both or neither of those. The thudding of hearts almost seemed to applaude with anticipation .. the gathering tread of footsteps.

“Do as he says and we may both yet live to see again the light,” the Visitor bewildered the Umbarian before him. Even as he lowered green eyes, evading any seize of memory to last about the man who was now come.






Arkadhur, outside the Dungeons
on the Penultimate day of the Pelennor Fayre
@Rillewen


Arkadhur was risking a lot in even attending to see the show. He was risking far less though, than he had allowed his ally to expect that he would. If Ademar had thought the Umbarian so fool to step inside another dungeon, in person, when he had spent far too great a portion of his life in one already ? No. He was not so stupid. The lying twin might just as soon get his associate in, but take only Shamara out in his place ! Or else use the capture of another refugee to barter a promotion, or cause similar diversion to the one they had discussed. Arkadhur was absolutely not a fool. Any man who would deceive and exploit his own identical twin could clearly not be trusted to not betray any else. He was not going to give Mar that opportunity.

So who in fact was it that the false Tower Guard would actually have come to meet him, this fateful night before the last day of the Pelennor Fayre ? Lowendir. Of course. The one and .. well, the real one.


Technically Arkadhur had introduced his own alter ego in the Guesthouse as ‘Lowendir’. And it was true, the actors at the theatre where the Umbarian had been squatting had mistook him from day one for a man called ‘Lowendir’; always messing about with their props and hanging out in their halls ... The actual assistant to the actors, a man who they’d all seen still about the theatre, until they had noted some of their costumes go missing. Some of their wigs, props, various small things … Of course they had reported it, and Ademar had caught Arkadhur redhanded. He had not been expecting that. But it had made him more wary, not less.

One might ask where had the real Lowendir been all this time ? Well, doing precisely just what Arkadhur told him to do, that’s what. Because that is what people do, for a known expert in blackmail. If they know what’s good for them. If they know what’s good for their missing relative .. There was no way in a blood moon that Arkadhur would walk into a dungeon, but the real Lowendir would. If that’s what would halt more pieces of the Gondorian’s wife from leaving what was left of her.


Ademar of course might be a little less than pleased to find himself left with an understudy on this important night. But Arkadhur had confidence that Lowendir would convince him to go through with it anyway. He knew what would happen if he did not. And Ademar knew now that he required Shamara for his diversion. Shamara knew nothing about any of this, but if Relic or Halsad had eyes about the White City in truth, then the re-emergence of Shamara would be as great a lure for them as for the Rangers and the Tower Guard. A diversion indeed.

Everybody was going to get exactly what they wanted, though few would receive what they deserved. And having observed Lowendir enter the Dungeon, Arkadhur left his own substitute to play out the part he’d been assigned. The very first time that the keen actor’s assistant had been given a real chance to perform live … hopefully he wouldn’t blow it.

It was time to go, either way. The umbarian did not want to be observed in the vicinity when whatever happened next should happen. A shame, he would have loved to have seen the look on the evil twin's face when he was dealt the very blow he had smote at so many others. But even that would not lure any but a fool within this particular establishment.

[Pele Alarion]

Shamara, with a visitor
@Ercassie, @Rillewen

The longer her visitor spoke, the more Shamara frowned, and the more questions came to her mind. Who was this man? Who had sent him? It was not like someone would want to get her out of here out of good motives. Besides... she was not sure she was ready to leave.

"I thought it wise to remain out of sight until the dust settles a bit," she simply said, standing up and dusting herself off. It would probably no good trying to get more snippets of information out of the man, not with the sound of approaching footsteps they both now were very aware of.

The Umbarian quickly considered the options: if she stayed, would there be another opportunity to get out again? She had not quite managed to find a key to playing with the guards at the dungeon here to make them do her bidding. And then again, would she even have any say in the matter? It appeared to have been decided already by someone else that for some reason it would be profitable to set her free.

What she would do though? The guards would be after her as soon as they realised that she was gone. The Rangers... She'd have to hide somewhere, and then figure out a way to gather information on where Relic was, and to what measure she would hold Shamara guilty of losing the prize. Not that it really was her fault... And then she'd have to find a way to get out of the city somehow since there would be no life for her with danger on every step.

With a sigh she held on to the bars and looked out into the dark hallway expectantly, unsure of her fate. What if they would not even release her? Perhaps they'd rather kill her? She cast a sideways glance at her visitor, sensing that he was quite uncomfortable as well.

[Rillewen]

Getting in was easy enough. Wearing the uniform of a Lieutenant of the Tower Watch, helmet and all, no one questioned it when he entered the gaol, nor did they question his supposed ‘business’ here; retrieving a prisoner for their trial. Mar had been a guard for a couple of years, in Pelargir, so he knew the general procedures and expectations for a guard, as well as all the paperwork it involved. He had no trouble there. He even presented a rather well-made forgery of the necessary paperwork. The guard on duty at the entrance to the gaol merely nodded and instructed him to sign his name on the ledger, along with the time and date, and to be sure to sign out again upon leaving. Mar looked over the ledger, smiling as he saw a name he vaguely recognized… someone who was out of town, and wasn’t expected back for some time. Someone who was a lieutenant, just like Mar’s uniform declared him to be. He studied the signature on the book for a moment, and then carefully copied it; a skill he had practiced often since childhood, forging his parent’s signatures… or his brother’s. Sometimes even his teacher’s, or fellow classmate’s, if it suited his purpose.

Once the “lieutenant” had checked in, it didn’t take him long before being cleared, and then he was on his way down to the dungeon level. What the guard on duty didn’t notice, of course, was that while he had stepped out briefly to file the forged paperwork, Mar quickly located a ring of keys behind his desk, and pocketed them. He was supposed to find the gaoler and have him take him to the prisoner, but Mar preferred not to involve anyone more than necessary in this plot. The darkness down here suited him. It was less likely that anyone would see his face, even with the helmet he wore. It was uncomfortable, but served to hide most of his face, and thus was a necessary element to his uniform.

He was a bit early, it seemed. As he entered the corridor, Mar observed that the candles along the hall burned bright, all the way to the other end. But as he watched, they seemed to be fading gradually, close to the middle, snuffed out one by one. Near the area where it was growing darker, he could just make out a dark figure. Arkadhur, he guessed. Ademar positioned himself at the end of the hallway, acting as sentinel while he waited for the signal. At last, the light in the hallway had faded to just one small flicker of light. Hopefully, that was enough, because he was tired of waiting, worried someone would come along any moment, causing a snag in the plan. Mar strode down the hall toward the cell, hearing whispers as he drew nearer. Most likely, Ark was explaining to Shamara the plan to break her out. It wouldn’t hurt to listen, though, just to make sure. Could be, Ark had hatched some new development to this plot of his, something which Mar would find most unpleasant. He was most definitely opposed to being doublecrossed, despite his own penchant of doing the same to others. It wasn’t easy to walk quietly while wearing armor, but he tried anyway, catching snatches of words at first, gradually drawing near enough to hear the entire sentences.

"...will be … an escort … this hole… And only then will you understand. You have no friends. You have powerful enemies. And She knows where you are. This is your only chance. You are my only hope … Do as he says and we may both yet live to see again the light,”

Mar listened carefully to what he heard as he approached, and nodded faintly, satisfied. It seemed Ark was quite worried about his predicament with the Haldsads, Mar thought with a little smile. Approaching the cell containing the prisoner in question, Mar glanced her over appraisingly, wondering what was the big fuss about her. He’d learned, of course, not to underestimate people… after being robbed and outsmarted by a little girl; something he preferred not to speak of to anyone. Ark insisted that freeing Shamara was vital to them, so Mar would go along with his scheme. “Are you ready to fly the coop?” He asked her with a smirk, somewhat impatient to get back out of here before anyone questioned his falsified paperwork. “Have you told her-” Mar froze, stopping in mid-sentence as he turned to the man he had presumed to be Arkadhur. His heart skipped a beat as he realized... this was not Arkadhur. And Mar had just spoken words which could most definitely incriminate himself, or at least Ric, in the presence of this unexpected stranger. Suppose this was some random person who had simply come to visit Shamara, by coincidence, on the very night Mar was supposed to meet Ark? Suppose he blabbed something to the other guards, ruined the plan, and they caught Mar trying to break the woman out? He couldn’t allow that.

Reacting swiftly, the false guard caught a handful of the stranger’s collar, shoving him roughly against the nearby wall, his dark sea-green eyes flashing in anger. “Who are you?” Mar demanded in a hushed voice, his anger fueled by some small amount of panic. He was good at intimidation, however. He’d spent most of his time in school intimidating the other students, after all, and had honed the ‘skill’ significantly since then. “What are you doing here?” He snarled, drawing a long knife. “Answer me, swiftly.” To emphasize his point, the edge of the blade rested against the stranger’s throat. He’d better have the right answer, or Mar would make sure this stranger would have no chance of reporting what he’d just heard.

[Ercassie]

The Visitor / Lowendir
with Shamara and Ademar
@Pele Alarion @Rillewen


She had risen, she had dusted herself off. She had even come to cling at the bars, and that was as far as the prisoner could manage, until he with the key should emerge.

“You have been wise. You have been out of sight. And now the dust has settled.”

The visitor had time enough to respond to Shamara, just the barest of enough time, before they were joined by their expected guest. The shadows threw each of the three into a new shade of menace, and of doubt. None here trusted any of the others. None was here of their own intention.

The guard appeared, just as the Visitor had been assured that he would, and so the middle man stepped back to allow they two to find one another in the dimlit vault of woe. The guard spoke. His words emanating from the metal mask that had swallowed his head nearly entirely. He began rather merrily, asked of their progress ..

“I am the voice in the darkness,” Lowendir replied, with a bow and a flare of arms to either side of him. “I have .. argh !”


The visitor met the wall. He met the wall hard. He had faced critics before of course. Those who cared not for his fancy shmansy theatrics. The woman seemed as though she had been intrigued, although she had little else to distract her. The bars had kept the dangerous Umbarian from his grasp, her alluring eyes like beacons daring him to underestimate her. The guard .. was rather more forthright and concise.

“I am .. I am your humble servant ..” the Visitor sought to extinguish the flames which raged like coals within the mighty helm of the guard. “I am doing what I was told. I am .. I am Lowendir”


By this point in the game, Arkadhur had introduced himself as ‘Lowendir’ around the city whilst wrapped in no less than eleven different disguises. Not a single time had he declared his own true visage to another living soul. He did not possess the advantage of an identical twin, and neither could he boast the skill to resemble another known face. The risk of running into the truth of a mirror image would be most concerning for a start. And he did not know anyone well enough in Minas Tirith to assume an authentic performance of their habits, mannerisms, accent .. personal knowledge, even if he could have looked the part convincingly. Which he could not. No, it was enough to be seen merely as he was not, rather than as somebody else was.

Of course nobody had ever heard of Lowendir, before now. The actors knew his name only as a joke, as belonging to a fool. Somebody scarcely worth the little time they spent to learn a single thing about him. They were used to finding him dressed up in their costumes as he ceaselessly volunteered to run lines with them and begged to be allowed to demonstrate his skill ... They knew no more than the name. They did not know the man. The only one for certain to know the true him, was his wife. It had been clear to Arkadhur that he would have to 'manage' her out of the picture. And of course, that suited his usual blackmail tendency just right.

Lowendir had bemoaned on the first day that he met the Umbarian, that he wished to be famous, to have everybody know his name. Well. They knew it well enough now. Every witness, every victim, every associate. The name of Lowendir would be reported by all, to all who may ask. For all the good that it would do them. So many conflicting accounts of what he looked like, or who the man even was, the only thing for certain was the name. More fool the poor fool who was truly Lowendir.

Every time the Dungeons visitor had encountered Arkadhur; whose name he did not know; who’d sent him here, that fellow had been draped in a new disguise. The one thing those untrue forms all had in common, was their tendency to grab him, the frequency with which they had blackmailed him. He had run every errand, reported back every piece of information that was sought, and delivered up all he had been ordered to manage. He had earned a finger of his missing wife for each service rendered. It might have made sense to refuse, and spare the woman, if she still was even alive .. but the one time he had even dared attempt defiance, he had soon been awarded a severed ear …


“The nose is next,” the Visitor had been forewarned. “Unless you go into the dungeons. Claim you are a lawyer for the Umbarian slaver in there. It will not be hard to get in. Someone else will get you, and her, out. If you do it right. If not ... ”


The cold metal held it’s sobering threat against his throat, and the visitor threw off his accent, falling to the typical of Minas Tirith. His own green eyes rolled, away from daring to meet the dread gaze of the guard.

“Please !!” the real Lowendir tilted his head back as far as he could have it go. “My wife, don't hurt her,” he swallowed, carefully. “I was promised. I have only done what I had no choice but to try.”

As he gazed at the abruptly incensed, helmeted guard here; the knife, the snarl … something in the visitor had finally caught up. The cheery tone that the guard had entered with, the furious tone it had turned to with no explanation … this must be a true and real guard of the dungeon ! And he had played along for just long enough to see the visitor incriminate himself ! How long had he been listening ?

This was the end of the game. And Lowendir had broken the cardinal rule of acting. He had broken character … and he would be a broken character from here on out. His name renowned, as he had yearned, but for all the very worst reasons if they ever brought him to answer for that unearned reputation.

“If you kill me, he will kill my wife,” pity was all that he had left. To give. And hope it was returned.

[Rillewen]

@Pele Alarion @Ercassie

The "Guard"


“I am .. I am your humble servant ..”

This statement brought forth a scoff, though he let the man continue. At the name 'Lowendir', Mar's eyes narrowed. That name.. but this was clearly not Arkadhur. What was going on here? And then... before Mar could begin trying to make sense of this puzzle, the last piece fell from the stranger's lips; in panic, he gave up a valuable piece of information, though he may not have realized it. His wife. All the pieces finally came together with this missing bit of information. So that's who the woman was. And this must be the true Lowendir, he reasoned, a man desperate to do anything to save the wife he believed to be in peril, when, ironically, she was currently safe. Ish. Mar had yet to decide what to do with her, since he didn't yet know who she was, but now... now the wheels in his mind were turning, wondering what he would do with this information... with the woman he had stashed away in secret. Even Ark had yet to discover his hostage was missing, and that was the most amusing part about it all.

“If you kill me, he will kill my wife,”

There was a second's pause, in silence, following these words, and then the false guard let out a laugh, lowering the dagger. The abrupt laugh was partly in amusement at the fact he knew something neither this man, nor Arkadhur knew. And partly out of relief to learn that this idiot was working for Arkadhur, and not likely to tell the real guards about him. The fact that he was a puppet to Ark meant the man wouldn't dare say or do anything that might jeopardize this mission. Letting go of him, Mar stepped back, but continued chuckling for a moment as it all sank in. It helped to break the tension he had felt a moment ago, at least. He offered no explanation for what he found so humorous about Lowendir's desperate plight. Let the idiot wonder. Mar turned away, sheathing his dagger as he returned to the matter at hand. "Don't worry," he glanced at the desperate husband. "I'm sure he's a man of his word." Empty words, of course, but maybe it would calm his nerves enough to prevent any mistakes. Now that Mar was involved, he wanted to ensure that nothing went wrong.

A kindhearted person might have reassured Lowendir that his wife was alive, that she had been rescued from her abductor. He could have let him know that she was held safely in a place Ark would likely never find her. But Mar was not kindhearted, and he had reason to want this man to continue helping him. Else, he might also have pointed out to him that he would be wiser to simply accept that she's dead or will be. That there's nothing he could do about it, and he might as well stop being a puppet. That he could rebel against his demands, because he was never seeing the woman again no matter what he did for Ark. But, that would work against Mar, at the moment, so he said nothing. Maybe later, he'd stir up some trouble for his 'ally'.

Taking the keys he had 'borrowed' from the front desk, he pushed the ring of keys toward Lowendir. "Open the cell," He ordered, preferring to make him do the work, and he could keep an eye on her to make sure she didn't try to do anything stupid that would mess everything up. Turning to her, he held out a pair of wrist shackles. "Slip those on... you don't have to close it up all the way, but make it at least look real." He ordered. "I'm here to escort you and your..lawyer.." he spared a glance toward Lowendir, "to the courts for your 'trial'. When we get to the reception desk, don't panic if I draw my weapon on you, and certainly don't try and run. Understood?"

[Pele Alarion]

@Ercassie , @Rillewen

The guard - or someone in the disguise of the guard - came down and was about to let her out, when he suddenly turned on whoever the other guy was, visibly unhappy. Shamara did not flinch at the sudden change of action, and calmly remained by the bars and observed. It was really none of their business what they did amongst themselves, but if they had a mind to release her, it would give her concern enough. She was sure that such a 'favour' would not come for free, yet she had not figured out to her satisfaction what was the price for it. She had not asked anyone to help her...

Eventually the two seemed to have settled their differences, her 'legal councilor' appearing to be very much in distress. Shamara listened to the guard's instructions in silence and took the moment to think it all over, as she took shackles. The short argument had shown her that the guard was dangerous, and it would not benefit her in any way to anger him. If he did really release her outside, she'd just have to think on her feet of what was to be done next.

"Sure," she eventually simply said. "I'll do whatever you say, no worries. I'm not interested in any kind of trouble."

It did not take her long to figure out the shackles, and she put them on loosely enough to be able to remove them in a jiffy should the need call for it, and still it would be foolish to cause a scene here or anywhere within the dungeons or in its close proximity.

[Arnyn]

Macardil
Former Lieutenant (served as SinC under the murdered Commander Amathen in the King's Rangers)

The blacks and greys of his gear hadn't faded in the perpetual gloom that seemed to rule this place. But they had gotten dusty. And they smelled. Macardil took a deep breath, leaning his head back against the cold stone of the wall behind him. While he was grateful they hadn't taken his Ranger clothes - they made up such an important part of his identity - he was surprised that the guards running the dungeon didn't offer prisoners the chance to actually change their clothes once in a while. In a way, he had always just assumed that prisoners would be able to rotate through some clothes. Alas. Yes, he was provided with cold water, soap and a towel to wash up every other day, but never with a washed set of clothes. Every two weeks or so, he sacrificed one of his water basins to wash what he wore - though he never used the soap on his leathers.

It worked well for his clothes, but the downside was the inescapable cold. It took a long time for the cloth and wool to dry in this environment, and it wasn't like he could hang them up to dry. His choices were limited: he could either put the wrung out clothes right back on again, and spend hours or perhaps days - sometimes he lost track - in cold, damp clothes... or he could spread out the items across the stone floor of his cell, which didn't allow them to dry properly either, and left him naked. Both options were pitiful. After trying the latter but once, he had since always chosen the former. He shivered either way, but the clothes dried more quickly when he wore them. And they stayed cleaner than when he spread them over the floor.

He rubbed his chin. It was still bizarre to have a fully grown beard instead of a clean shaven chin and jaw. His black hair had grown a bit as well, but it wasn't that much of a change; whereas it used to not quite reach his shoulders, now it did. But the beard... it had to be, what? An inch and a half long? Perhaps two? He might have trouble recognizing himself in the mirror. He had no idea what it would look like. He'd never had a beard that long.

He startled at the sound of food being shoved through a small hatch. This disturbed him; he should have heard the man coming. Was he losing his alertness? The guard said nothing; they never did. It wasn't like this with all of the prisoners, he knew - he had ears, after all. They simply seemed to have the unspoken agreement not to talk to him, specifically. Macardil didn't blaim them.

Listlessly, he ate the food. It wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible. Months ago, he would have called it unimaginitive. Now he deemed it suitable. A few weeks ago, he had considered starving himself - to simply end it. He hadn't entertained the notion for long, though; it was a bad way to go, he knew.

After his meal, he put the tray back in the hatch and moved on to his calisthenics. Rather than wanting to stay fit and strong, Macardil used them to pass the time. There wasn't much else to do, other than to think.

And whenever he thought, his mind took him back to that same moment. Macardil shook his head before starting his pike push ups. No. Not again. Not today.

[Karis Ziranphel]

Karis Ziranphel
Dungeons

It has been several months since Ziran had helped escort their former Lieutenant to the dungeons. She had appointed herself and others she trusted to not be volatile after Beren had flown off the handle and punched him. It had been difficult nonetheless to commit him to the keeping of the dungeon guards without asking the question that tugged at her. Why?
The months passed quickly, as she had left the city shortly after the King had called them together after that mission. It was a great surprise to her to hear upon her return that no one had bothered to interrogate the man. To have such violence from a formerly upright and true officer begged serious questions. What had happened to him that could bring this about? It was difficult to believe that no one else had taken the initiative, but she was grateful to receive permission to question their prisoner after inquiring about his status.

“He is alive and fed” was the only response she had received from the guard, who had grunted at her request to visit the prisoner. Yet the vague memory of her authority and the pin on her cloak gained her entrance, a quick search, a candle, and now an escort to the deep cell. She watched the flicker of flames cast shadows on the walls of the passageway as she followed the stolid man and wondered what the visit would bring. The air, which was already cold, grew cooler as they descended away from the warmth and light above.

The guard finally stopped in front of a door. “‘S in here.” Ziran looked at the dark metal door that was locked and barred, with just a hatch through which food and water was transferred. “Open it.”

“But you don’t want to go in there with him and I durstn’t let him out.” The protest sputtered out after a moment of shocked silence. Ziran turned her calm gaze on him and raised her candle for a light from his. “I’ll go in on my own honor. You know I brought no weapons and only clothes and a few food items. I can yell if I need assistance.” His face contorted greatly as he silently worked out reasons why he should not do as she asked, but finally nodded assent. “I’ll not be far, and the king won’t blame me?” “The King will not blame you if ought happens to me.”

He handed her his lit candle and then worked at the bolt until it scrapped back. Retrieving his candle he yelled. “Get back from the door!” Opening the heavy door with care for any sudden moves, he let her light her own candle and then ushered her quickly inside before slamming it behind her. There was a finality about that sound even though she knew it was temporary for her.

There he was. Ziran lifted her candle higher to see him better by the flickering flame. His intensely blue eyes looked dark in the face that was now covered with a thick black beard, but in many ways he was still the same beyond the harsher lines now carved in his face by time.

The moments seemed to slip by with her heartbeat as she looked him over and gave him the opportunity to see her in turn. Finally she spoke quietly. “Hello Macardil.”

[Ercassie]

The Visitor / Lowendir
with Shamara and Ademar
@Pele Alarion @Rillewen


He had not expected, .. well, he had not known what to expect. The man he had dealt with thus far had shown him violence, but only ever the end result of that violence. He had never personally visited violence upon Lowendir. This guard though .. maybe this Guard was the one actually performing the violence. They all had their parts to play .. The Gondorian had not expected to be laughed at .. well, that was not entirely true. He had been laughed at before. But this Guard, the assault, the flash of steel .. Lowendir had never entertained the thought that this terrible guard and the art of laughter could coexist in the same form. It was a terrifying laughter all the same. Even as the desperate man began to laugh along with Ademar out of nervousness. Even as the stranger bade him not to worry ..

Was he .. saved ? Did the Guard believe that he had nothing to do with an escape attempt ? The blade was now withdrawn, the hands which had seized him so sudden had since released him. Lowendir felt his heart begin to slow, as he recovered from the shock. He let out a long exhalation of relief. And then he was reassured .. that his original blackmailer was a man of his word .. The man’s legs seemed to lose their shape, and he near clutched at the guard to save pooling at the floor before him in despair.


The guard was not here to arrest him, nor either to save him. This was the plan. But as though he had never considered it until now, Lowendir realised that the guard, much like the blackmailer .. wanted Shamara. Not him. The guard did not care if Lowendir’s wife might die .. Keys were plunged deep against his abdomen and the deceitful ‘visitor’ could hear them shake in his trembling hands, even as he extricated them, holding them out before him like a shield made of leaves might face a forest fire. The small journey to open the door might have been a span of years, the difference it showed in the ‘Visitor’. His steps took certainly more time than he ought to require. No longer showy, no longer coat-spinning and practically moustache-twirling, .. the show was over. And as fast as he had been relieved that this guard was clearly not here to stop him, now he wondered if there was anyone able to stop these men .. for clearly he was the pawn of two collaborators now. And he had just demonstrated just how little intimidation it would take to see him spill all.

“Open the cell !” barked the Guard's command, and in the near gloom it felt like the shadows pulsed at the sound. Darkness blurred about him, edging ever closer in, as though it might completely consume him. He turned the key, he retreated out of the way, leaving far more space than was enough for Shamara to broach her escort.

“I’m not interested in any sort of trouble,” the woman sought to assure them. Now that there were no bars between them, now that the stakes had shifted, he felt rather more wary of the Umbarian Slaver. Aside of the fact he knew exactly what she was, she was now uncaged. The shackles were demonstrably for show. And if she were not ‘interested in trouble’ she would not have ended up in the cell in the first place.


As the guard referred to Lowendir, as he had done himself not very long before, as the prisoner’s ‘lawyer’, that absolutely-not-a-real-actor recalled that they did still have to make it back out past other guards, and the reception. He must not give them away. He must not cower or shirk, as though he had no right to be doing exactly what he was doing.

But, the intermission had now come and gone, and the second act was upon him. Would he remember to be as he had been before ? Before he had been threatened, laughed at, terrified … Having Shamara walk so close out in the open beside him, was not unlike walking beside a tiger on a dog’s leash. He knew better than to believe he was safe yet. That his wife, if she still lived .. wait ! Was that why the guard had been so amused ?

“Don’t run,” Lowendir repeated the instruction, as much for his own sake as the 'restrained' woman, though his green eyes flicked toward her now with far more frequency. Thank the Tree it was so dark. They were not out of this yet. The hardest part was about to begin. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again, preparing to follow the 'Guard's lead, if this man were really even a guard at all. "Here we go .."

[Arnyn]

Macardil
Former Lieutenant (served as SinC under the murdered Commander Amathen in the King's Rangers)
Dungeon Cell

This time, he did hear the approach. He paused his exercises to perk his ears. Two pairs of feet? That was unusual. They stopped in front of his cell. Muted words on the other side of his door, enough of them to qualify as a brief conversation, even. Macardil straightened. It was the first remotely interesting thing to happen in months, so he was intrigued. Had they finally come to question him? During the first days of his encarceration, he had expected the King, or perhaps the new Commander, to send someone sooner or later.

No one had come.

In a way, not sending anyone had been crueller. No contact. No face. No voice. No chance to get it off his chest. Not that he was sure whether he could actually speak about it freely. Part of him had come to believe they would never send anyone. That he was simply not important enough. Replaceable. Irredeemable. Nothing more.

But now, somewhere in the very back of his mind, hope was kindled.

His clear blue eyes widened when he heard the bolt, and his heart sped up. It was happening. Someone was coming in.
"Get back from the door!" someone barked.
The former Lieutenant complied, moving until his back grazed the stone wall. He did not know what to expect. It might not be an interrogation at all. For all he knew, the guards had finally decided he was the scum of the earth and that he deserved a beating for his crime. The training that had been drilled into him as a Ranger awoke something inside of him; a combativeness, a readiness. He stood against the wall, still, but prepared. Ready to move if need be. Ready to protect himself.

If he'd had the time to think it through, perhaps he would have chosen the opposite.

But there was no time to act on anything but instinct.

He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the door as it opened, and then on the lone figure who entered. The door immediately slammed shut behind them. Macardil didn't flinch as it did. He merely focused on who was in front of him, his bearing cautious and tense. The figure lifted a candle.

A woman. A Ranger. Karis Ziranphel, his mind told him instantly. He had made a point of memorizing names and faces, even preferred weapons and skills. He quickly scanned her person, assessing any possible threats. He would no longer assume that they had disarmed her. But he saw no weapons. She was holding something, but he paid no immediate attention to it.

"Hello Macardil."

Her words were quiet. And surprisingly, not... hostile.

He frowned slightly, the startling blue of his eyes looking for the intentions in hers. The flame she was carrying, flickered - over and over.

In the end, his reply came in a similar tone. Quiet, but well pronounced. Neutral. Almost as if the two of them were not enveloped by a stone cell. Almost as if they were not breathing in the musty chill of this place. Almost as if he were just a man, not a prisoner.

"Karis."

[Karis Ziranphel]

Karis Ziranphel
Dungeons

It was interesting what stood out to Ziran as she watched and waited quietly for Macardil’s response. She had seen the wariness in his eyes and the slight frown when she greeted him. Apparently she was unexpected. Yet his composure stood out to her. He was dressed in the same rumpled and worn but surprisingly mostly clean clothing that she remembered seeing him wear when they had delivered him to the dungeon master. Despite the obvious pallor from lack of sun, and seeming perhaps thinner, he did not at first glance look to be faring ill physically.

When he spoke her name in that even tone, she nodded in acknowledgement. He obviously remembered her, but she wasn’t sure what that might mean to him. Well, first things first.
Ziran tilted her head slightly before speaking. “I am here for a few reasons. I came to see how you are and check how you are being treated.” She slowly lifted the cloth bundle in her right hand so he could see what she carried without startling him, and then extended it to him. “I also brought you another set of clothes, some apples, dried fruit, some fresh rolls, and a bit of sharp Lebennin cheese.” The scent of the rolls wasn’t quite strong enough to compete with the cell while wrapped, but she knew how good they had smelled less than an hour ago when she tied them in the kerchief. A peace offering as such. She was also here to ask questions, but that wasn’t where she wanted to start.