Angmar: The Northern Lands

"Going to Mordor!" Cried Pippin. "I hope it won’t come to that!"
Black Númenórean
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Angmar

Iron Home, the realm of the Witch-King, established in year 1300 of the Third Age in the far north of the Misty Mountains and the wastes of the plain beyond. Throughout its history Angmar has threatened the northern lands of men and elves, gathering orcs and fallen-men, evil spirits and dark creatures of all stripes to its bosom.

"Not all his servants and chattels are wraiths ! There are orcs and trolls, there are wargs and werewolves ; and there have been and still are many Men, warriors, and kings, that walk alive under the Sun, and yet are under his sway. And their number is growing daily."
~The Fellowship of the Ring, Many Meetings

The state of Angmar in TA 3014, as established in Angmar: Coup d’État and Angmar: Queen of Iron:

Though Witch-King was rousted in TA 1975 at the Battle of Fornost, evil has lurked and lingered in Angmar ever since. In recent years activity has been on the rise, at first under Lord of Iron and Steward of Angmar, Damrod. A Black Númenórean nearing the end of his natural life, Damrod sought to maintain his control of the fallen kingdom, even as the Witch-king dispatched a replacement. Amarthel, called Delgaran, was sent north to wrest the throne from Damrod’s failing hands, consolidate Angmar’s power, and forge new alliances with the fell denizens of the northern wastes. And so she did: Damrod’s sudden death during a banquet at the keep in Carn Dûm left the path to her ascendancy clear, and with brutal efficiency eliminated all opposition, and quickly established alliances with the powerful and ambitious at the iron court, the tribe of werewolves which dwelt beneath the fortress, and the drakes of the Forodwaith, led by Tezcacoatl. Having massacred a band of rangers, the Flight of Ravens, and taken its leader’s cloak and mysterious powers over the corvidae for herself, the Delgaran made a message of their bodies: each marked with her sigil, three crimson claw scores, they were piled and burned near Osdolen. The Rangers of the North and the Elves of the Halcyon Guard launched a joint venture to investigate these grim tidings, and found themselves unprepared to meet this new threat. The joint force of elves and men was completely routed, and retreated from Angmar with all speed. Her presence and power thus established, Amarthel Delgaran rules Angmar now as Queen of Iron, building its forces, harassing the free peoples of the north, and awaiting the next major calamity…


Locations

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Carn Dûm

The capitol of Angmar, situated at the far western end of the Mountains of Angmar. A fortress carved into precipitous mountain rock, it lay abandoned and fell into ruin for many years. But in these times the city is occupied, and improvements are slowly being made and fortifications restored as the mountain fort becomes a hive of fell activity. Here you may find The Keep: the fortress that is home to the Queen of Iron and her forces, surrounded by a city of stone, crawling with aspirants to power, seekers of violence, opportunists, traders, cultists of the Witch-king, and many others besides- all drawn by the rising dark power in the north.

In Carn Dûm, the keep is alive with activity. Builders huffing hither and thither, repairing constructs both inner and outer that had been allowed to decay, but more deeply, blacksmiths and bowyers and other arms-makers toil, bolstering the armories and outfitting individuals eager to enter the service of the Delgaran. No new formal military structure has yet been implemented, but all comers are being accepted, and rule and discipline enforced by a handful of lieutenants, chiefly Yarltang, a huge, burly orc who came north with the queen from Mordor. He wields both warhammer and bow, and a temper as large as his frame.

A new energy hums through the mountain city; commerce, thievery, gambling, and industry all shaking away the debris of the past decades- centuries, really, and the city is coming to life. But at the center of the keep, the throne room is silent, and dim. Amarthel Delgaran holds no daily court, one never knows precisely where the Queen of Iron may be found. But chances are, if you present yourself in the throne room, she will find you.


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Amarthel Delgaran and Yarltang
played by Moriel


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The Dagger

The tavern didn't have a proper name. It was just another rough stone building, set back from the road in lower Carn Dûm a little bit, marked only by wooden sign hanging above the door. The sign carried a rather shoddy, faded painting of a knife lying slantwise over a tankard, so locals called it The Dagger. It was a nervous place to talk and an even more nervous place to eat, but if one kept their wits about them they could come out much further ahead than when they had entered. Inside were many small square tables and plenty of chairs, each table with a candle in the center. How... romantic. The large, three-sided bar was of some dark, slick wood, and housed everything from hogsheads of ale to small bottles of the darkest liqueur.

On the surface at least, The Dagger is your typical inn. Residents of Carn Dûm and those passing through are welcome, relatively speaking--as Angmar is an unwelcoming place--for food, drink, a bed, and a few shadier things. But there are dangers here too, that would be rare to find in Bree or Rivendell. Rumor has it that the tavern is owned by a Southron beauty, but she is nowhere to be found. Instead, the place is run and the bar tended by a tall, thin, elderly man with receding grey hair and an enormous nose, Edgar Balthazar (NPC, playable by all). No one questions how he came to have such an odd name, or why he permits three cats to roam the tavern: one each black, orange, and white, this last with a small pink bow on top of its head.


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The Temple

Some say the Temple is old at Utumno itself. Encircled by crawling and twisted dwarf pines and overlooking its surroundings with a watchful and hungry eye, an arduous climb leads to an open-clearing of rock on one of the most craggen elevations near Carn Dûm. Upon the wide precipice and up to the very wall of the mountain stands a formidable structure. Its paths stained dark, stones ancient and worn smooth by the passage of many feet and its columns proud, smooth, and in the grip of ancient vines. An immense circular courtyard, darkly resplendent in its abandonment. Its ceiling high and open, looking upon the sky and taking the rain in along with the sun. A black slab of obsidian stands vacant and cold in the center, the floor about it engraved with unintelligible signs and letters.

Branching out like a spider's legs are the outer rooms: quarters, teaching chambers, and many other preparatory rooms. Further down the path, winding back toward a greener mountain pass, sit stone-fenced pastures and drafty buildings wherein animals were once kept as food for the temple residents, and higher purposes of offering. Though it has been many long years since the Temple had a resident cabal, acolytes and cultists have begun to drift in, and new souls to seek what secrets it may hold. History, prophecy, medicine and preparation of the dead, incantations, curses, prayers, sacrifices… it is rumored that there are even those who have progressed to sorcery through the blood rites of Morgoth, and that before the downfall at Fornost, the Delgaran herself studied here.

Will you approach the Temple? What have you to offer?

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Mountains of Angmar

The Mountains of Angmar are the northernmost stretch of the Misty Mountains, or Hithaeglir, west of Mount Gundabad where eagles dwell. They are a haven for orcs and werewolves, wights and other foul creatures. The territory is treacherous, dark, and cold north of Mt. Gundabad, the mountains full of winding paths whose origin is long forgotten; high peaks, low valleys, and pools of uncertain friendliness.


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Forodwaith

The great northern wastes, named after the hardy folk who once lived there. These vast lands were made cold and desolate by the evil of Melkor and his fortress Utumno, and remained so even after its destruction. This land is consistently inhabited by no known men, but it is here that many dragons dwell, cold- and fire-drakes alike, earthbound or winged. The chiefest of these is Tezcacoatl, a vast purple-black winged fire-drake, allied with the Delgaran for his own purposes. It is also rumored that other creatures live here; great snow-cats of speckled white fur and curving fang, white bears of enormous size, even creatures resembling mûmakil with huge curving tusks and thick fur, and who knows what other foul creatures besides, remnants of Morgoth’s reign.


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Tezcacoatl
played by Moriel


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Icebay of Forochel

Home to the coldest waters in Endor, this bay is protected by the Cape of Forochel, north and west of Carn Dûm. On its shores dwell the Lossoth, also called the Snowmen of Forochel, an isolated group of Men descended from the ancient Forodwaith. They subsist off the frozen land and sea in their remote corner of the world, subsistence hunters and fishermen. When King Arvedui was driven from the North Downs in TA 1974, they did not help him willingly, for they did not value payment in jewels, and feared the Witch-king. But out of pity they fed and sheltered him. When a ship arrived from Círdan to retrieve Arvedui, the Snowmen were amazed and afraid, for they had never seen such a craft before. They counseled Arvedui against sailing in the winter out of fear of the Witch-king’s power. The King did not listen, and his ship was crushed in ice, delivering he and his palantíri to the bottom of the sea. It was not until later in the third age that the Rangers of the North learned from the Lossoth of Arvedui’s fate, and bought back the Ring of Barahir he had given them. Beyond this, little is known of the Snowmen of Forochel, and their interactions with the outside world.


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Rules
-All races welcome; elves/rangers/etc adventuring or investigating in the far north are free to play here, as well as the denizens of Angmar
-Any location in the general geography covered by this thread is open for use, not just those described above
-Please keep overt silliness in The Dagger to a minimum, it’s not On the Rocks
-The current year is TA 3014, but you are free to write in other years
-Double post, I don't care, just don't be a spammer
-Post in any color but foo or neon

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


This is currently a catchall thread for all Angmar RP, but if certain locations or activities prove especially popular, they may be split off into their own threads in the future! Have ideas, questions, suggestions, etc. for Angmar? Get in touch with Moriel in the Hall of Barad-dûr or on Discord!
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Black Númenórean
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Carn Dûm, the Keep

Amarthel Delgaran stood away up high, far from the hustle of the floors below, surveying her domain from the topmost battlements of the keep. A stiff wind blew and gusted, snapping at the claw-score pennants that topped the keep, and at the great carmine mane of her hair, buffeting it this way and that, though never over her searching eyes. She wore no ornamental robes, but the garments of a warrior, which she had always borne. A long, dark leathern jacket wrapped her, echoing the shape of a leaf over her hips and lapping down to the thigh, while fastening diagonally across the chest and belly. The only concession to her position was the iron circlet with its red emerald resting upon her brow. Missing too were the black horsebow and simple longsword which were her wont in battle, and only a long, jeweled hilted dagger rode at her hip. The Queen of Iron needed no weapon to dispose of those who displeased her. She was a lithe creature, hard-muscled and quick to strike; Umbar lay in her skin and eyes, Númenor in a name once held and long left behind. Her swarthy face was fine-boned beneath the olive-toned complexion, but above the beauty of her high cheekbones burned a set of rubicund eyes that looked out on the world with a baleful malevolence. She was not overtall, but peeping from out the flitting strands of her hair were sharp-tipped ear points. Such a combination gave lie to both heritage and age, neither of which few dared question.

The wind ruffled the feathers of the cloak on her shoulders. It was a thick cape of shining black raven-feathers that ran the length of her body, tips fluttering at her ankles, and was surmounted by a thick blaze of fox. The cloak she had taken from its previous owner, a man known only as the Raven, leader of the ranger band the Flight of Ravens. She herself had led the assault that destroyed them, and a village whose name she had been quick to forget, and wrested both the cloak, and the corvidae it controlled, from the ranger. The Delgaran closed her eyes briefly, a flicker of amusement playing about her lips as she remembered that night.

The boy fell, his bright blood seeping through mud and tufts of grass to snarl in the hair and stain the face of the dying old man- dying; now dead, his weak and corpulent body sprawled as it should be: with his face in the mud at the Delgaran’s feet. She stood for a moment, the dripping blade in her hand, gazing down at her work. Then her eyes flicked up to the Raven, kneeling on the churned-up ground, struggling to order his mangled leg into some semblance of defense, and the cold smile reached them once more. Amarthel turned her back on the helpless man, to retrieve her sword from the tussock into which she had thrust it, pulling the shining length free with an easy tug. She stepped over Caldol’s lifeless form, past the huddled lump of flesh that had been Bregan, to move at a measured stalk towards the Raven. As she walked, the Delgaran sheathed the sword across her back, and brought the jeweled dagger to bear on the palm of her own hand, incising a shallow cut in its meat. Blood gathered and dripped, forming a track down her wrist, and to the cut she pressed the back of her other hand, where the Raven’s blood still glistened. Her voice arose, speaking not in the common tongue, but in a harsh, guttural, sibilant language as she clenched her fist, mingling their two bloods on her skin.

Cold waves of crimson dread built around the Delgaran, palpable and dark, surrounding her and swallowing up the Raven where he knelt. Already she could see his eyes glazing as she approached, the sword in his hand forgotten, and flickers of his awareness penetrated her vision. Amarthel’s arm raised, and with one more step, her outstretched hand pressed against the Raven’s forehead. A sharp inhalation jerked her head back, and as the guttural exhalation left her mouth, she sank into the ranger’s inner despair: the fires that twisted and tormented him, not those that surrounded them, but winter fires of anguish and death; the screams of a woman rose above it all, and from the Raven’s tormented mind came the name: Carlisha. The Delgaran felt her fear and her pain, the Raven’s fear and pain, his thirst for vengeance, the need to kill and to destroy, first burning like the fires that had awoken it in him, then suppressed, smoldering, and now, extinguished. The Delgaran saw his righteousness, his honor, his desperation; through the darkness and the fire she saw, and knew, and would have from him the last of his power.

Above her Amarthel could feel the denizens gather and circle, the fluttering, glittering, throaty noises of their approach subtly audible above the rage of fire and the distant sounds of battle beyond her cloak of dread- one cloak now to be joined by another. Even as the Raven commanded his namesakes to destroy his enemy, she pummeled his wrist with the hilt of the jeweled dagger, forcing it down and stamping upon it with one booted foot. The Delgaran ground her heel into bone and ligament as she bent, her bloodied hand grasping the neck of the ravens-feather cloak, lifting its shifting, shimmering length from the ground. With a thrust of her arm she raised it high and its manifold servants recoiled and then circled, faster and faster in a frenzy cawing and screaming their new allegiance to the heavens. Amarthel laughed then, short and hard, like the call of the birds themselves, her blazing eyes taking in a new set of servants. The cloak descended, settling about the shoulders of the swarthy woman, its clasp fastened firmly below her throat.

Still the man was not finished, but his feeble attack was easily turned by a strong parry from the dagger. He looked up at her then and at last she saw in him no bravado, no defiance, no posturing, and no hope, only that most fundamental emotion of his kind, which so many revealed in their final moments: fear. “Oh, please no…” his voice reached The Delgaran as she looked down at him; his weakened fingers clutched the sword but made no further attempt to wield it, and her smiled broadened. She crouched, reaching out to grip his face, nails digging into the flesh of jaws and cheek as his blood and hers rolled down his face from where her palm had pressed. “Poor Carlisha,” Amarthel hissed into the Raven’s face, “at least she died with some dignity. What shall you tell her, if you see her again? By whom shall you tell her your death came? Shall you tell her by sorceress? By witch? By corsair, or by savage? These titles and more have I known, but you shall tell her- and your ancestors, and theirs, so that all may know, and despair: your death came by Amarthel, the Delgaran, Queen of Iron and Angmar that shall rise again!” In a single motion the Delgaran threw back the Raven’s head and flung her arm into the air. The screams of ravens rent the air as the answered her call, plunging from the sky and funneling down in a mass of gaping beaks and outstretched claws and flailing wings to descend upon their former master.


“Hmm.” A soft noise of amused descent came from Amarthel’s nose as she opened her eyes. The ravens had served her well since their acquisition, in the sortie with the elves and rangers when they came to call, and after. But they were far from the first of her bestial servants. The red fox-fur that embraced her neck ruffled in the wind, its soft feelers reaching up to caress her jaw with the lightest touch. He had always been so subtle- affectionate, ruthless, and perfect after she had molded him in her image. Perhaps it was time to recall him to the land where, long ago, they both had been reborn. The Delgaran closed her eyes again, forming in her mind’s eye the image of the mottled black fox, with deep red eyes to match her own, transformed from the beetle-dark ones he had been born with. The fur with which this fox had been born now seemed to stir of its own accord on her shoulders. The scent of blood seemed to fill her nostrils, the warmth of it to touch upon her lips, and the savage triumph of a kill infiltrated her every sense as she reached out to touch his mind.

Mokkan. she called. In the years since their last parting, she had touched his mind to monitor him, but not until now had she spoken, summoning him back to her side. Mokkan. Mokkan. His name repeated, reverberating across the space between them, and she heard his answering scream. Again the Delgaran opened her eyes. This time, she returned to the present, surveying her domain. Her gaze flicked this way and that, noting nothing out of place. Amarthel leant forward and crossed her arms, resting them on the closest battlement top. She inhaled deeply, but not a hint of salt tang reach her nostrils, and her lip curled. Much like when she had come to be Shadow Lord, ripples of dissent and suspicion had run through Carn Dûm at her accession, but the swift actions of the new Queen and those loyal to her had quickly silenced the more vocal of the dissenters. In her tenure thus far on the Iron Throne, she had won the allegiance of many, and from long experience knew that those whose loyalty could not be earned, must be bought, frightened or disposed of. It was an ongoing process, and one which she pursued with relish.
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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Nashguk
Somewhere set about the Mountains of Angmar


The howling laughter of a cruel, derisive wind mauled the bowed form of a moving rock. Nashguk trudged on, unshaken by the relentless environment, and no more easily subdued in spirit by his newest affliction. Not unlike the ragged landscape of Angmar itself, the Orc grew but more vile and obstinate in the face of adversity. He had survived much in all his years blemishing the earth. He had learnt swiftly that a determined soul can manage far more than it ever might believe possible. Thus the loss of his eye nurtured no tears of emotion or distress, but merely a lone jet river that weeped from his ruined socket. The obsidian escape of his own blood and fouler fluids silently explored the crevices of sallow skin that made up his unbalanced countenance. And as the black blood dried, he brought up raptor claws to tear at the slight irritation.

A drag of loose skin overhung his ruined eyelid where that accursed fleshbag had scored at his ruined features. With a roar, Nashguk tore the sandpaper sail free of it’s begrudging tissue, gritting his mismatched fangs upon one another to grind the worst of the necessary pain. Gentle came the cautious trickle of fresh juice to further besmirch his gruesome grimace. The Orc dragged the sharp points of his fingers into the pool of this warm paint, and he wound his hands in motions, so that desecrated designs were soon illustrated all across his cheeks. He was vaguely aware of a flutter of wings, a bird of the region, presumably stalking him like a vulture, eager to exploit what it perceived as walking dead. Nashguk batted it away, keen to demonstrate his strength remained.

He would have his vengeance, always did. However long it took. Not necessarily upon the instigator of his hate, but whatever fool might cross his path, might sate the wrath which had been charmed out of his cracked consciousness like a weed. His sight had never been precise, not in the blinding blanket of daylight. But he had yet his wit, his guile, and his other, heightened senses. His hearing was trained and honed from a life lived primarily in tunnels. He could gauge from an echo how far off was his target. He could estimate the rebound of a stone fall and taste the change in air fresh or stale, to determine his direction through a maze of the catacombs. His particular grasp of a scent had never led him wrong, even before. And now it prickled with the suggestion of a massing stench close by. Not the rancid aroma of wet dog that the Weres produced en masse, not the sweat of Mankind, nor the nauseating snuff of an Elf's natural bouquet. One cauliflower ear twitched, detecting the crunch of heavy footfalls upon subsiding rocky surfaces. He caught the bark of wild souls upon the bitter air. The brute bellows of order being given against the unmistakeable backdrop of sullen insubordination. It could mean but one thing only.

There were Orcs close by …

Nashguk did not cower, or presume that the approaching arrivals might deem him as weak, and slay him without hesitation. The Orc drew himself high on his fibrous legs, strong as burly treetrunks. He turned his flat brow and his dead expression to meet whoever/whatever would come upon him. He flinched not as the persistent scavenging bird cast it's hoarse rasp and circled still the freshly revealed flesh around his torn eyesocket. One hale fist swang out, and buckled strong claws around the clip neck of the bird, clamp-like.

Detaching the tiny feathered body from it's frantically pecking head, and dropped the latter barborously to the ground. Raising the dead bird's open throat up to his waiting jaws, the Orc drank of what dank innards he could encourage to spill from the corpse. Then he ripped at the small, raw carcass with his tilted, tombstone teeth, greedily devouring the scant flesh of the offering. He dropped the pitiful remains at his feet, and regarded those who now regarded him, with the crazed aura of all savage horror that only a fellow Orc would recognise as a survivor.

Lipless, his puckered mouth smacked at the garish sauce that despoiled it with tang and taste. Nashguk spat out a stray feather or two, bespeckled by the bird's blood, and tuned his expert ear, his one red ember of an eye, to discern who/what was come. The meagre appetiser had but whet his want to indulge that most esurient hunger. It throbbed, like a malignant tumour, in his belly.


NPF edit: Fantastic orc work!!
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

Balrog
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Mokkan
The Temple


The last few weeks had been rough and arduous, but the call had been inexorable and insistent. The black, corrupted woods that had been his home for hundreds of years fell away. The trees and their dark, shadowy leaves gave way to wild hills and open sky. He travelled by night, preferring to hide from the harsh, vibrant sunlight. The journey was long and frustrating. The prey was plentiful and he reveled in the bloodshed, but his satisfaction was dimmed. The blood of rabbits, of wolves, of his fellow foxes all tasted the same but there was something missing. There was no joy in his sacrifices. He continued on, moving like a barely noticeable blur, darting back and forth amongst the shadows of the deep dells. He hated this land. When the moon would rise and fill his world with silvery light he barked his rage and hatred. The sound was horrible and guttural, it sent animals and people fleeing for miles about him, wailing in fear as his voice entered their minds. He could feel that fear, taste it. It was the only thing that sustained him over the long flight across Wilderland. He crossed the Misty Mountains, slipping silent through the crags and cliffs. Snow was heavy on the ground; on delicate paws, Mokkan hunted. He dove into the snow, black defilement on the pristine white snow. When he emerged again he would cover the snow in bright red blood. He never lingered long over his sacrifices, he did not gloat over their broken, twisted, wretched bodies was he would have in his Mirkwood kingdom. The call was growing stronger. He could feel her pull. Her voice was constantly in his mind, whispering the tales of the horrors she unleashed upon the world. She showed him images dressed in red and black, upon fields of corpses, valleys of sepulchers. He wept at their glory and monstrosity. He barked and yipped with glee as he caused an avalanche. Soon though, the rugged peaks of the Misty Mountains faded from view. The Lone Lands loomed ahead, grey, lifeless and bleak.

His first night there was a storm. It was sublime. He could not say for sure, but he knew it was from her. It was a gift from the Iron Queen. Lightning crashed and whirled over his head, great arcs of vibrant white and pale blue. He had not felt so alive in a very long time. The world of utter darkness, punctuated by burst of horrible, revealing light, opened up to Mokkan, wretched and insincere. He watched the valley before him. Sheets upon sheets of icy rain buffeted the valley, shocking the life that remained out in the open. Mokkan watched from a rocky outcrop, a stony throne. He listened to his mistress’ voice in the thunder as it peeled over the valley. The sound pummeled the valley, rocks cracked and crumbled, falling hundreds of feet until they burst on the valley floor with thunder of their own. He licked his black, vulpine lips. The sight was beautiful. A lone tree stood near the center of the valley. A single, ancient willow, her bows heavy. He smiled. A bolt of lightning careened out of the sky, a jagged tear in the night sky, and burst upon the tree. He barked as the thunder rolled over the valley, moving his voice with the tumult. The tree was a hulking, dead ruin now, it’s life snuffed out in an instant. Fire crackles and roared despite the heavy rain. The mistress' gift was generous indeed. He could hear her voice, her dreadful whisper as the hail descended on the valley, tearing and ripping at whatever scraps of life clung there. Mokkan watched it all. He watched until the storm finally passed, reveling in the power and destruction it left in its wake.

A few days later, he came across a small hamlet nestled in a hidden dingle. All told it must have only been a dozen souls living there. But there were still a dozen souls. He could feel a hunger deep inside his being flare to life. He salivated as he watched from the shadows of an oak tree. In his mind ran images of slaughter, or blood, of wild ecstatic rage. The air thrummed with potential energy around him. He finally found something worthy to sacrifice to his mistress. Here, in this quiet, hidden places, cut off from the reality around them, would be the perfect vessels of worship for him. While his sacred tree was far, far behind him, the ancient black fox knew he could find an altar that would suffice. He slunk through the grass, the air filled with the sounds of children at play.

Night fell, a thick blanket of shadow filled the land. The stars were dim here, barely the tiniest pinpricks of light. The moon was new and dark, the shadow Mokkan cast was long. His red eyes glowed in the absence of the moon, a reflection of the sanguine business he was about. He crept into the first house, a tiny one room building with a thatched room. A man was asleep next to his wife while in the next bed two children snuggled together, all of them snoring softly. Mokkan’s paws barely made a sound on the dirt floor as he flittered from shadow to shadow. He would have to be quiet for now, he could not risk his prey fleeing and alerting the others. He forewent his usual method of play and went straight for the throats of the little ones first, snuffing out their breath before they had a chance to awaken and cry out. The blood soaked through the hay of the bed and pooled on the floor. He deliberately stepped his paws in the blood before leaping to the adults. He dispatched the woman in a similar fashion, but delayed long enough so that the last thing she saw was the red of his eyes. She inhaled, ready to cry to her husband but she never got the chance. Razor sharp needles ripped through her delicate neck, spraying blood everywhere. She gurgled, her hands frantically trying to warn her husband. He awoke just in time to watch the life drain from his wife’s eyes. He shouted indistinctly, his head still swimming with dreams. Mokkan took that opportunity to launch himself at the man’s middle. His claws extended, he ripped through the flesh and muscle until he felt the give of soft organ. The man fell back off the bed and howled once in pain. Fists came for Mokkan, desperate attempts to push him off but he dodged them, slick with blood, and attacked the man’s jaw. He bit down and jerked his body, using his weight to disconnect the man’s jaw. It cracked and snapped. The man was despondent now, he managed to get his hands around the black fox and threw him off but Mokkan landed with savage grace and bounded back. This time he launched himself at the man’s feet, ripping at the tendons that connected feet to legs. The man fell with a dull, wet thud. He had been trying to hold in his intestines but when he fell, his hands moved to protect his face and they slumped out greasy in the dirt. The fox snarled and lazily bounded to where the man’s head had fallen. His eyes were open and staring, but not comprehending. It dangled off the man’s cheek, who whimpered but made no other sound. Mokkan tasted the sweet treat, then left the house to finish his sacrifice. The next house contained three people, the one after that, a single old woman, then two, then one, and finally one more.

The last victim he woke on purpose, allowing her to scream and terror as he chased her from her tiny home to the others to find the carnage he left behind. He could feel his power growing in his belly. The feeling of dissatisfaction, of empty sacrifices, was leaving him. He chased the woman through the woods, her bright blonde hair, heavy footsteps, panicked breath, and the odor of fear made sure was never far behind. He chased her. Nipped at her heels, tore at her calves. If she had been more aware she might have stood a chance against him. He was energized from the slaughter, empowered by the blood, but he was still just a fox. But fear had made him the size of a direwolf in her mind. He barked after her, goading her own. He herded her through the forest’s twisting pathways. She fell and he heard bone snap. She screamed in agony. He barked in reply. She pulled herself up and continued running. He slowed his pursuit, staying just close enough to make sure she knew he was still there. Every time she looked back at him, his red eyes glared and glinted in the darkness. Finally, as designed, the chase came to an end. The ancient fox had scouted the area before and knew of the cliff edge and the sudden, sheer drop off. In the darkness, the woman did not know where she was. Until it was too late.

He watched her fall, her arms and legs flailing uselessly in the thin air. The resounding crunch of her body meeting the bottom of the cliff was sweet music.

Satisfied with his violence, Mokkan returned to the hamlet. He took the bodies, broken and bloody and pulled them into the center of the houses. He arranged them in the claw mark his mistress used sometimes to mark her presence. She would be able to sense this offering. She was not far now. He could feel her in his mind. He longed to be in her presence, within the arms of abomination. His belly full, he moved off again, his midnight fur glistening in the weak, pale starlight.

Finally, after several more days of travel, Mokkan came to the Mountains of Angmar. The last time he was here, he was not Mokkan, the familiar of the Delgaran. He was nothing more than a fox so steeped in malice and vile hunger that he corrupted those around him. Now, hundreds and hundreds of years later, he returned to the land of his violent, horrid rebirth. The mountains were cold and wet, lightning flashed ominously in the black clouds above him. The silence was broken here and there by the cries of unwary echoing for miles and miles around, alerting the hungry, nameless predators of a nearby meal. Mokkan’s belly was still satisfied from his sacrifice though. His mind was elsewhere. The mountains were treacherous and precarious, even for one so blessed as him. The closer he drew to the ancient fastness, to the altar, the more he recalled that horrible, wondrous night. He could feel his flesh being rendered, flayed. The pain was so intense that even now, he could feel the echoes of it. He had red fur those many, many years ago. His mistress had ripped it from him and given him a new pelt, one that suited his proclivities much more. She had twisted him inside out that night, wreathed in lightning and fire. He had not been the only thing to die that night, but he was the only thing that rose again. She had placed a part of herself within him, a beacon that she could always use to find him. He could feel that beacon pulsing, glowing within him. The world around him was set with a malignant glow. The great, crumbling façade of Carn Dûm, a clever lie, stood before him. He made his way on silent paws through the ancient, decrepit palace. It was cold here. The air smelled of ice and blood and age. He inhaled that smell deep. Somewhere, too, was his mistress. She was deep within the shadows. He could sense her, could smell her now. Oh the blood and fire and death! He made his way with all haste to the altar, the birthing place of his power and malignance. He could feel the power throbbing within it, throws waves of dark, necromantic power.

Mistress, Delgaran, I am home. Mokkan is home.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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<Quick Note: this is a redeux of a previous post in The Lands of Shadow thread with added content and placed in Angmar, where she belongs>
Carníheniel
Somewhere in the Mountains of Angmar


Thrum…

Thrum…

Thrum, thrum, thrum


A single, great, red eye opened.

Thrum, thrum

Then another, and another. Twelve eyes slowly opened, all gleaming with an incandescent light. A dark, malignant intelligence lurked behind those eyes, ancient, and hungry.

Thrum…

Something was calling to her. Out in the darkness, her webs hummed. The song of her web was frantic and terror stricken. Great, articulated pedipalps tested the air, wavering back and forth. She had caught something. She could smell them now. She uncurled her great bulk, each of her massive eight crooked legs reaching from wall to wall, nearly a hundred spans across. Her carapace was a deep blood red at the joints, a gift from her oldest companion. Massive claws, tipped at the end of her long legs, were sharper than the most tempered elven steel. She had lain motionless for so long, here within her crevice and wrapped within the safety of her strongest silk, that movement felt alien to her. Yet the song of her web was too great to ignore. Greasily, she slid over the rocky outcropping, scattering bones and sending them down in the abyssal gulf below her. There was a very long pause before the faintest of clattering could be heard. A single eye looked down into the darkness, measuring it curiously. Slowly, she began climbing down. She moved with silent grace, her claws hardly touching the thick strands of silk as she moved along them. Her mountain was alive with the song of the thrumming web, and she moved with deadly, bestial intent.

She was not so large yet as her mother, who could crush mountains in her wake, yet she was vast. And powerful. Six thousand years ago she had claimed this mountain as her. She had devoured her would-be rivals, sisters who had escaped the War of Wrath and sought a places for their own dominion. She scattered their corpses along the tunnels as warnings to any that might consider themselves worthy of a test. Many a spider had come to challenge her over the long eons, children of Shelob or some other child of the great mother, but none of them ever left her mountain again. Men and elves, too, had ventured inside, seeking glory and renown, vengeance and retribution. They found nothing but the great void of her jaws. She was not the last child of Ungoliant, but she was the greatest. She was Carníheniel, the Red-Eyed Lady, fed from the hand of Mairon himself in the long days of yore. And she was hungry.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum

Her meal was trapped. Her pedipalps clicked together with greedy anticipation. Clickclickclickclik. She had not had company in so long, but she knew it would not be him that arrived. He never touched her web. He knew that if he did, he would be prey just like all the rest of the would be claimants to her peak. Silently, she moved, her eight legs almost daintily skittering across the connective silk strands the bridged the yawning gap. How many years had it been since he was here? He sent her gifts regularly, a hunting part of rangers here and there, perhaps a raiding party of orcs, once a hill troll wandered in. It had nearly broken through her webs before her venom liquefied it’s insides. But he came himself so rarely. He would talk with her, as much as a being could be said to talk to Carníheniel. She learned of the wars from him. She had sent Mairon, who was calling himself Annatar, a legion of her children to aid in his battles against the starspawn and their mortal allies. Long ago, now, that had been. It been a very, very long time since she had had a mate.

Shadows clung to her, patches of midnight oblivion that glided along her massive form. She had learned the technique of her mother, the progenitor of the unlight. Patches of the substance dripped off her form like water, forming pools of shadow so deep it drank up all the light and sound that came near it. Her mountain was full of unlight, she wrapped her webs about with the substance, making them nigh invisible.

Thrum

She could almost feel the frantic heartbeat of her meal. She could feel the hum and beat along thousands of leagues of web that she had placed through the pathways, crawl spaces, and holes. It was a frantic, faint thing. Far, far away from here. She roosted at the top of her peak, much like she remembered Thuringwethil when she knew her. Her caverns were far more vast though, an infinite expanse of darkness and unlight. And were the Lady of Secret Shadows and held court with bats of all manner, Carníheniel held court with herself alone. She was the utter master of her domain. Mates she had had aplenty, yet each of them she devoured as she had devoured her father before Mairon had found her. Her children too, she did not allow to live, each of them fed the great ravenous hunger that Mairon had put within her. She could no longer sense Mairon, either he was gone or he was too far away. Over the years their partnership had lessened, each of them having designs and wills of their own. Would she come at his call, should he ever come to her? The Red-Eyed Lady did not know. The hunger he had put in her with the power of his voice was as strong now as it was the day he called her, yet her own power has waxed until an entire mountain could barely contain her malicious power.

Thrum… Thrum

The vibrations were getting weaker, fainter. Again her pedipalps clacked in gory anticipation. She could smell them now. It was an elf. It was not him. His scent would have been far muskier, more heat, this creature was cold.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum

Ah, desperation now. The last gasp toward the light of a creature fated to live in darkness for the rest of its existence. She danced along threads of silk barely thicker than a finger, moving silently through caverns and tunnels and bolt holes until…

There it was. It was an elf. A lone, desperate looking creature, haggard and thin. Yet he would do.

As silent as a whisper, she descended.

He screamed when he sensed her presence.

You are lost.

The sound of her voice inside his head forced a gurgle out of him. He was a young elf, not nearly powerful enough to withstand her mental assaults.

You can never go home.

Blood began to gush out of the elf’s nose. He lost consciousness quickly, going limp as a dead fish in her webs of night. A delicate claw reached down from above and scrapped the blood from his nose and brought it to her maw. Elf blood was sweet, a rarified nectar meant to be savored. She had not had elf blood in a very long time. What brought him here, she wondered. All twelve of her glowing red eyes fixed and him and began probing his mind. It was a jumble of random thoughts and images. Too chaotic and broken for her to make sense of. She did notice one person though, amidst the rush of color and light: she noticed him. He was still alive somewhere. He was still strong and hale. He was still violent and bloodthirsty.

Wake up! I will drink to your demise.

The elf twitched. His eyes opened wide with terror as Carníheniel considered him from above, suspended on shadows and whispers. He screamed again, his mouth full of blood.

Two legs reached down from the vastness above him, claws piercing his chest. He gave a single horrifying scream. He struggled, but the more he moved, the more he became enmeshed in her power webs. As if in a lazy afterthought, the great red spider ripped the elf’s rib cage open, cracking him like a chicken egg. With a third limb, she brought his limp body up to her maw and crushed his body into a pulpy mess. The sound of crackly bones, tearing muscle, and bending steal echoed in her mountain. In the gloom of her unlight, she devoured him.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Zôrzimril
Carn Dûm

A slight figure rode east down a gentle slope, silhouetted against the sunset at her back. The hilly lands of the North Downs had given way to flatter terrain, and the dark, brooding masses of the Mountains of Angmar rose suddenly before her. Finally. Zôrzimril was no great traveler, much less a ranger accustomed to toiling in the desolate areas surrounding the Lone Lands. Her raven hair, which habitually feel in shining curls around her face, was pulled into a low, messy bun at the nape of her neck. For so many years, she had chased finery, ease, and pleasure; now, she was dust-streaked, weary, and altogether uncomfortable.

She had taken the hard road from Umbar north to the edge of the known world. How many times had she berated herself for not simply taking a ship from the port? Instead, she had made her way slowly, flitting from country to country, trading precious coin for rides in the backs of farmers' wagons and stealing horses when and where she could find them. The gray stallion she rode now had come from an unwatched stable in Bree. She gritted her teeth with irritation as she looked back on her journey.

The horse walked on, and the world reddened around her in the sunset. Carn Dûm was close now. The snow crowning the mountains ahead glowed fiery red and orange in the sun's dying rays, and in the gathering dark, she could see lights glowing at the base of the range.

Soon, she reached the outskirts of the stony city. When she asked after lodging, everyone echoed the same name: "The Dagger." Eyes suspicious and hungry followed her as she guided her horse off the road to the spot indicated for provisions and uneasy rest. An ancient, weather-worn sign creaked outside the building. She dismounted swiftly, accustomed by now to the movements of riding and the plain clothes it required: she had conceded that, for long travels, a hooded cloak, belted black tunic, and close-fitting pants were superior to her usual silks. She relieved the horse of her bags and stabled him for the night. It would be nice to find him there in the morning, but she wasn't counting on it.

A startled black cat rushed beneath a table when The Dagger's door swung open. The cat paused in its hiding place and gazed, eyes glowing in the firelight, on the newcomer as she walked lightly into the room. Zôr spared the feline the quickest of glances as she passed. Haughty and aloof, cats were creatures after her heart, or would be if she were the type to grow attached to animals or people.

"Good evening," croaked a voice. Zôr's eyes snapped to a figure emerging from the shadows near the bar. "Edgar Balthazar, at your service. What can I do for you?"

"Evening," Zôr replied shortly. "I'll be needing dinner and a room for the night."

He raised a bushy eyebrow in surprise. "For yourself, alone?"

"Did I say 'we'?" She looked around. The tavern was empty; she could hear the fire crackling in the hearth over the stillness of the room. "Surely you're not booked up."

The barkeep shook his head slowly but kept his eyes on her face. "No, no. Just an odd request, from a beautiful young woman traveling alone."

Zôr returned his gaze and placed her hands on her hips. The motion did not entirely mask the fact that she had curled her right hand around the hilt of her dagger. "Rest assured, I will be fine."

* * *

She woke the next day still stiff from long travel but better-rested than she had been for weeks. The mattress left much to be desired, but it was worlds better than the sleeping roll she'd adapted to on the last leg of her journey. She had bathed last night in hot water, sluicing away the dirt and sweat of many miles. Journey now over and a critical meeting ahead, she dressed in her habitual dark silk. Her hair, mercifully rid of the dust from the road, was a cascade of clean curls once more.

When she walked out of The Dagger, she saw to her great surprise that her horse was there waiting for her, looking weary but unharmed. Best to leave him in the relative safety of the stable, she thought, and so she began the journey through the city on foot.

Zôr wandered the streets curiously, following the directions she had received from the barkeep. Rumors of the power that had resuscitated the city had reached her as she traveled, and they had grown increasingly clear the farther north she went: clinging to the feet of a mountain, Carn Dûm had come crawling back to life after The Delgaran had seized power. She had dispensed of its former regent and left forces of men and elves tattered and bloody ruins. The Delgaran, Queen of Iron, the woman Zôrzimril sought, had driven the way of things in Umbar once, too. Zôr was hopeful that their meeting would be mutually beneficial.

Just as the mountains loomed over the plains on her approach, so the keep did before her now. She hurried toward it, the sound of hammers falling on iron ringing around her as workers began the day's toil. Cool shade enveloped her as she walked through the gates. Soon, she was confronted by two guards, the first test. For a smile and a few words to summarize her errand, she was granted directions to the throne room.

She navigated the stone keep quickly, the sound of her light footsteps swallowed in the immensity of the fortress. The book and the letter were tucked into the bag that hung at her side. From time to time, she let a hand drift out to touch the stones that made up the seat of The Delgaran's power. While they did not possess the refined beauty and luxury she found most attractive, Zôr appreciated them for the solid, unyielding strength they represented and housed.

She stopped in her tracks at the sight of a man, the first she'd seen since passing the guards. He was blocking her way to the throne room.

"Hello," Zôr began sweetly, eyeing him with interest. Something in his features seemed familiar. "I have business here today. May I pass?"
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Carn Dûm -> The Temple

He was drawing near. Over the days and weeks since her summons, the Delgaran could feel her familiar’s presence approaching, little by slowly as he trotted on swift and silent feet over wild country to answer the call. Often had her voice whispered to him during his journey, telling him of her throne and the great victories to be had, the blood to be spilled, and always, repeating his name. A constant drumbeat beneath his paws: Mokkan. Mokkan. Mokkan. She had exulted with him at the terrible destructive beauty of the storm, and gloried with him in the violence he had wreaked upon the village. Each life snuffed out, blood sacrifices made in the only way the fox could make them, bolstered her power, watched from far away behind glittering rubicund eyes, and her approval soaked the ground with his victims’ lifeblood. The scream of the final offering as she stepped off the cliff and into thin air was sweet music to Amarthel’s ears. And now, her acolyte was drawing near.

The Delgaran left Carn Dûm as night was falling. Over the wall and up a ridge leading from the city she went, eschewing the gentler paths that led to the Temple from below. Even those paths were designed to deter all but the most committed to reaching their final destination, and there was no path where now the Queen of Iron trod. The ridge was sharp and craggen, a knife-edge of rock jutting up to the umber sky as the sun descended below the horizon, and the moon began to rise in its place. It was a full moon, and its pale light threw the ridge into desaturated relief as Amarthel walked, perfectly balanced across its top, as much a part of the mountain as the stones themselves. Before long, the ridge sloped sharply upward, and her hands came into play: clinging like ancient lichen to the mountainside, the Delgaran climbed, hand over hand and foot over foot, each shift of her lean form propelling her further up the precipitous face.

A cold drizzle began to fall; her heart quickened and her speed increased, not out of fear for the conditions, but excitement of what was to come, and the very nearness of her servant, his presence a beacon on the other side of the ridge. As she neared the peak of the ridge, the rain began to fall in earnest, thunder rumbling close by, and the wind picked up, whipping the great carmine wealth of her unbound hair about her. The Delgaran’s eyes snapped and narrowed in violent delight as she bounded, hand over foot, indistinguishable from any fell creature of the mountain, up the final yards until she stood on the peak. Lighting cracked and flashed across the sky as she stood, arms spread, and laughed aloud into the face of the perilous night. That night seemed to swirl about her, echoing the shape of the raven-feather cloak which she had left behind; indeed, it did swirl, in the form of a sudden cloud of pied bats, exploding from the darkness to chase each other around their Queen. Again she laughed, and with an explosive gesture of her straightening arm, dismissed them, calling against the gale,

“My greetings to your Master!” Faint screeches replied, and the Delgaran moved on. She was very near unto the Temple now, and fed upon its aura of power, retained through centuries of neglect. Feral as the spirit that had become her boldog ancestor, she descended the ridge’s opposite side now with glowing eyes standing out against the night with each flash of lightning, heedless of the wind, and the water streaming from her every part. Here was the Temple where, more than a thousand years before, she had completed her attenuation to the Witch-king’s service, and to powers darker even than he. It was sacred ground, whether holy or unholy, and it was only fitting that this be the place of their reunion, where the blood of both had been shed. And then, his voice.

Mistress, Delgaran, I am home. Mokkan is home.

Between one crash of lightning and the next she was there: past cliffs and walls and halls of stone, within a courtyard arch, overlooking the altar with Utumno’s own eyes. He stood upon it, black as its substance upon which he had been remade, waiting.

“Mokkan.”

She spoke not within his mind, but aloud, so that her husky voice scarcely breached the noise of the storm about them. This courtyard, the eye of the storm, held the only calm to be found in the mountains of Angmar that night.

“Mokkan.”

The Delgaran repeated his name, though she knew he had heard it the first time. And as she spoke she strode toward the altar with measured steps, boring into the fox with her gaze.

“Mokkan.”

A third time she spoke as she walked, and drew the jewel-hilted dagger from her belt. Casually deliberate, she flicked its point against the heel of her right hand, before wiping it clean on her leg and re-sheathing it. Never was his loyalty in question, and one taste of her would ensure their bond re-forged and re-strengthened. Amarthel halted at the altar, and raised one leg to step onto it. As she pushed off with the other and stood to her full height on its surface, she stretched her arms out to the fox.

“Come to me.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Arien
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Belzagar in the Keep

The place was becoming a palace of monsters. Amarthel drew all sorts of strange creatures to her service - the orcs were to be expected, and the wargs and werewolves that prowled and slept in the caverns and mountains were known to him; but all sorts of new devilry was occurring. Day by day, newer and fouler spirits appeared to flock to her side, and the Delgaran was glowing with a wildness that some might call power. Belzagar’s lip curled at the thought of it, and at the undead things he knew very well she could summon. Power came in all forms, and Melkor knew he respected it, but he liked it not. Strength of will and strength of arms were a cleaner and more direct route, in his mind: but Amarthel made use of it all, and Belzagar never gainsaid his Lady in public. Still, he did not have to keep company with most of the creatures, and did not; except for the Wolves, who had been left in his charge. At least their savagery was straightforward.

And so it was almost with pleasure that he viewed an apparently mortal lass wandering into the Keep and up to the Throne Room. A well kept looking woman, with swaying curves and dark curls, too - a pretty morsel. She was no servant, to be sure, with the air of confidence in her face; but what then could she be? Perhaps some sort of seamstress, Belzagar guessed, or a peddler of some sort.

“I have business here, may I pass?” she asked him sweetly.

Belzagar chuckled shortly, unfolding himself from his casual pose and making as if to lift her chin with his fingertips. “Now, pretty, I don’t think a sweet bit like you can have business in here,” he said pleasantly. “Perhaps if you run along to the kitchens, someone can find some work for you. We don’t trouble the Delgaran when she’s busy. But I may come and find you later, if you’re free,” he added, his eyes travelling her lazily.
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Black Númenórean
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Zôrzimril
The Keep

Half a smile curled Zôr's lips when the stranger laughed and stepped toward her, then lifted a hand to her chin. It had been quite a while since she'd felt the touch of another person's flesh. Far longer than normal. But the sardonic note in his voice and the way he looked her over meant she could not let herself relax into it. She had met this kind of condescension before, almost always in men; they were simple and predictable, sometimes maliciously so. Their narrow view of women as disposable pleasures made them proud and dangerous - and easy to exploit. This flaw was the foundation of any measure of success she had achieved thus far in life.

Zôr gazed into his face as he tipped her head back. "Surely there are rooms in the keep more comfortable than the kitchens," she murmured, her half-smile becoming a wicked grin. She stepped closer to him, so they were almost touching. The fabric of her skirts brushed against his leg, and she reached into her bag without breaking eye contact to procure the letter she had carried here from Umbar. Zôr held up the folded parchment for him to see.

"I have come a long way to deliver this information, and the last several weeks have been exhausting." Her eyes glittered as she took yet another small step closer to him. "But what's another hour or so? I would be happy to attend to you before I attend to my business with The Delgaran."
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Arien
Arien
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Belzagar in the keep

The wench was smiling at him in a provocative fashion, slinking closer. She smelled sweet, like - wild violets? What a saucy creature. Belzagar’s own lip curled in an appreciative way. “Yes, there are,” he agreed, “but I’m afraid I’m on duty right now.”

His hand clamped around her wrist instantly as she withdrew her hand from a bag. Only a letter. Belzagar relaxed the pressure on the delicate bones of her wrist, his grey eyes narrowed. A pretty little bit she might be, but even women could try their hand at assassination or thievery.

He sighed a tiny huff of air out between his gritted teeth as he looked at the letter. A seal he wasn’t prepared to break - Amarthel was very funny about keeping her secrets, and since the woman knew the Delgaran’s name, he supposed he would have to take her seriously. And yet, perhaps not. She was very free with the offering of her favours, after all. Was she a distraction, sent to lure him from his post by one means or another?

“Perhaps later,” he suggested huskily. “But you’ll pardon me if I search you properly before I let you in to see Milady.”

He flicked his eyes at the cold stone of the wall and smiled cynically. He was fairly sure she knew the routine.
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Zôrzimril
The Keep

She kept her chin up and her eyes on his even when his hand flew to her wrist. A small thrill shot down her spine at being gripped thus. "I look forward to it," she said, withdrawing her wrist once he loosened his fingers when no threat emerged. She took a step back to reconsider the man before her.

Duty before pleasure: an interesting choice. This one must be truly loyal, Zôr thought. She had not expected such commitment to order here; Angmar crawled haphazardly with beings of all sorts, each looking out for itself first. But then she supposed that The Delgaran must keep an iron grip on her interests, especially this close to the heart of her fortress. Zôr was counting on the Queen's desire to maintain control over her interests, in fact, to make the journey north worth it. She narrowed her eyes at him with amused interest. Perhaps she could learn something of this level of control from the woman who had supported her house so long ago.

"You’ll pardon me if I search you properly before I let you in to see Milady," he said.

Letter still in one hand, she rolled her eyes, smirking, and turned to touch the wall. She stood with her back to him, her feet shoulder width apart. "Do try not to prick yourself on the needles," she warned. "Else you'll miss the next few hours of your watch."
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Arien
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Belzagar in the Keep with Zôr

The woman turned compliantly, although with a slight eye-roll that was probably as much in the way of defiance as she could muster. Belzagar ignored it: women were always prone to these petty displays, and they were harmless, after all. He moved up behind her, slow and deliberate, until the top of her head was almost grazing his chin, and lightly rested his left hand about her neck.

“Just to ensure no funny business,” he said, casually. He flexed his fingers slightly, settling them into the pressure points of her collar, ready to pin her hips against the wall with his own and set a strangling grip about her throat if she should prove false.

He started at the top: running his hand through her curls. Nothing, just a sweet scent as he ruffled his fingers through close to her scalp. What a clean girl: a pleasant change from the wenches who usually skulked around here. Belzagar’s eyes narrowed slightly as he continued the search downwards, in a thorough but exploratory fashion.

Nothing.

Once he reached her waist he released his grasp on her neck and flipped her to face him, gently but firmly. “Aha,” he said, looking straight into her eyes as his hands found the long knife at her belt. “I was beginning to think you a fool for coming this way entirely unarmed. And what’s this?” He slipped a hand up her thigh - smooth as silk - and came up with another dagger, strapped there securely.

But that was all.

Belzagar looked into her face, curiously. The strange agelessness; the pale skin and dark hair that mirrored his own... “You’re Numenorean? What are you doing out and about unescorted? Your House must think little of you to let you run about like this.”

He clicked his tongue in brief annoyance as he stepped away from her warmth and began rummaging - carefully - through her bag. True to her word, there were needles inside. “Are you taking some sort of job here as a seamstress?” he suggested, bemused, as he unfolded the case where said needles were securely sheathed. Amarthel did wear a lot of fancy outfits, after all, and a woman of noble background would probably be an excellent tailor and designer. Why else would she travel so far, he supposed: Amarthel was at least reliable in that respect.
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Balrog
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Mokkan
The Temple

Mokkan.” Her voice, her real voice, was worse than the raging thunder. The sound of her dulcet voice made his joints suddenly weak. Pain shivered up his spine and he fell limp to the ground. His lungs seized and no sound would come from his mouth, not a bark of warning nor a playful mewling yip. Yet there was wild pleasure in this brokenness. He could see, feel, smell, and hear in vivid detail. The entire world was opened up to him as her voice resounded in his mind. His skull rattled. He wheezed, trying to breath.

Mokkan.” His mind rattled. The black fox’s vision blurred and smudged. Her voice was a knife in his mind, ripping his dreams and consciousness asunder. He rejoiced as the black stars that wheel invisibly over head were brought low and forced to their knees before him. He heard the howls of the nameless things far below the surface of the world that lived to gnaw and breed and die. Her voice showed him the stones of the earth and bade him to make them meat, and he did. Her voice brought him visions of all the kingdoms of the world and bade him worship her to gain control, and he did. Finally her voice brought him to the highest branches of his tree and bade him leap and she would not let him fall, and he did.

Mokkan.” Her voice, the stars screamed and the mountains would crumble. She was beginning and end. She was the immutable force of chaos and blight, of entropy and life denial. She was absolute reality. He was hers, her progeny of the great apocalypse to come. He stood his body twisting and shuddering. He howled and barked and forced his body to work under his control. His body trembled but he stood.

Come.”

He obeyed, creeping forward on black, silent paws. He could smell her blood. He licked his lips at her sanguine offering. He closed his eyes when came near. Crouching down in his paws, he licked. The blood was fire, it was ice. It was life and death, light and shade, agony and ecstasy, pain and pleasure, sweet and bitter, night and day, everything and nothing. The blood consumed Mokkan as he consumed it. He could feel her within him once more. He had not been aware of how far he afield he had gone in her absence. His mind was filled with fright and power, images she would share him. He saw the conquering of cities and countries and people, he saw blood, fire, death. Her power seeped into him as he lapped at the wound on her hand. By her blood was he made whole again. Strength that had been robbed of him returned with fiery vengeance, his mind was sharp again, the nee. The need for savagery had returned to him. The desire for blood and pain.

Once his thirst had been slaked, once his muzzle was smeared with the blood of his creator, he bowed. He prostrated himself before and made his obeisance to her. He looked up to her and saw the wild fire of her hair is blew in the wind, an ever burning torch. Quickly, he looked down and closed his eyes.

Mistress, I am yours. Forever and always.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Zôrzimril
The Keep

The stone wall was cold, the man's breath warm on her neck. Zôr steeled herself. She rather disliked these kinds of searches; things were far more fun when she was in control. Later, she'd show this one just how much more. But she was an unknown quantity and he a loyal . . . what? He carried himself with far more superiority than an ordinary servant or guard. Someone close to Amarthel, she decided. Someone trusted. This search was a necessary if unfortunate step toward an audience in the throne room. She kept her hands on the wall.

At his first touch, her shoulders tensed and raised. Goosebumps rose on her arms beneath silk sleeves. She gazed down and to the left, watching his hand on her shoulder. While one hand gripped her firmly around the collarbone, the other searched.

A little gasp of surprise escaped her at being spun around so suddenly and so forcefully. He withdrew both the dagger at her hip and the one from beneath her flowing skirt. Zôr found his eyes again and smiled. "One of those was in plain view this whole time," she mocked softly. "Or were you distracted?"

Then recognition dawned in his eyes. "You’re Numenorean? What are you doing out and about unescorted? Your House must think little of you to let you run about like this." Aha. Perhaps he was from Umbar, too, drawn here to serve The Delgaran. This explained the familiarity of his features - they could be found throughout the city and, strangely enough, in someone she'd met recently in horse country.

"My house thinks nothing of me. They are gone," she replied simply, leaning back against the wall while he rummaged through her bag and withdrew her case of needles. At least her first impression of him had been accurate: he was still underestimating her, preferring to fit her into his narrow schema for a woman's utility. "I am here on business pertaining to both The Delgaran's House and mine, and not her garb. If you look again at those needles you hold, you'll see that they are as long as your hand and capable of pricking much more than fabric."

He had her weapons now, so she extended a hand to demand her bag back. It was essential she bring both the book and the letter - still clutched in her other hand - to this meeting. "May I pass now? Oh, and do tell me," she went on, eyes dancing mischievously, "where might I find you later, if not outside these doors? To retrieve my things, of course."
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Arien
Arien
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Belzagar in the keep with Zor

Gone. Her House was gone.

Well - it was a common enough, and tragic enough story, Belzagar had to admit; with the fall of their homeland, many Houses had been decimated, with only the few who had been dwelling in Middle-earth surviving, or perhaps a scattered handful on ships, including those fools who called themselves the Faithful. It certainly explained why this woman was out wandering the wilds like a slattern, unescorted by father or brother or husband; there was nobody to take care of her or teach her any better. Sad, really.

Although it also meant they hadn’t taught her any manners. Belzagar’s countenance became stony as she dared to chide him on the details of the needles. As if he spent time measuring needles, for Melkor’s sake! It would be impolite to tell her to prick her mouth shut, of course, so Belzagar held his own tongue and simply held out her bag to her, sans needles.

“Pass freely,” he said evenly, looking down into her face - alight and vivacious with humour. “You’ll find me where I always am: at my Mistress’ command. But if you need to ask for me, ask for Belzagar.”

He pocketed her needle book and sheathed her knives at his side.
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The Temple

His pain and terror, pleasure an elation, writhing in the physical release of mental cacophony, there upon the black altar, was beautiful to behold. As the triumph had welled in her long centuries before at his creation, so it welled again at their reunion. The blood dripped from her hand as she watched him, and at last, Mokkan approached. He came on trembling, eager paws, and without hesitation, pushed forward his quivering black nose. His whiskers, and then the ends of his short muzzle-hairs brushed against her skin; and then, tentatively at first, the warm, wet prickle of his tongue. Amarthel flexed her wrist, pressing the heel of her hand more firmly towards the fox. Much like that of a cat, his tongue was rough, spiny, almost sharp- the comforting texture of hot sandpaper. His licking became more insistent, and the Delgaran sighed. She flexed again, but this time clenching and unclenching her fist, encouraging the blood to flow. Even as she gave to Mokkan her visions of the past and for the future, she received in return the tumultuous barrage of his recent history; his tree, his sacrifices, his travels, his kills.

Then, between one lick and the next, the wound in her hand had heeled: with blood-smeared but unblemished skin she stood, and withdrew her hand. The fox too was spattered with blood, his black fur glistening in the scattered illumination of the lightning, and the steadier glow of the moon, and his eyes were rapturous. Mokkan genuflected then in his manner, stretching out his legs and pressing his chest to the glass-smooth surface of the altar.

Mistress, I am yours. Forever and always.

As the gusting wind and thunder quietened, Amarthel sank to one knee. As she knelt, she reached out again: this time, one hand slipped beneath the fox from the side, between his soft fur and the stone below, and her fingers cupped his chest. “Come to me,” she said again, though this time it was almost a whisper. With practiced ease as though they had never parted, she lifted the fox and gathered him into the crook of her arm, the other coming up to caress his back as the Delgaran embraced her charge, his vulpine head against her shoulder. “My Mokkan,” she uttered, her husky voice, vibrating from her chest to his, “Forever,” her hand stroked down from the top of his head the the scruff of his neck, where it gripped hard; just hard enough to offer him a tangible reminder of the pain he could reap from her loving hands. “And always.” The hand released its grip, and the stroke continued. His warmth in her arms drove out any chill from the storm. “The speed of your return pleases me. Come with me, Mokkan,” the Delgaran arose, standing tall and at ease atop the altar of her atrocities, “and see what wonders together we shall do.”




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The Keep, Throne Room

This day, the Delgaran had a new addition to her garb: she was arrayed in her habitual utilitarian garments, and wrapped in the dark leathern jacket with its leaf-shape lapping down her thighs, but atop her shoulders instead of the raven-feather cloak with its blaze of fox rode something rather more alive: Mokkan, in his coat of black, curled or balancing as it suited him, observing the Keep from the height of his mistress’s head, stark against the vibrant red of her hair. She stalked her halls in buffeting silence, making for the throne room, where a summoned supplicant awaited her pleasure. The room, with its huge throne of iron and long hall of stone, was most often quiet, and frequently deserted; with no fixed court, there was little purpose in anyone hanging about. Still, it was illuminated faintly with evenly spaced braziers, kept always alight, and burning steadily. The shadows at the head of the room were undisturbed as Amarthel stepped into them, allowing her to observe the contents of the room. Below stood waiting the person she had expected: the vampire, enormously tall, with the pure-white hair that reminded her of a letter she needed to send, and the build that left her in no doubt why Thuringwethil had chosen to make this specimen one of her own.

The Delgaran moved through the shadows to the nearest brazier, and took up a paper spill from the dish next to it. Along either side of the long hall was a raised trench, which began next to the far braziers, by one of which she now stood. These narrow trenches were filled hard, long-burning wood, and packed with kindling. Amarthel lit her spill from the brazier, and with a quick flick of her fingers, cast it into the trench. With a swift crackle and whumpf of spreading flame, the trench jumped to life, suddenly brightening the room as the fire arose above its edges, and adding its noise and warmth to the space. The Delgaran stepped forward so that she stood beside her throne, looking down at the vampire and the pied and fluttering bat that zipped about him. She lowered her rubicund eyes to meet his gaze in greeting.

“Arioch.”
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Arioch
Throne Room

He waited in his high mountain rookery until the sun finally vanished beneath the rim of the horizon. He sat there languidly flipping a dagger through his fingers. Thunder rumbled from somewhere in the south. Tiny beads of lightning flashed in the distance, his shimmering yellow eyes caught the light and held it reflected there for longer than it should have. There was a distant rumble that shook the stones. He sighed and stood. Moving in a dramatic, fluid motion Arioch stood up on the balcony and looked up on the valley below him. There were tiny, weak points of light that dotted the valley hundreds and hundreds of feet below him. Up at this height, the winds howled and roared in an almost unceasing cycle. Words were carried on the wind, screams of pain and agony, whimpers of desperation and loneliness. He smiled as the reach his ears, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the experience. The air up here was thin and cold, a deep breath here would provide no substance to a mortal soul, but he was far, far from mortal now. The life that pulsed within him now had no need of air or other such mundanities. Still, he drew in a breath, tasting the air. The storm was coming indeed, he could taste the electricity in the air. He wiped the last vestige of blood from the dagger he’d been toying with and sheathed it at his hip. He took a final look over the valley, his brilliant white hair billowing behind him. There was a weak moan behind him. He turned to look at the feeble struggling of his victim as they tried to pull themselves across the floor to the door of his chamber. Instead of rushing to stop them, he watched. The man was rail thin, white as a sheet, with matted black hair. He had not provided much of a meal, but he had provided enough entertainment to allow him a few more hours of life. Arioch watched with mild curiosity as the man, bereft of clothing and bleeding for more than a dozen puncture wounds, tried to undo the latch that separated his private chamber from the rest of the nest.

“I would reconsider that course of action, if I were you,” the vampire’s voice boomed, thrusting the man to his knees. He cowered, trying to press himself in the stone so he could not be seen. “My children are less couth than I am, less inclined to give you a chance.” His words were smoky and drawn out, more than a hint of malicious amusement, the sound was honey sweet like a well-aged violin. “You would have a much better chance of escape if you tried the balcony.”

The man’s pale grey eyes opened wide with fright. He inched away from the door, scuttling like a beetle across the stone floor until he peered over edge of the banister guard. He looked down the sheer drop and let out a short shout of dismay.

“There’s a path, if you think you’re sure-footed enough,” Arioch chided the man.

He smiled wickedly, wiping the remnants of blood from his chin. The man began to shake uncontrollably, he stank of acrid fear. Arioch chuckled darkly. “The choice is yours. Certain death, or a perilous chance of escape.”

The man’s weepy eyes looked from the door to the abyss. He clambered over the ornate stone railing and managed to climb down to the path, taking three steps before slipping. His scream echoed back in the wind as he fell and fell and fell. With a final look of satisfaction, Arioch unfurled his wings, great leathery things that stretched out ten feet in either direction.

He took a running leap and took the air. Bats accompanied him on his descent to the ground. A breed he created special for himself, pied and innocent looking until a hapless victim came closer. He closed his eyes and called out to his favorite, the largest of them all.

Belisaria. Where are you my child? We have business to attend to. We are called to the Throne Room. Attend me there.

He opened his eyes and felt her presence. It was at a distance but drawing nearer. He smiled. She would resist, she always did, but in the end, she would come and stand with him in presence of the Iron Queen.

His bats swarmed about him excitedly. It was not every day they could be in attendance to Her Majesty. He could hear them chittering to each other in the language his ancient mistress had devised for them to use.

He melted into the shadows outside and reappeared inside, his preferred method of ingress. He stood there, motionless as he watched her light the fires. He moved forward into the light as she called his name, casting no shadow of his own. He stood to his full height, a handspan above seven feet, then bowed low and elegantly.

Delgaran, you do me honor by summoning me to your presence. I am, as ever, at your command.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Belisaria
Mountains of Angmar, Throne Room


Somewhere several hundred feet above Arioch's rookery, the breeze carried the scent of a coming storm into a cave. Given the cave's position on the mountain, the screams of the man falling to his death were lost long before they could penetrate this small refuge. If, somehow, a mortal were to clamber up the peak this far and enter the cave, they would need a moment for their eyes to adjust. Once they did, they might see spindly feet gripping the ancient, craggy rock with razor-sharp claws. On some occasions, there might be dozens or even scores of such feet, though one pair would stand out for their size.

Tonight, there was just one bat in the cave. The rest had fled to attend their master, weaklings that they were. Belisaria, though still subject to him, had a will of her own. Hanging upside-down, the unusually large pied bat slept, her striped form enfolded in leathern wings. The top of her head, black fur slashed with white stripes like those on her back, poked out from this cocoon. Her ears twitched while she dreamed. Her nose wriggled, and her eyes flickered beneath closed lids.

With a shriek, her eyes flew open, the yellow light within glowing even in the shadows of the cave untouched by the setting sun. Still clutching the cave roof, she stretched her wings and flapped them once, twice, three times in agitation. Sweet dreams of a hunt in a younger, wilder world were interrupted by his voice. The chirrups and clicks and snapping sounds of their language resounded in her skull: Belisaria. Where are you my child? We have business to attend to. We are called to the Throne Room. Attend me there.

She gave another keening cry which curled into and around itself before rising to frequencies inaudible to all but her fellows. He called to her, and this summons was like to tear her in two. Where he was, there would be victims on whom to feast. But to flutter onto his shoulder or even to draw near would force her to recall his power over her, the dominance of his mind over hers. Before she could serve him once more, she would be forced to relive with all her senses the days, so long ago, when he had uttered words that compelled her with physical force into endless consumption. First insects that crawled and buzzed, then animals which crept and climbed, then mortals who screamed and sobbed. She would feel again how her bones and wings and body had stretched painfully until she emerged into the world, grown beyond the size of Arioch's other bats and filled with a relentless, age-old hunger she would never sate.

Belisaria could no longer resist the summons. She spread her wings and released her grip on the rock, fluttering out of the cave and into the humid air. She screamed her frustration as she dove along the side of the mountain, resisting his pull long enough to sink her claws into the eyes and throat of a baby rabbit and devour it, starting with the face which twitched fiercely as it died. Belly full, she rose into the air once more and sped toward the Keep.

She flew nimbly, veering and swerving between stone walls and towers and down echoing halls until she darted through the open door to the throne room. On outstretched wings, she coasted toward the figure standing before the throne. The first time she had entered this room, she had felt into its farthest corners with sound waves that told her of its cavernous size. She navigated it with ease now and wheeled in ever-narrowing circles above the flowing white hair of her master. I am here. I am here, she called. He knew she would serve, however reluctantly.

A second figure emerged and lit a fire. The Queen's neck was wreathed in shining black fur. Mokkan. She uttered a shrill cry of greeting for now. There would be time to play later.

As she had expected, the closer she descended over Arioch, the memories began their assault on her every nerve. She had just eaten, and yet here she was, hungering once more.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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The Keep, Throne Room

Mokkan bared his fangs and hissed in answer to Belisaria’s cry, and the Delgaran reached up with her left hand to stroke his tail, falling over her shoulder on that side. “Hmm.” A soft hum of amused derision escaped her nose, and as she spoke, she descended the steps before the throne deliberately, one by one. “And as ever, I appreciate your prompt appearance, Arioch. I require a service of you.” Amarthel halted two steps from the bottom. They were narrow, steep stairs, and allowed her, at this height, to remain on eye level with Arioch while still permitting his near approach. The Delgaran was not small, but neither was the swarthy woman overtall, whereas the vampire most definitively was. “A new servant travels north to join me, dispatched directly from Mordor, and he is overdue. I suspect, given what I know of him, that he has become distracted, rather than been waylaid. You will track him down and encourage him to make haste.” From within her leathern jacket, she withdrew a folded piece of parchment. It was fine, high quality paper, such as was rarely seen in north or south, outside of stately manors. A faint scene of anise still emanated from it, despite its long journey. This piece of parchment had been rolled up inside another, the letter bearing news from Sombelenë that she was sending two gifts to Angmar; one, a man, and one, a surprise. The man was known to Amarthel, though they had not met, but this second paper gave her a much clearer picture of him than she had yet possessed. It was a drawing, falling into obscure lines below the waist, but above that, carried out in sweeping detail; describing every line of his pronounced musculature, the art that inked his body, the fall of his hair, the smirk on his face. All of this, and not a single stitch of clothing, left the Delgaran in no doubt as to what had preceded its creation by the Witch-king’s personal secretary. Sombelenë had been achieving great things by her own.. individual… methods for longer than anyone dared say, however, and so the Delgaran had done little more than roll her eyes at the smugness she could feel from the Avar even at this distance.

“He goes by the name,” she continued, holding out the folded parchment for Arioch to take, “of Frost.”
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Wainrider
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Fenrir
Mountains of Angmar


The storm roared. It was hard to see anything further than their hand.

Trees swayed dangerously at a distance, threatening to come apart with every gust that struck on truncks like a hammer. Already bereft of leaves, almost all the branches were frozen, and those which were not stood like black twigs against the icy wind.

Again the winds roared, getting worse and worse by each passing moment. They were trapped in the middle of the storm, with little hope of salvation.

The winds ruffled the powdery ice already on the plains of that cold desert, and on the nearby forest floor, raising them up in swirls like white, malevolent spirits of snow thirsty for human bones.

They shivered, clutching their fur coats around them desperately. They hoped against all hope to survive the storm.

A fell voice was there in the air constantly, not louder than the roaring winds, but it was there still. It was a fell voice full of malice and sadness.

'We told you not to come so close to this place!" cried one of them at his companion, cupping his gloved hand as he did to take his voice furthur.

"You worry too much, Mablung! We will get out of there when the storm passes."

If we get out! but will we, thought Mablung "Do you not hear that fell voice in the air? They warned us not to cross these mountains!"

Their small group of merchants had lost their way hours back, and now were trapped here due to the terrifying storm. With them they had a small wagon. It was big enough to shelter two of them while sitting, but that was it. A few hours ago, one of the horses bolted off and returned not. The remaining one was afraid about something, yet stood his ground faithfully.

Moments later, the storm ceased fora time, leaving a white sheet of devastation across the vista. Trees were uprooted by the ferocious wind, boulders rolled down the unforgiving cliffs, and the wreckage of trees were all around them.

But they knew a chance when they saw one, and made good of it. They leaped to their feet, and brushed off the sleet of snow before started to move the wagon again. Yet the air still rumbled angrily, and the sky alight with cackling lightning.

Suddenly, they heard a sharp noise behind them!

The breaking of a twig not far behind them. All four of them spun back, and beheld a monstrous wolf!

Yet it was unlike any wolf they saw before. It was of monstrous size and visage. By length it was enough to be thrice the size of a grown man; indeed it was 3 meters tall and just as massive! Its black fur bristled with rage and excitement, its tongue lapped its red lips and bared fangs, smelling their terror and blood, while its eyes were ringed with a wicked fire. IAnd it was edging closer by the moment!

It was no wolf indeed, but something much worse: a werewolf of the Mountains, and one of the the largest and the most fell. He was Fenrir, and he had smelled blood...

Within a span of a few moments, everything was over. Three were disembowelled, while the spare was trying to crawl away. The werewolf inched closer to Mablung, letting him run for a bit. A lover of the hunt and the child of the wilderness and wastelands, Fenrir chased the man through the snowy wastes. Snapping at his legs for fun, he urged his prey to run faster yet.

The helpless man, alas! was no man-at-arms nor archer. He never held a spear nor could run for long. Exhausted, he collapsed on the snow next to a black tree, even as a the beast advanced. It snapped at his heels and engulfed his leg under his enormous jaws.

Crack!

The sound was carried far, for the bite crushed the man's leg, who was now unconscious with fright and exhaustion. The beast, silent till now, let out a terrifying roar, bit again...slowly at first...but then snapping faster and faster at each limb. Then the torso, ripping out his entrails. Then a heavy claw his face, ripping skin and bone.

He took his time, but it was over soon. Red blood wet the white snow where he stood.

He was Fenrir, and he had smelt human blood. Yet more he hungered for yet. Black fur bristling and hackles raised, his malice-ridden eyes turned towards Angmar.

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Mokkan, Arioch
The Keep, Throne Room

From his perch on his mistress’, the Delgaran, shoulder, Mokkan watched with a wicked light in his eyes as the vampire appeared out of the shadows, knowing that any moment his bat friend, Belisaria would make her equally dramatic entrance. His guess was proven correct a moment later when her black and white form issued out of the darkness with grace and aplomb. She perched on the vampire’s shoulder and screeched out a greeting. He answered with a growl and an excited yip. He licked his black lips and his red eyes swung from his friend to his mistress, hoping to convey his desire to run through Carn Dûm when this business was completed and find someone to kill with his friend. For now, though he was content to sit, wrapped around his mistress’s neck and partake in her warmth.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The ancient vampire sighed, but the tiniest curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement. “The two of you have such interesting methods of… distractions.” He took the parchment, inhaled the familiar telltale scent of a Sombelenë correspondence. Why she favored anise was a mystery but there were many things about her that were a mystery. “This man,” his voice resumed, and bounded off the shadowy walls. “I suppose I ought to just know where he decided to go astray?” His voice held an edge of distained detachment, though not with the task he had been given nor the woman that gave it to him, his progenitor had once held a similar role in the days of ancient past. He was no errand boy though. If Amarthel simply wished to have this man brought before her, she could have sent a company of orcs to find him and drag him here. Who was he that he deserved such a royal summons?

Belisaria landed on his broad shoulder and he lifted a finger to his lips, cut it with one his razor fangs, and offered it to his familiar. He looked again at the picture presented to him. The man was not without his qualities, at least physically, the Avar’s talents had left little to the imaginations. The great vampire closed his eyes and held that image in his mind. Slowly, inexorably, he unfounded his coriaceous wings and spread them to their full length. His bronze armor creaked and groaned as the plates shifted to accommodate. The rubies, like frozen drops of blood, that adorned him shimmered in the low firelight. His white hair blew back and forth despite the absence of wind the chamber, an effect of his magic as he searched out his quarry. As he held the image of the man within his thoughts, he could something like a beacon behind his eyes, magical signal that would lead him to this mortal, this specimen that so fascinated the two women he served.

Frost, you say? An unusual name. He shall be delivered to you, Your Grace.”

With that, Arioch's wings twitched into movement and his massive frame was driven to the great shadows of the high vaulted ceiling. He sped, faster and faster until it seemed that he would crash into the wall then vanished utterly a split second before he contacted the stones, gliding through the shadows as if they were doorways. He emerged on the other side, with the cloud ensorcelled moon hanging overhead. He considered the light a moment, sneered and sped away on his vast, silent wings.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Keep, Throne Room

Distractions. Perhaps, at least for Sombelenë, though she was quite adept at utilizing a blending of business and pleasure to achieve her ends. The Delgaran made no comment on Arioch’s turn of phrase as he took and examined the parchment with its near-lewd drawing of the man in question, noting the flare of his nostrils as he inhaled its faint aroma. Amarthel has spent enough time in Sombelenë’s physical company to know that it was a slight redolence which clung to the Avar herself, seemingly with no source or provocation. Who was to know from whence it came or why? The personal secretary of the Witch-king was a being of many mysteries and secrets. With a hint of irritation, Arioch questioned whether he should be told where Frost had veered off his course, and the Delgaran arched one bright brow at him. “You have your ways,” she said flatly, even as the vampire began his process, shuttering his yellow eyes and unfolding his wings. They were not unworthy of admiration, those wings, and she allowed her eyes to travel over them lazily. Nothing compared to those of her ally Tezcacoatl, but for a being lesser than a dragon, very nice indeed. “I am certain you will not return in failure,” the Delgaran replied to Arioch’s assurance- he would either return having accomplished his task.. or he would not dare return.

When the vampire had made his departure in dramatic fashion, Belisaria remained. Amarthel dipped one shoulder and reached across herself with the opposite hand, sliding Mokkan around into her arms. She stroked his back, and nodded to the overlarge pied bat, still beating her wings in the throne room. “Try not to eat any faces that are especially useful,” she said dryly, and knelt to deposit Mokkan on the ground, with a final brush of his tail through her fingers. As the two fell creatures sped off to amuse themselves, the Delgaran turned her attention to the entrance of the throne room, and the newly-come presence that lingered beyond it. Her husky voice rang out across the intervening space and through the door; not a shout, but a resonance carried through the stones.

“Enter.”
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Belisaria
Throne Room

In ever-tightening circles, Belisaria descended from the heights of the vast room to her master's shoulder, drawing in her wings as she settled into place. It was both an agony and a comfort to reach out her tongue and lap at the blood Arioch offered, taking in his essence to sate her hunger yet simultaneously binding herself closer to him, feeling in her bones the torment and delight of compulsory gluttony. She longed for a will fully her own, but dreaded to be without her provider. And so this fear overcame her ambition as it always did, and she was powerless to resist his gift. She spoke no words to him, but he knew her conundrum. It was as unchanging as her hunger.

While their masters spoke, she locked eyes with Mokkan, yellow gaze meeting with red with understanding, even affection, and eager anticipation of the havoc to come. The great bat tensed and cried out as she felt the air around her - or was it his blood within her? - shift when Arioch called forth the magic that would show him the man he sought. And when the great vampire beat his wings to take his leave, Belisaria leapt into the air with frantic fluttering of her own wings. She would not follow him now. He had not bidden her to join him, and she could not follow him through solid stone. She whirled and circled now above Mokkan and his mistress, the white of her stripes flashing hither and thither in the flickering light of the room until the Queen sent them on their way. Belisaria swooped low, a light gust of air from her wings ruffling the fox's fur as they sped from the room in search of a victim.

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Zôrzimril
The Keep, Throne Room

Zôr could not stop yet another amused smile from spreading on her face when the man's expression darkened at her taunt. Men - so easy to prick with words and needles and more! She received her bag from him and slung its strap over her shoulder. "It has been a pleasure, Belzagar," she murmured as she passed to stand before the entrance to the throne room.

She had just raised her hand to open the door but froze, arrested, when a voice resounded from within. "Enter." Zôr straightened, threw a last mischievous smile at Belzagar, then pulled open the great door.

The vast stone room would have been cold as frozen steel were it not for the flames dancing and crackling in braziers and in a trench along the length of the space. Her footsteps fell softly as she paced the hall, her shining curls casting back the light as she turned her head from side to side, taking in the great room as she walked and wondering at the labor it must have taken to build this room and speculating about how the Delgaran had come into her power here. It was one thing to read of someone's rise and yet another entirely to meet them face-to-face. In the light from the fires, she saw a figure ahead, standing beside a hulking seat that could only be the throne.

Now halfway across the room, Zôr fixed her gaze straight ahead on the queen she had come to warn. As she drew nearer, she took in every detail of this woman, so powerful and so feared. Red eyes burned like hot coals, and striking red hair added to the impression that Amarthel Delgaran was alight with power. Zôrzimril could tell that she would stand just taller than the queen should they ever find themselves side by side, but she stopped a respectful - and safe - distance from the throne and the almost palpable potency of the Delgaran's presence. Zôr inclined her head and sank into the best curtsy she could manage, averting her eyes in deferential greeting before standing tall and throwing back her shoulders as she faced the queen.

"Your Majesty," Zôr began, "My name is Zôrzimril of House Azgarâbêl." How odd those syllables felt to speak - her house name felt foreign and wrong in her mouth after all these years, and it was unusual for her to divulge identifying information at a first meeting. The latter could not be helped; she knew that, in this situation, the onus was on her to prove her trustworthiness.

"From what I have learned recently, you knew and helped to elevate my family long ago. And so it seemed only right for me to ride north from Umbar when, in searching for the story of my family's fall, I came across information that pertains to you." Here, she held up the parchment still gripped in her hand for the queen to see. "This letter," she went on, "speaks of a plot against House Castimir. And you in particular."
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Cape of Forochel

Ceaseless wind blew in from the sea of Belegaer, chilling a land already bound by endless winter. Rare were the days when the wind calmed and blue skies shone over Forochel with a golden gleam of sun, and this was not one of them. The wind ripped and howled, picking up the hard, dry snow and lashing it in icy pinpricks against everything it could reach. The sea tossed and roared, and the Icebay was little better; no craft struck out upon the water this day to hunt the deep, cold-dwelling fish and other creatures which sustained the Lossoth, but remained tied hard to their moorings. It was the sort of day that forbade even the hardiest from venturing out of their doors. Yet, one figure defied the command of nature: a short ways outside this particular Lossoth village, a young reindeer had tumbled from a rocky cliff to perish on the stones below. The loss of such an animal prematurely was a blow, but any source of sustenance in Forochel was not to be wasted, and nor was time- who knew how long this storm might blow, and whether the carcass would have been moved or devoured by predators by then, or simply buried by the ever-changing snowdrifts. And so, Hrafnhildr Frostdóttir had set out to retrieve it.

Not an inch of skin was exposed as she bent over the body of the reindeer, slashing away inside it, but if one had been able to approach close enough, the glint of eyes blue as Forochel’s glaciers might have been visible beneath the thin, netted fabric that veiled her face. The Lossoth used nearly every part of the animal in one way or another, but there was no need to bring the stinking guts or stomach into their dwellings, and Hrafnhilder cut them out and cast them away in quick, skillful movements. This accomplished, she shifted into a kneeling position, one leg folded beneath her, the other propped up before. With a further few efficient movements, she shifted the reindeer around by its legs, and with a swift heave, slung it across her shoulders. Lunging into her forward leg, Hrafnhildr stood. After making a final adjustment to the position of the carcass on her back, she faced into the wind, and began the trek for home.

The villages of the Snowmen of Forochel were many and varied, depending on where they dwelt on the Cape of Forochel, or indeed whether they lived on southerly coasts of the Icebay. The settlement to which Hrafnhildr belonged was large and ancient, on the narrow tip of the Cap of Forochel, and closer to the Icebay than the Sea. Rather than settling right upon the shore, their Forodwaith ancestors had chose a site slightly further afield, where a patch of small mountains bulked up from the Cape, riddled with caves of all shapes and sizes. Over the centuries, the Forodwaith, and then the Lossoth themselves, had patiently chipped away at the mountains, creating many tunnels interconnecting the systems of caves, and creating new voids where needed. There they had made their homes, protected from the elements, with fresh water supplied by underground rivers and springs, needing only fire to provide themselves light and warmth.

A heavy screen of wood, netting, and the thick fur of countless shaggy animals covered the main entrance to the part of the caves that was Hrafnhildr’s smaller community within the village. As she approached, a seamless door that had been built into it opened slightly, then whipped completely opened and banged against the screen, as the young man who had begun to open it lost his grip to the wind. She squeezed past him through the door even as he scrambled to regain his hold, ducking her head as she did so. At some two inches above six feet, Hrafnhildr was the tallest known representative of her people, and their doors had not been made with her in mind. The boy succeeded in wrestling the door shut, and the noise of the gale outside lessened. Two other young people came running up, and caught the reindeer carcass as Hrafnhildr unlimbered it from her shoulders. They sagged under its weight, but bore it off without complaint. Hrafnhildr began to remove her outermost garments. As the thick hat and protective veil came away from her head, a thick shock of pure-white hair was revealed, woven into a thick braid, now disrupted by movement and time spent under coverings. Her face was roughened and scarred, but bore the appearance of one perhaps in her middle thirties, where in truth Hrafnhildr had seen more than fifty winters. Her skin was slightly swarthy, but not so dark as most of her people- for in truth, she was not born of pure Lossoth blood. Hrafnhildr shrugged off the dense overcoat which had done the bulk to the work in shielding her from the unforgiving air. With this gone, even beneath the layers that still remained it was clear that the towering woman was a lean, hard creature, heavy with dense muscle.

“Ylva! Ylva!”

Yet another young person appeared, a boy, younger than the rest she had seen since returning, running towards her bearing a torch. He skidded to a halt and ducked his head respectfully. “Ylva,” he gasped again- this epithet, Hrafnhildr had noted over the years, was especially popular with the young once they learned how she had earned it- before continuing, “A message has come for you! Your mother said to fetch you straight away.” Hrafnhildr gathered up her bulky layers and nodded. “Go on then.” The boy trotted off the way he had come, Hrafnhildr following close behind, though she had but to walk to keep up. His torchlight illuminated the passage as it wound away from the entrance cave, and finally to the small group of caves where she lived. Torches burned in brackets outside the door fastened to the entrance, and the boy had completed his task. He looked up at her eagerly, and Hrafnhildr nodded again. “Well done.” The boy grinned and sped away.

With the slightest of creaks, the door opened under Hrafnhildr’s hand. There, by the blazing fire of their central cave, sat her mother, ensconced deeply in a woven-basket chair and blankets. Iduna raised one gnarled hand, shaking her head ruefully as she pointed, “He certainly knew where to find you.” Hrafnhildr directed her gaze in the direction of her mother’s gesturing finger, and almost before her eyes landed on it, a loud GWAH! issued from the raven perched on an unused torch-bracked across the room. It launched itself from its perch and swooped with a flare of wings to land upon a nearby table as Hrafnhildr crossed towards it. It ruffled its glossy feathers importantly, then raised one wing slightly. Bound by thick smooth string under that wing, around the body, and over the raven’s back, hung a scroll. Hrafnhildr slit the string with a knife pulled from her leg holster, and picked up the scroll. It was sealed with deep red wax, marked be three claw-scores. Her eyes narrowed.

“It’s from the Iron Queen,” she said, and heard her mother shifting in the chair. Hrafnhildr broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. It was a request, from the Delgaran, telling her to travel south, in order to escort and guide north a man who would be coming north to join her service in Carn Dûm. A man who was known as- At this point, Hrafnhildr’s eyes widened, with both shock and anger. She cursed, crumpling the scroll with a one clench of her fist. “What is it, my daughter?” Iduna asked, and Hrafnhildr turned towards her, shaking her head. “I must leave. She has asked, but it is obviously a command, that I make a journey for her.” Hrafnhildr looked back at the raven, which appeared disgustingly pleased with itself. “There will be no reply,” she told it flatly, “Tell her I have departed.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Balrog
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Mokkan
Carn Dûm

Having been released by his mistress to run and play, Mokkan darted through the ancient decrepit fastness of Carn Dûm. The urge to hunt was on him, the urge to track and kill and feed. The night hid him as he crept through shadows, his bushy tail swishing back and forth with murderous anticipation. This place was alive with new smells to follow, even as there was a pall of death and decay over it. They were subtle, faint, nearly hidden by the weight of the cold air. The fox barely felt that cold as he crept along the empty streets, hopping from shadow to shadow. Belisaria was circling above, far above the tops of the buildings, she was just on the edge of Mokkan's range of smell. She was up high, searching, wheeling about in acrobatic circles. She loved ripping off the faces of her victims as much as he loved tearing out their hearts. Mokkan was not sure if her master was as kind as his mistress, whether he too would revel in the pain and blood, but he hoped so.

His red eyes gleamed in the pale light of the stars, reflecting their light as through a curtain of blood. He sniffed the air again and licked his lips. Someone was near. An orc. Mokkan felt his pulse quicken. It had been so long since he’d been able to kill an orc. They were always a fun challenge. They fought back as brutally and savagely as he did. He was going to frighten them off a cliff in a storm. No. This would be a contest of will and strength. He took another sniff, confirming in his mind the direction the orc was in, then bounded off, closing the distance before veering off quickly down an alley. A direct frontal assault would be foolish, even if he did have the element of surprise. An orc wasn’t going to shriek and cover their face like a human or an elf. They would attack. Mokkan needed to be smarter than that. A side attack would work, but he would need Belisaria to understand his plan and go for the orc’s other side at the same time. Two targets would be harder to hit than just one. They could disorient and confuse him while one of them went for the killing blow.

For now, the black furred fox was content to wait and stalk. The orc was moving slowly and unaware of the danger he was in. Mokkan could smell alcohol on him, that horrid drink that orcs consumed. What was it called? Grog? He snarled instinctively at the smell. The orc was drunk, that was clear, but the fox did not miss the wide scabbard the orc had belted around his waist, nor the two knife hilts strapped to his thigh. Those would have to be dealt with. The orc wasn’t wearing any armor though. He wore nothing but a hide jerkin and a pair trousers. Mokkan snarled with glee.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Thu Feb 25, 2021 12:08 am, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Nashguk
Somewhere in the Mountains of Angmar
Current Day (some years after his initial introduction post above)



Somewhere in the darkness, something dripped. Some thing dragging just enough sound forth into the shadows that you might be sure it was there. In the deep deep dark. It was not the steady dirge of a slow weeping stalagtite, nor the meekest shiver of an underwater stream. It was the thought of a dribble, salivating down the curved fang of some terror, just beyond the definition of true shape. Torches held against the hollowed cavern would make out hard rock, as brittle as dragon scales, raked though inside out. So that the walls and walkways both wore this skin, their harsh armour threatening to shred the soft skin of any who put out hand to touch. Any who dared tread the passage, through the labyrinth of tunnels, travelled through an endless vein of cold, hard stone. All the while seeing naught. All the while fighting off the feeling that some thing else, .. was watching.


Few held nerves for time enough to come to the true core of the gross cavity. None who did so ever then were permitted to leave. None save for the mangy wolves whose bellow racketed in fearsome echoes through the leagues to ward off the foolhardy. None save for the Orcs they bore, like crooked black thorns, upon their backs, contorting with wild whoops and shrieking gails of excitement as they headed out to hunt.

Nashguk no longer left the chamber. Wherein was the need, when he had amassed an assembly of willing acolytes ? Raucous, feral, savage, and unwilling to put thought to proper preservation. They required handling, and they answered only to fear. They answered to Nashguk. He handled their ilk within this fist of the mountain. He schooled them in fear. Their almighty squawkings upon any subject which they quarrelled, would have led to slaughter indiscriminate, and their numbers might then dwindle as a short-sighted result. Not if he had any say about it ! Squatting in the crooked spine of this arthritic old mountain ridge, they infested the shadows. They gnawed about the reaches of their lair. They were his own atrocious empire, to be fair, all they required was a press of encouragement.

Of course their numbers had dwindled in more recent years, and had never amassed a size to rival the hordes of Carn Dum. For this reason doubtless they had been permitted to persist. This long at least. It seemed likely they would soon succumb to yet another haunted tale, victim of the merciless North. There were less so travellers that ventured through the mountains so far from the High Passes these days. The nomadic mortal hill tribes were too hardy and used to such harsh existence, that they fought tooth and claw, selling each life dearly. These Menfolk were hard to find, impossible to predict, and far too vigilant to ever expose a weakness that might be exploited. The threat of unrest, disobedience, and outright civil war amongst the Orcs erupted. Their supplies of flesh grown sparse, until there were so few folk left to offer up any protest. The Orcs had begun to hunger as a direct response to a reduction in stock. They had fallen to type, turned upon each other and begun to quarrel quite incessantly.

So upon his throne he idled, and the seat did groan aneath him, though the sound bought him but pleasure. The great gluttonous Orc scratched at his cauliflower ear with a flesh-less human ulna, and the bone tool nuzzled against the grain of his glabrous cheek. Nashguk indulged in a glance down at the mound of bent and flattened pulp that were his unhappy prisoners. Restrained in such a derogatory fashion that one could not easily tell where one soul ended and another one began. All were similarly crushed beneath him. All were in their misery the same. His seat, his carpet, all a tapestry of living death. All had yet drawn breath when he secured them into place. Some, to their overwhelming abhorrence, did still.

Grasping down with a clawed hand, the Orc did not even give note from where or whom he tore a sizeable chunk of flesh. A snack. By which to further his entertainment. Blood pooled in an ever growing moat about his private island. It painted the yellowed fangs which protruded his jaw. One of the Orc’s eyes were vacant, white and sightless as a perfect marble. The other a gorge of some blatant absence. Where the ribbons of his cheek had been torn from the skull, and since then healed, in a plaited quilt of mismatched hue and texture.


He had no need to see for his sense of smell was beyond rival. He could tell a traitor even through the dankest moot of things malignant. The treachery of a panicked tone, the taint of fear in the sweat that stained a throbbing heart. Nashguk could turn in any given direction and glare daggers through any his eyes could not observe. His hearing was trained and honed from a life lived primarily in tunnels. He could gauge from an echo how far off was his target. His could estimate the rebound of a stone fall and taste the change in air fresh or stale, to determine his direction through the maze of the catacombs.

Very soon his life would depend upon it.

The disquieting melody of the latest meal’s sobbing filled his brute hearing, and the Orc conducted the orchestra of woe with his wand of human bone, as a baton, quite bemused. The other hand, yet dyed garnet with the fresh blood of his breathing, dying throne, he played the soft scatter of sharp claws along his armoured knee.

Somewhere in the darkness, some thing came. And some thing, Nashguk's cesspool of authority, was about to be tested. Not for the first time.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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Shytha
For war ..

She beat up a storm to ride, unbridled, throughout the calamity of her own arrogant construction. Gargantuan sails burgeoned from her spine toward a climax of cinereal wings. They raised her to the point of elevation and she toured the sky as a rogue cloud. The world was thrashed in flame and ruin; contorted to ash by the foul wind of the colossal fire demon. Shytha capered about the effulgent monument, flirting with the wanton peril of catching alight herself. The terror but heightened her delight.

She loosed a gale of shrill piercing note that rent the air, throwing back her head in utter unrestrained anarchy, as she fanned the flames of devastation. He unleashed and she directed. He was the furnace and she was the bellows. Together they were a team that brought new definition to all concepts of dread. Together they had razed the land, scorched the sea, and directed death to assume all that fell in their path.

It was a love affair engorged upon a hatred for everyone else that was not them. It was ... over ?



She had no intention of letting that be so. She had not surrendered the last two ages of labour to come away empty handed now. She would have him back. It was her fault he had been lost in the first, at least as much as it was his; but it was not guilt that drove the she-demon to resurrect her long-time accomplice. It was rather a childish sulk at having lost her favourite toy.

He had been showing off. Her architect of death. The War of Wrath had seen them put to road, but neither one had ever called it flight. Not in the sense of their fleeing. If they had been smart, they would have coveted discretion. Some of their kind had made pilgrimage deep underground, or so she had heard tell in days since then. But she, she had mocked his ego, and tickled his pride.

To prove he was not 'beaten', the fool Balrog had laid waste to most of the Northern reaches. Where there was snow, he had melted the ice into pools .... pools of tepid water. It was ironic, if you cme to think about it. Always she had flicked her gaze, apparently unmoved by his showcase of swagger. But another had paid attention to their rape of the natural world. And she had laughed at first, dared her partner in crime to face their pursuer face on.

Their battle had left an undeniable impact upon the mountainside where Asa had caught up with them. The stalwart rock of ages had reared up around the point where Shytha's playmate fell. A crater had dimpled the hardy terrain, only spreading with the land-splitting contortions where the beast had stamped his fury, and tumbled yet further through the earth. She had watched from vantage point as her abettor had been laced by bond, and anchored ever to the dirt. She had seen the very mountains that he had eroded with a molted touch fall to thawing ice, and obliterate his passioned efforts.

He had laughed right up until the last moment, so sure that none could fell him.

He had been wrong.

And soon after there was but the sole pool in all of Angmar which seared as a sweltering lagoon. For two long ages of the most accursed sun ...




Shytha stalked the Lieutenant's chamber with the impatience of a caged lion. Her sharp eyes caught with no occasion about the wide-flung window. She had long since shattered the stained glass that once had barricaded out the elements unruly. She was an element most unruly. And she was not best suited to disappointment. It brought out the worst in her. The fool Human should have returned some hours since.

She did not miss his touch or even his devoted promises. There was very little she could stand about the pompous wretch. Excepting for what he could do for her. For that purpose and that purpose alone, Shytha had endured his satyric desires. He named her his Goddess, and he had dedicated his efforts to appeasing her, or so he had spoke aloud. But she knew his mind, and the greed that had festered there since first she had sowed the seeds of power within his glutinous pomp.

Men. Beasts. All craved power. And it had been a relatively simple task for the winged harpy to convince her Mortal thrall that he might become master of a Balrog ...

But he was not the first as she had compelled to such an ambitious errand. There had been countless that toiled under the self-professed Witchking, countless as had craved power their own. There had stood a garrison aside the 'Summerhole' (as that rare scorching waterpit had become known). Many had believed it sacred. Sacrifices had been offered to the burning pool. Firstborn children deliberately drowned about the bank.

An entire garrison had once been fortified not far away. A tower of strength, though Mortal strength. And they had imbued magicks of old Morgul wonder to the task of harnessing the power of the odd oasis in a winterland. They had none of them guessed just what had been almost within their reach. And Shytha should have blushed to admit just how many countless years she had allowed them to admire her, as their most anarchic blessing.

She had swollen so fat on their love that she had utterly foregone with any notion of revealing a rival to her claim. And so the spells that they evolved behind a veil of arcane exploration, were locked within a book, and never come to fruition. But that tower, and all of it's inhabitants had crumbled, as does time take from all that do not know the numb joy of Immortality. Shytha had a theory that her foe, Asa had somehow sabotaged her crown of acolytes himself, as they drew too immense in power. But she could not prove it.

Nonetheless she grew enamoured of the plot to settle his attention elsewhere. A warden's eye is ever watchful, and she faithfully diverted horror, woe and terror all about the warmer plains, to draw the boyscout Maia south. And then ... soon after, there had come a spattering of Hillmen, scratching out a living in the shadow of a great stone claw; a remnant of rock formation kicked up when the demon had fallen. As many before them, they had wondered at the mystical pool, and exploited it's chaarms to survive the icy winters.

This time, Shytha had not dared appear before them herself, for fear of attracting undue attention. This time she had pulled the strings of a particularly ambitious lieutenant. The Hillmen, they had been defeated by the promise of great power that was never intended to be their reward. And so, they had dug laboriously for years about the ruins of that devastated garrison of old. And so they had sought with sweat and strong winter-hardened limbs to uncover the book.

The book that held the power to resurrect a demon, and whatever else those occult devotees had conjured to achieve.

The lieutenant had gone to inspect the progress of the Hillmen. The lieutenant should have returned by now.

Wax dribbled from long spent candles now like hardened icicles, and Shytha narrowed her colourless eyes. Something, she concluded, had again gone awry.

Splaying out her wings like an unstoppable contagion of ills, the she-demon let the mortal trappings of her desguise fall from her gaunt form. Raptorous talons wrenched a portion of the granite window ledge from it's form as she erupted into the sky. The stone scraps smashed about the courtyard down below, as Shytha stole the sky. She was done with observing success grasped from her fingertips at the last moment. She was not about to write off the last two ages as an embarrassing waste of time.

She wanted what was hers. If she were mortal, it might be assumed that she was lonely. But she was a thing removed from such emotion.
She wanted what was hers. But when she saw the devastation of the Hillmen's lowly camp, when she found the battered helm of her selected champion, when she saw the trails of blood leaking back toward the dark jaws of the Mountain's deepest holes, in that moment she wanted something else.

She wanted REVENGE ! She knew who lurked in those fathomless holes of the earth. Those fool Orcs had forgotten the days when demons ruled. It was more than time to remind them.
Last edited by Ercassie on Sun Jan 03, 2021 10:10 pm, edited 1 time in total.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not touched by the frost.

Wainrider
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Fenrir
Throne Room - Meeting the Delgaran

He espied the ramparts and walls of the structures of Angmar from afar, even though all the wind, sleet and snow. For he was a werewolf, the kind which was designed even by Morgoth to hunt in any condition, unceasingly. A beast of hunger he was, and yet one of more intelligence and understanding that mere wargs and riding beasts. He was prideful, which showed as he walked tall. He had wisdom, which showed as he stuck to the shadows even as he neared the Castle.

Not many were there, at least not many that he could find. A few orcs were there, scurrying about their work, and some evil and swarthy men as well. Well, he cared not for them. His business was with the sorceress of the castle today.

In he went, his cold feet quickly pattering up the stone steps. Inside the cavernous halls, were rooms enormous and long winding staircases. Some smaller orcs or goblins wanted to stop him, but almost immediately drew back on seeing his size. For Fenrir, the werewolf was of huge stature, enormous even.

In time he found his way to the throne room. It was empty, and yet he felt that he was being watched with eyes unseen. There was evil here, one that made even his own skin colder than the icy wind outside. Yet he waited patiently.

Snaga
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Ugol - Orc Scout
Wilderness of Mt. Gundabad


chunk

A bolt flew out of the fog blanketing the wilds of Mt. Gundabad and sunk deep into the flank of a deer, which was attempting to scratch off the frost from around a tuft of foliage peeking out from the blanket of snow that covered the mountain. The deer, pierced in the heart, crumpled over dead. Out of the mists, a black shape emerged, dressed in black leathers and rotting fur, and carrying a crossbow about as large as his torso. Ugol, Orc-Scout in the armies of Angmar, walked over to the deer. Taking a rugged dagger from the scabbard on his waist, he used it to saw off one of the legs at the joint.

"Hunters get first portions, methinks." Ugol said to himself as he brought the limb to his mouth. Blood from the limb flowed into his mouth, and he felt a shudder down his spine has he began to taste the gamey flesh. It wasn't as supple or sweet as manflesh, but that bounty would come later.

The Orcs had been mustered at some time coinciding with the rise of the Queen of Iron. For years after the disappearance of the Lord of Angmar, the Orcs of Mt. Gundabad had been largely self-governing, with a rough confederation of disparate tribes competing in the area for resources. When Damrod the pretender was killed, the Orcs of Gundabad were all too happy to be ruled by a proper heir to the lands of Angmar. Despite their shared allegiance to the Queen of Iron, the Orcs still fought amongst themselves, as it had always been.

"Nice catch, Ugol." Came a screeching voice from the mists. Another black shape appeared, similar to Ugol in build.

"Like that, did you Zogg?" Ugol replied, tearing another piece of venison from the limb.

"Of course. Who doesn't like finding a perfectly good deer, already shot, without having to do any of the dirty work?" Zogg cackles, a cough erupting from his iced lungs. It was a common affliction in the camp.

"I don't think you've found anything of the sort. If you did more huntin' than you do skulkin', you might even get to use that crossbow of yours. How many times have you fired it? Has the coil been loosed since it was first drawn back? I'd say it hasn't." Ugol replies.

"That's a lot of big talk for a man without a fresh bolt ready. Surely, you've been paying attention during the drills?" Zogg says.

Ugol knew Zogg's plan. Despite Zogg's ineptness in nearly every other aspect of camp-life, he was a talented scout. It was often said of him that he rivaled the halflings in stealth. Zogg had no doubt followed Ugol, aware of his skill with the crossbow, as evidenced by the animal skins draping his shoulders. Zogg, alternatively, wore only the extra camp leathers that barely protected one from frostbite. He had not been awarded any portion of animal fur to protect himself from the elements. He was no hunter.

"Whatever you're going to do. Make sure you do it quick. I'd hate for you to never fire that weapon of yours." Ugol taunted him.

Zogg had the physique of the goblin-Orcs, minus the lithe strength of limbs. Zogg survived based on his ability to betray his allies and curry favor with the Orc Captains he served under. When he was found out to be a thief and a coward, he'd simply hop to another Orc camp. But in this instance, Zogg has overplayed his hand. Ugol assumed the cold was getting to him. Zogg struggled to raise the large crossbow. Taking this opportunity, Ugol tossed his dagger toward the cur. It buried itself deep in Zogg's chest. Instinctively, he dropped his crossbow.

"GREAAAAAAAGH!" Zogg shrieked. Ugol was upon him immediately. He twisted the knife as he plunged it deeper into Zogg's chest.

"Sorry lad. Them's the breaks." Ugol whispered.

Ugol kept the pressure on the daggger until Zogg has stopped moving, before drawing it out of the wound and sheathing it. He searched Zogg's body, finding nothing but additional bolts for his crossbow, which would save him the time of having to make more, later. He deposited them into his quiver, and made his way back to his initial kill. He took a few more large bites from the leg, and tossed it in the snow. He wasn't overly concerned about anyone finding out about the murder of Zogg. It had been self-defense, and even should a party make their way into the wilderness, the corpse would be long devoured by the howling wargs in the distance.

Ugol picked up his crossbow and slung it back over his arm.He placed the deer over his shoulders and made his way back toward the Orc Hunting Encampment, where he would be rewarded with more animal fur for his winter cloak, as well as an increased portion of the meat. More than anything, he longed for orc-draught, which could eliminate the hardships of an Orcish existence. For a few hours, anyway.

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The Keep, Throne Room

The woman who entered was unusual for these parts. It was true, comers from all over had been drawn to Angmar since the Delgaran’s rise to power, but this one was something a bit different. It was rare for one from as far south as she to make their way this far north, Amarthel herself being something of an exception to this rule. Then again, she was an exception to many rules. The woman strode across the room with deliberation, taking in her surroundings, and as she studied the throne room, its queen studied her. She was tall; nothing compared to the vampire who had just left, but tall for a woman, though not for an elf. Her hair was rich and black, her skin pale and fair, in sharp contrast to she toward whom she strode. Such beauty as had been bestowed on this woman was, in Amarthel’s experience, either given to those of pure heart and mind, or those… not. The fact that this newcomer was here betrayed which of them she was. The grace and quiet of her step betrayed her penchant for stealth, and the side-to-side movement of her head betrayed her lack of custom to walking such halls as these- openly, at least.

Zôrzimril. It had been a long, long time since anyone had spoken that name in the Delgaran’s presence. This Zôrzimril was not to know, of course, but still it drew a slight, soft sound of amusement from the swarthy woman on the dais. Amarthel listened with interest to the rest of her speech, for indeed House Azgarâbêl was of special interest to her, and she had not yet had the leisure to satisfy herself as to the circumstances of its destruction. Now, its last member had come to her, and with information of a plot. She upraised a letter. House Castamir. Another item of special interest, for this house was hers, and the Delgaran had been its head. In some ways, she still was. For the first time since the Númenorean woman had entered, Amarthel moved. She took one step down, onto the last stair before the floor of the throne room, and held out one hand. She bent its fingers toward herself, indicating that Zôrzimril should hand the letter over. When she had done so, the Delgaran snapped it open.

… In light of the Delgaran's long absence, House Castamir grows weak. While her eyes are elsewhere, the time is ripe…

Those eyes moved side to side as they took in the contents of the letter, and their fire seemed to darken and intensify in silent rage. Enmity between Houses was eternal in Umbar, that was nothing new, and neither was violence between them. But to first assume that Castamir was weak due to her absence, and then to assume that she would not by some manner or other discover this plot? The Delgaran’s eyes and ears in the south were many. And, it seemed, comprised more persons than even she had realized. Her eyes flicked up to lock with Zôrzimril’s.

“Zôrzimril,” Amarthel spoke at last, rolling the name over in her mouth, relishing the pointed syllables of her native tongue. Even longer since she had spoken this name. “Curious, that you should make such a journey to bring this news to me. From whence comes such loyalty? And such willingness to step into the viper’s nest that is the conflict of major Houses? Tell me, child of Azruzimril’s house. Are you Zîrphêlyi?”



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The Keep, Throne Room
timeloop – after Zôr leaves

In the aftermath of the meeting with Zôrzimril, the Delgaran had extinguished the throne room’s fiery channel at a word, plunging the room back into murky darkness, with only the light of its braziers offering some faint umber relief. She had mounted the steps and thrown herself down upon the throne: not seated upright as though to hold court, but slung sideways across it, as if to lounge. The throne had been carved long ago for a king much larger than she, and Amarthel’s head settled upon one arm rest, while her knees crossed and hooked across the other, her feet dangling towards the floor. A bit of contemplation was called for, and this was as suitable a place as any. Another word, and the sight of her even in the shadows was masked; no movement or gleam of her red eyes would betray her, should any intrude. The Delgaran steepled the tips of her fingers together over her abdomen, and began to think.

It was not long, however, before just such an intrusion occurred. Belzagar must have left his post to someone less reliable, or simply abandoned it completely. In either case, another newcomer had come to her hall, this one more bestial than the last. The werewolf (Fenrir) was nearly of a size to compare with Khaine, the chiefest of the weres which dwelt in their warrens beneath Carn Dûm. The Delgaran watched him as he entered the throne room, oblivious to her presence. He did not howl, growl, or shout, merely waited quietly. Interesting. With a snap of her fingers, the Queen of Iron caused the narrow raised trench on the right side of the hall to spring to life again, flames bursting into crackling life to re-illuminate the room with their flickering fingers. Not bothering to assume a for formal posture, she dismissed the force which had masked her from the werewolf’s sight with a wave of her hand. Allowing this same hand to turn over languidly in the air, she questioned him.

“Well, what do you want?”
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Belisaria
Carn Dûm with Mokkan

The crisp night air passed almost noiselessly over the huge pied bat, her wings fluttering rapidly but with the stealth of a huntress who has honed her craft through long ages of the world. Below her, the city of Carn Dûm was all cold stone and whispers, with thieves and unsavory creatures creeping from shadow to shadow; Belisaria and Mokkan added two to their number. While the black fox stalked the streets, the striped bat swept the skies. Together, they had slaughtered creatures great and small, the fox’s cruelty matched by the bat’s voracious appetite.

Belisaria, for her part, relished not only the feasts, but also the freedom these hunts afforded her from the oppressive force of her master’s volition. The pied bat had been bound to Arioch and to the unending appetite he instilled in her since before the changing of the world. This hunger, inflicted by the master who also had never failed to provide her with sustenance, was an endless and desperate torment. To receive sustenance from him was a temporary salve which could not heal the wounds to her will. So on nights like these, she took ownership of her desires and feasted on her own terms, taking and taking and giving nothing of herself in return.

Despite the distance between herself and the fox, Belisaria sensed when his pace slowed. He had found a likely victim, and now she must understand his plan. She dove closer and circled the scene, observing the orc who stumbled through the streets, not fully possessed of its senses. She only hoped it was not so far gone into drink as to be numb to pain or to be unaware when life inevitably fled from its flesh. Belisaria might be ravenous, but she was patient, too - she delighted in the suffering she and her companion could inflict.

Mokkan was considering the orc. He padded out and to the side of the target, and Belisaria knew he meant to attack from both sides. She flew over the fox and landed, gripping the edge of a roof jutting out over a nearby stone building, watching and waiting for the signal to strike.

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Zôrzimril
The Throne Room

In the light of the flames flickering the length of the throne room, Zôrzimril observed Amarthel Delgaran. She watched the way the queen extended an expectant hand, the way she snapped open a letter, the way her eyes moved across the parchment whose contents had been Zôr’s burden and her motivation these last months. What to make of a legend from the south who had become a queen in the north? Zôrzimril, a woman who had orchestrated crimes of modest scale and often petty nature, could sense in the Delgaran’s story a series of lessons to be learned. She had never before craved power - pleasure and plenty had long satisfied - but now her interest was piqued.

She had expected to be questioned thoroughly. For this reason, she had brought both letter and book. For this reason, she had prepared her answers, laying awake beneath the stars or in roadside inns as she journeyed north. For this reason, she smiled.

“The title of Zîrphêlyi I have not claimed,” she began. “I was young when my house was destroyed - too young to be aware of the machinations of my house or any of the others. What I know of these women, and of you, I have learned from the scribes.” She removed the age-worn book from her bag and flicked it open to the pages concerning her family. “‘The support of the Delgaran was a formidable weapon in the arsenal of Azruzimril Azgarâbêl,’” she read aloud. “‘Backed by an unshakeable power and armed with weighty secrets, the earliest Daughters of Desire rose quickly, moving from the beds of the lords of Umbar to their council chambers.’” She paused and inclined her head with genuine respect. “If you raised my house from nothing,” she explained, “my duty as its last member is to see to it that yours does not fall.”

Zôr closed the book and gazed steadily back at the red eyes boring into her, no doubt searching out signs of her intent, her trustworthiness, or indeed, any resemblance to the women who had come before her. “Yet this information was not what I sought when I found it,” she went on. “I was long ignorant of the reasons for my family’s destruction; I believed it to have been an accident. I know better now, though. I know there was a plot to ruin us, but I know nothing of the motive, nothing of the perpetrators. I come to you to offer this information and my support, such as it is, and to ask if you would take up the cause of my house once more. Even if it is only to snuff out those who destroyed it so long ago.”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Mokkan
The Streets of Carn Dûm

With the distant sound of fluttering in his ears, Mokkan crouched low for the initial attack. He couldn’t see her, her form nearly invisible in the gloom of night, but sensing her imminent presence sent feelings of murderous glee through him; a sound emerged from his throat that was mixture of a hiss and a growl. The pale, gibbous moon was covered by clouds, barely able to pierce through with a dim, grey light. The air was still and quiet, a heavy chill lay heavy over everything, weighing down his prey. The black fox though, inhaled the frozen air and felt alive. With each breath, he could feel himself sliding more and more into the shadows. The air was becoming less and less alien to him. The myriad scents of Carn Dûm were slowly becoming more familiar to him. The smell of the city was nothing like the smell of his forest, it was fouler and unnatural. The smell of stone and bipedal life was pervasive and invasive. He hated it. Yet this is where his Mistress chose to put her throne, and he would never question her. Her will was his law. In the lurking gloom under the trees of Mirkwood he was a lord, he spent years, decades, centuries carving out the kingdom he ruled with an iron paw. His rule was absolute, and his rule was red. He was new here; he would need to establish his dominance. What better way than to begin his killing the night he arrived? The black pads of his feet barely touched the ground as he stalked his prey.

The orc, no, he was no longer worthy of that title. He was no orc anymore, he was nothing but a victim, a sacrifice. His Mistress demanded sacrifices from him, and he was only too happy to oblige. The sable fox did not understand what his Mistress gained from the attacks he perpetuated or the sacrifices he made in her honor, but it was not for him to understand, only obey. And he obeyed with gusto. His greatest pleasure was to kill, and she had harnessed him, given him purpose and value. The blood he split was shed in her name, and the pathetic mortals he slew were finally given the purpose they had sought in their miserable existence. He was their savior, their redeemer. The old saying wasn’t quite true. Your killer could your christ, but he would still bring them nothing but complete demise.

He struck. Power and force coiled in his limbs, loaded like catapult. The potential energy burst, rupturing the night and transformed into deadly kinetic energy. Over hundreds of years, he had perfected his strike. He could bring down a bear with a single lunge. He knew exactly where to strike and exactly how to shred his victims. But he wanted this being, this thing, this inconsequential footnote, to suffer. To suffer was to experience transcendence. He had suffered when she tore him apart and remade him. He had suffered agonies beyond description and thus had transcended to a power greater and more terrible than this world had yet witnessed. This orc would not reach such levels, but he would see the heavens torn asunder.

Mokkan’s jaws snapped like a steel trap, stronger and more vicious than a wolf three times his size. His razor-sharp teeth tore through flesh, muscle, and bone. Blood filled the fox’s mouth. A lesser being, a mortal fox, would have been over overwhelmed with the desire to kill, to end the fight as quickly as they could. But not Mokkan. He had only just begun. He jerked his head back, keeping his jaws locked tight. Flesh tore and a scream filled the air. Mokkan came away with the creatures hand, still wriggling in his mouth. Now was the time for Belisaria to take her strike.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Belisaria
Carn Dûm with Mokkan

With a light tick, clack sound, Belisaria moved her feet along the roof's edge. She was restless. Stillness did not suit her, unless that stillness involved sleep. She was a hunter, a scout, a bearer of burdens - many things, and all of them reliant upon movement and purpose. From experience, she knew that the tension would build within her and explode into an attack, but still. She was restless.

The bat was not worried that the sounds of her feet would attract the orc’s attention. By the way it staggered and stank, the drink had clearly left it bereft of any awareness extending beyond perhaps a few inches in front of its feet and face. It did not even hear the growl from the fox, who was lurking much closer. Belisaria stretched a few times in her restlessness; with each motion, her wings extended, their membranes tautening between each finger. She drew them to her sides once more and watched as the fox stalked their prey. Though his black fur melted into the shadows, she emitted sound too shrill even for him to hear and sensed his presence through the images that formed in her mind. In this way, she saw him close the distance remaining between himself and the orc, his powerful limbs propelling him forward to collide with their victim. The ancient fox was elegant, cunning, and savage: in short, the perfect partner for such sport.

Within the realm of audible sound, a sudden scream rent the air; the stone buildings and even the surrounding rocky slopes amplified and replicated the sound. Beneath the scream, Belisaria noted other sounds: the sawing and grinding of teeth on bones before they snapped, the snarl from the fox, and the wet ripping of flesh. The fox detached itself from the orc, holding its hand in his mouth. Belisaria licked her lips. Mokkan had his first prize of the night, and the creature was debilitated for the moment.

She released her grip on the roof, falling with practiced grace until she spread her wings and soared, then fluttered toward the injured orc. Its eyes were closed; its mouth yawned wide in its continued howl of agony. Belisaria folded her wings to alight and landed, gripping its collarbone so she could lean over its face and peer into its eyes. Her weight made the creature stagger, and she squeaked her delight when its eyes flew open. Through near-blinding pain, the orc saw the glow of two large, yellow eyes staring down at it from a black and white striped face. The orc screamed, and Belisaria sank her claws deeper into its flesh. She could feel the solid bone beneath tender flesh. She clung on even as the orc shook its head and waved its one good hand at her. She trusted that this functional arm would be dealt with expediently by Mokkan and ignored the blows which fell around and upon her. She was a bat of unusual size, and she would not be deterred by the mere flailings of this wretched creature.

Blood dripped from the puncture wounds made by her claws and ran down the orc’s chest and into its raggedy shirt like sweat on a hot day. Its shouts were muffled beneath her bulk. She flapped her wings to ward off its hand for the moment, then - with practiced accuracy - hooked the claws of her thumbs into its lower eyelids. Delicate though her wings appeared, she was strong. Deliberately and slowly, she pulled down the fragile skin of its eyelids, watching as the redness of the inner lids were revealed. The orc’s eyes widened and swiveled back and forth in its panic. It tried again to beat her away. She shrieked as one blow fell upon her head, but still she clung on. She bit down on its nose and tore away a chunk of flesh in retribution, then returned to her work on its eyes.

She sniffed. Were those tears? She hadn’t known many orcs to cry, yet the tang of salt met her nose. Squeaks of mirth surged from her throat as her claws traced parallel red lines down its cheeks.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Colleth
The Dagger

The journey to the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains had taken so long that Carn Dûm may as well have been perched on the edge of the earth, for all Colleth cared to continue northward (she didn’t). She remembered the world before this city and its fortress had been established, in days before the fall of Anadûnê which had long faded, like the isle itself, into the shadowy depths of time. Her gaze strayed into the stony hills, seeking a glimpse of the temple. At this angle and distance, though, she could not make it out. Perhaps, someday, she would make a detour there.

For now, she made her way through the recently reanimated city toward a far more mundane destination: the pub. A little way off the main road, she found it, the typical weather-worn sign swinging in the breeze and calling to drunkards and travelers alike like a vibrant beacon.

She pushed her way into the establishment and instinctively scanned the room. Glowing feline eyes stared back, but save for the cats and an old man behind the bar, the place was empty. Colleth hid her disappointment at this fact behind an impassive expression and made her way to the bar.

“Something to drink?” queried the barkeep.

“Wine,” came her curt reply. “Red.”

Colleth dug into her bag and retrieved the proper coin to pay; she pushed the silver across the bar in exchange for the drink she’d requested, then slid herself into a seat. The stark table’s only adornment was a lit candle. With the pub presently empty, she would simply have to wait. She sipped her wine slowly, lost in thought and mesmerized by the tiny flame flickering before her.
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The Dagger

Tired, bedraggled, and thirsty, the pale dwarf staggered his way into the Dagger. It was dimly lit and poorly furnished, but none of that ever mattered to Regin. He’d been working in the forges of Carn Dûm for nearly a century now and in all that time the Dagger’s appearance had never really changed. Change was bad, he decided. Change was the thing that would lead him to an early grave, or an empty tankard. He couldn’t tell what might have been worse. As plain as the Dagger was, it was comforting. He liked it. The poor light helped his eyes, sensitive to the onslaught of the sun, and the spartan furnishings reminded him of his home.

“’Tis another day, overworked and underpaid, I think that I should have a hard lemonade.” He waved his hand to the bartender without bothering to look. He’d been here so often and for so long they always knew what to get him and where he’d be sitting.

Speaking of sitting, there was someone in his seat! Regin fumed and scowled. He couldn’t quite tell who or what it was that was sitting in his lucky spot, but they were about get a piece of his mind. “So, you think that my spot is yours to take? I’m ‘bout to show you that’s a big mistake.”

He sat down hard across the table, in a spot he was very unused to. He hated this angle. He couldn’t see the doorway, nor could he watch any of the kitchen wenches going about their work (one of his favorite after work pastimes). He squinted as the candle provided almost no light, but gave him enough of an outline to know this newcomer (it would have to be a newcomer who was sitting in his spot) was a human or possibly an elf, he couldn’t discern the gender, but knew it was best to put a tough boot forward from the start.

“State yer name ‘n’ what be in yer head, do dream up somethin’ good or you’ll be dead.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Colleth
The Dagger

The wait did not last long. She had just brought her glass to her lips for a third time when the door swung open and in walked a dwarf (Regin). She’d not met many dwarves in her time, but this one certainly broke the mold a bit. One of Colleth’s dark eyebrows arched curiously at his milky skin, his vivid hair and beard. By the way he gestured at the barman, he was a regular here, and the dark hollows around his eyes suggested he might be tired and sluggish. His staggering gait did not exactly convey the impression of an individual with his full wits about him. Perfect.

Even better was that he approached her. Colleth swallowed her wine, hiding the smile which threatened to tug at the corners of her mouth, and delicately set down her glass. She rested her elbows upon the table and leaned forward, the better to see him and, in turn, to show herself in the dim candlelight.

“I’m afraid my name is not something I give freely to strangers. Not in places like Carn Dûm,” she replied evenly. “Surely, a local such as yourself would expect nothing less than that. However,” and here, she smiled, “the things in my head might be easier to come by, if you’ll be kind enough to let me live.”
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The Dagger

Aha! It was a human! And woman. Regin squinted as he sat. The women were the ones with the higher pitched voices weren’t they? Regin had never bothered to figure that out. He really should, he realized as he sat down and felt the darkness envelop him, the Queen was a woman. Did she have a deep voice? He couldn’t remember. He’d only been in the throne room the one time and everything had moved so fast he didn’t have a chance to actually sit back and reflect on it. He’d sworn allegiance to her along with the rest of his clan, made some sacrifices, then was shuffled off to begin work in the forges. She’d accepted and said some flowery poetry but for the life of him, Regin couldn’t remember what it was that she sounded like.

The woman, he was reasonably sure it was a woman he sat across from, was being obstinate. Humans were obstinate creatures, the lot of them. He sighed and stretched out in his seat. He hated this cushion. It was stiff and cold, not worn and warm like the one she’d stolen.

“Be that as it may, you have certainly caused me some dismay. You took my seat and my view, so things in your head ought not be few.”

He folded his arms across his broad, muscular chest. The more Regin looked at her, the more she began to unnerve him. Most humans shied away from the dwarves here, especially him with his pale, pale skin. In many of the Dwarven Houses, such pale skin would be an ill omen, a curse that the house would seen expose to the elements and be rid of, but not his clan. His clan saw the pale dwarf as a blessing, a sign of good fortune and prosperity. His birth had been the catalyst that brought his people here in the first place. Why was she so calm? He fidgeted with the edge of the table, whittling away at the wood with his hard nails and calloused fingers.

“I’m called Regin, just so you know, and I ain’t got no ill will I want to sow; however should you withhold, I'll have to do something bold. You say you have things in your head, well then show me, so we can break bread.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Keep, Throne Room
with Zôrzimril

Zôrzimril’s declaration of duty rang, if not precisely hollow, full of self-interest. There was, the Delgaran surmised, some truth to the compulsion of her journey north, otherwise she would not have made such a long and perilous trek, rather stayed south to ferret out what she could about the destruction of her house. To many in Umbar now, Amarthel knew, she was something of a phantasm- half history, half legend, a bogeyman to frighten children and enemies with. But this Zôrzimril had looked beyond the spectre, and discovered enough truth to guide her north to Angmar, and the real-life source of the tales, and the history of her fallen house. The Delgaran watched the woman as she read from the book, ragged and tired with age, and thought back to her intervention in the rise of House Azgarâbêl. It had scarcely been a house then, merely a possibility, headed by the clever and ambitious Azruzimril.

Even in those days, when her first name had just begun to fade from popular memory, Amarthel had maintained a network of eyes and ears, and as head of House Castamir, her influence had been even greater than before; her ascendancy has been seen as long overdue by some, and feared by many others. She had been always a woman in a man’s world on the high seas, and was as ruthless in the council chamber as she was a corsair, and as intolerant of the bloviating artifice of men. Azruzimril’s tactics attracted her attention and, in exchange for a steady supply of the information she had her Zîrphêlyi extracted from their prey, her support, in many ways. The house was well established and strong by the time the Delgaran had abandoned her headship of Castamir, and it joined the ranks of things, places, and people she kept tabs on while away from Umbar. But in recent years, it seemed. The city had forgotten that she was never truly gone. Angmar was Amarthel’s dominion now, but Umbar was her home. Deliberately, she folded the letter, watching the seams tighten as she zipped her fingernails along them.

“It is true that House Azgarâbêl rose by my hand, and it pleases me that house loyalty is not forgotten by its last daughter. No house is too great to fall, not even Castamir. But it seems that some have forgotten the reach of Castamir’s hand, and the respect we are due,” the Delgaran’s burning gaze flicked back up to Zôrzimril’s, “It may be possible that the destruction of your house and the plot against mine are connected- even probable. An offense against one is an offense against both. Perhaps it is time,” the swarthy woman considered, slipping the letter inside her jerkin, “that I pay a visit to the Haven, and remind those who would plot of the peril that comes from coveting things which are mine.”



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The Dagger

Coruglîn was a small, lean man with a pointed, ratlike face, further accentuated by his pointed, ratlike beard. A thief and an acrobat, he tumbled his way through life in Carn Dûm, cutting a purse here, winning a game there, fighting the odd duel, and generally being about the Queen’s covert and malevolent business. He could hardly have asked to have fallen into a better lot than when the Delgaran came north to claim her throne, and made it his business to do her business well, retain favor, and amuse himself as much as possible along the way. The Dagger being his favorite haunt as well as the only place where he could regularly find a man with a more noteworthy nose than his own, which was a welcome change, Coruglîn passed through it doors with an expansive sigh and a banging of wood as the door boune off its stop.

“Really,” Edgar Balthazar drawled painedly from behind the bar, “must you?”

“Yes, my good sir!” Coruglîn crowed, “Thus do I announce my presence into your august establishment, and proclaim its glory to the world!” Balthazar sighed deeply, but produced the thief’s standing order: a small glass of deep burgundy liqueur, and a foaming mug of ale so dark it was almost black. Sweeping up his treasures, Coruglîn claimed one of the small tables along a wall with a good view of both door and bar, and nudged out the chair opposite him slightly. Who, if anyone, might join him today? One never knew. From his position, he could also eavesdrop on the conversation taking place between a man and woman (Regin and Colleth) at the bar, but forestalled interference, for the moment.
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The Streets of Carn Dûm

Where Mokkan was vicious and quick, Belisaria was graceful and savage. With as much violence as he could, Mokkan ripped through bone, muscle, and organ; doing his best to cause as much pain and suffering as he could in the orc. Whatever cruel misery he could cause strengthened him and, in turn, would strengthen his Mistress. While she would not approve of him killing all the orcs within the hidden city, he was quite certain he would be permitted an allowance of bodies to mangle and shred. Some he and Belisaria would kill, feasting on the flesh of the undeserving and unfortunate, like this poor wretch. Others though they would leave alive, mangled and crippled, forced to carry out the rest of their miserable lives in fear and pain. They were both delicious.

There was still some life in this creature. Still some semblance of pride. Mokkan barked a vicious laugh. It thought it was going to get away from them. Silly little rabbit. He bit again, harder. He could feel tendons and ligaments sever and pop. The orc's blood was sweet with fear. It was distracted by the giant pied bat, trying in vain to keep her fangs and wings from tearing away the flesh of his face. She liked that, going for the face. He approved. There was good meat up there, tender and succulent. The black fox had always preferred the organs though, rich in flavor and survival necessities. He let go of the orcʼs hand just as the creature pulled with all his might, trying to rip free. The resulting force caused him to lose his balance, his hand went up to his face and scored a blow. Mokkan giggled with a mouth full of blood. He did not let the orc rest however, he jumped on the legs and tore at the tendon just above the ankle. One bite, two bites. And thatʼs all it took to bring the him down permanently. The orc twisted, trying to break his fall and not land flat on his face. But naturally, that was a mistake. Mokkan capitalized on the drunken thingʼs error.

He leapt on the exposed belly, covered only in a dirty scrap of linen masquerading as clothing, and bit. The orc seized up, trying to curl into a ball to protect himself. But it was already too late. The fox (and the bat) were already in the hen house, there was no use in trying to close the doors now. With sharp claws (much sharper than a normal foxʼs), Mokkan practically dug into the orcʼs belly. He ripped through the muscles, tearing off chunks and devouring them until he exposed the intestines and stomach. The orc fouled itself in its panic. It knew the end was coming.

The great darkness was coming for it. It would go into the void, never knowing why it had been chosen, never understanding why of all the orcs in Carn Dûm he had been selected to be sacrificed. But he did not deserve such knowledge. He was owed naught but pain and fear.

Mokkan bit the intestines and began pulling them out. They steamed in the cool evening air as he devoured them greedily and messily. The smell of blood was so strong in the foxʼs nose that he was almost unaware of anything else happening around him. Almost. He looked to Belisaria and barked a triumphant sound. Theyʼd succeeded! It
was their first outing together, their first kill. The efficiency with which they took down this orc boded well for their future endeavors.

Mistress, he called out with his mind, I have made a new sacrifice for you. Blood for the Mother of Monsters.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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If I Had a Hammer
The Forges of Carn Dûm

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CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG. The sound of the hammer against molten steel was like sweet music to his ears. He wiped his brow with a padded forearm and set aside his tools to look at his creation. It was still far from done, but it was already a thing of beauty. His chest heaved from the exertion and heat. He had been inside the forges now for nearly three hours and the heat was oppressive. Yet he did not feel weak. With each clang of the hammer, his vision was coming closer to fruition, and his goals were that much closer. Horna was pleased with himself.

He wiped his brow again and flicked the sweat onto the straw covered floor. He looked about the empty forge and smiled. Again, he was the first to arrive and the last to leave. Ever since his arrival to Angmar, he had been about the work. The work was all that had mattered to him. He had no time for niceties or friendly games of darts and arm wrestling at the Dagger. Horna had never been frivolous, he could not afford to be. He and his brother had made a pact with one another, that they would be the rulers of the orcs one day, and how could one become a ruler if one did not put in the hard work? He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. It was easy enough to show his prowess as a master forger and as a pugilist. The first day he arrived, heʼd been accosted by a gang of three wannabe tough guys, men from deep within the Mountains of Angmar looking to trade pelts and raw material for alcohol and food. They didnʼt think an orc on his own would be any problem. They had never encountered an orc from the swamps. It is not enough to say Horna put the fear of the Witch-King in them, because only one of them survived the brief fight. Human spines broke so easily. From that moment on, he established himself as an orc to be reckoned with. He was no manʼs fool and he was as much a beast as he was an orc. None dared cross him after that first day. Heʼd been bought a dozen drinks at the Dagger later, both as a welcome and a celebration of his victory over the humans. He stayed long enough to form connections, find work, and find a place to live. Otherwise he had no use for such fraternizations. He rented an alcove behind the forges, a tiny place barely large enough for a cot, a table and a basket. It was all he needed. He proved himself a master forger the first day he arrived to work, fulfilling the order from on high for massive iron chains faster than anyone else, he also pointed out the inferiority of the metal they had been using buy ripping the chains apart with his bare hands. If he could do that, imagine what Yarltang would to them if he found their shoddy work. He was in control of this particular forge within a week, the old master, some human from down south, objected to his popularity. When his head was found mounted on a set of perfectly crafted iron spikes, the objections stopped.

Soon after a group of young orcs and goblins began to follow him around and emulate his serious demeanor and work ethic. They had spread from a few lads in the forges to all members of the auxiliary forces in the city, carpenters, masons, loggers, and millers. None from the “legendary” Mount Gundabad, but Horna knew they would follow soon enough. They were praised for their prowess and tenacity, yet they all lacked patience and forethought. The elder orcs began mocking him, calling him “Lord Horna” but he didnʼt mind the attempted insult. They would be calling him that soon enough without the irony. He merely smiled at them and bowed and offered them cryptic quotes to placate them like “Blessed are the forgetful: for they get the better even of their blunders.”

He went outside to breath. The air in the forge was stifling and hot, after enough time, it was even too much for him. He breathed in the cool night air and felt the frigid air of the north settle on his bare, green skin. His breath fogged and cast wild shapes before filtering out and vanishing. This new task would take him all night, but it was more than worth the small price of sleeplessness. The great boldog himself had sent a commission to Horna: war hammer worthy of the greatest servants of the eye. Horna had taken the assignment greedily. The first day he spent drafting and designing the hammer, something far, far larger than an ordinary war hammer, something that could be wielded by someone with the strength of a troll and the rage of a balrog. The hammer would be as large as his head, nigh as heavy as an aged oak tree, and shaped to look like the behemoth, the mythical first beast. It would be a work of art, this weapon of mass destruction, and it would be created by him. He would taste the blood of each elf, dwarf, and man it killed. His name would be stamped on history as an architect of devastation. He smiled broadly, his long cuspids poking out and curling around his upper lip. He took one more deep breath of frozen air and returned.

The work was long and hard, the forge was hot and the air inside was far greater than anything heʼd experienced before. Yet he did not slow. He hammered and hammered, shaped and shaped. He waited with bated breath as the massive lump of iron transformed into steel inside the great furnace. He hammered more, and hammered and hammered. Finally, the shape was beginning to become clear. The bog iron, with all its mythical properties, mutated, evolved into something horrendous and beautiful. He beat the steel until it was paper thin, then folded and folded and folded the steel a hundred times, two hundred times, three hundred times until the head of the hammer, now fully the size of his own head, rippled black and grey in the orange light of the furnace. He spent the next few hours shaping the details of the behemothʼs ravening maw. He worked with incredible precision, every detail was present: rows of hungry teeth, a wicked forked tongue, eyes filled with malice, an elongated, dragon-like snout, and each scale was detailed and utterly unique. When he was done with the hammer, he went to work on the shaft. If the metal of the shaft as not twice as strong as the hammer, the weapon would break before the end of its first thrust. This was why he waited until he was alone. From a hidden compartment, he pulled out a heavy chunk of dark grey metal: wolframite. His secret weapon. An incredibly tough, hard metal that he only used in the greatest of need. He had his brother had found a vein of the stuff while out a raid east or Mordor. Along with the wagon full of books theyʼd found years earlier, it was the most valuable resource the brotherʼs had found. They used it to their advantage of course. Both weapons wielded by the brothers (a spear for Sarghêst and an axe for Horna) utilized the some of the ore, making their weapons superior to those of the riffraff around them. They were superior fighters, why not have superior weapons as well? They kept the ore a secret and, when they went their separate ways, the ore was given to Horna (Sarghêst took the bulk of the library theyʼd managed to build). He hadnʼt had a use for it until now. He placed the ore in the furnace and pumped the bellows as much as he could. Wolframite took much, much more heat to begin working than iron or steel, but the extra effort was worth it. He combined all he had with the strongest steel they had managed to create here. He hammered and hammered, shaped and shaped, twisted and beat out impurities until he could almost see his face in the warped reflection. The handle of the war hammer was not as long as an ordinary war hammer, most of which never had a hammer close to the size of the one Horna was creating. It was a cross between a mace and hammer, and thus the handle was about four feet long with a grip at the end that was perfectly measured to fit the boldogʼs beefy hand and a pommel at the end formed to give him extra room to wield it two handed should he wish.

By the time he was done, the sun was beginning to peak over the mountains. The light was cold and grey. The great beast was nearly too heavy for him to lift, but he used the last of his remaining strength to test the weapon against a broken stone wall behind his alcove. The war hammer performed just as it should, exploding the stone into a hundred thousand tiny shards.

Horna smiled again. He was beyond exhausted, but his work had been completed. He grabbed the work of art and slung the hammer over his shoulder. His feet were weary and his body tired, but his mind was on fire, eager anticipation flooded his black blood. With this commission, he would be one step closer to working under Yarltang, legendary killer and brute. Sarghêst would be making progress with Swiltang, the brother in Mordor. They would learn what made these two boldogs tick. They would learn what made these brothers hate each other so, yet still work together toward a common goal. They would learn, and emulate. They would rule.

Horna had one more stop before he could present the weapon: he would have to find a witch willing to place spells of ruin and death upon his creation. He was not skilled in the morgul arts, most orcs were not, but, thanks to his connections with the goblins, he knew someone that lived on the fringes of Carn Dûm, a wicked hag that still worked with the corruptive power of song.

He found her in a hovel made of a dozen different skins (Horna thought he recognized a few tattoos of one of them). Inside it was hot and humid. It reminded the orc too much of the swamps heʼd left behind. She was seated in the far end of the hovel, surrounded by what looked like chicken bones. Horna knew better than to speak first in an engagement such as this. They watched each other for what felt like an hour to the weary orc. Finally, the hag broke the silence with a voice like metal on bone.

“What is it you seek from Old Grandmother Scrimshaw, Horna of the Dead Marshes?” she smiled and tilted her head to the side, strange golden eyes locked on her quarry.

“I seek your aid,” he said simply. “I seek the power of your song.”

A horrid giggle burst out of the small gobliniod creature. “The power of my song? That is not something I sell for less than a kingdom. What would you have to offer me, dreamer?”

“I would give you a place in my kingdom –”

“No,” she cut him off. “A goblin cannot live on promises alone. If we could, Old Fleeg would still be alive and heʼd be the one leading the armies of the Eye. I donʼt like promises of “your kingdom”, not when you have nothing to offer to me yet. I want something more... substantial.”

Despite himself, Horna began to sweat. Making deals with hags was dangerous. “What would you ask of me, Grandmother?”

She regarded him for a long time, her golden eyes moving independently of each other as they roved over his body. She licked her lips with a thin, blood red tongue. “For starters, I want some of your blood. I want some of your spit. I want some of your piss.”

Horna frowned and felt his skin crawling. “What else, would you want of me?”

Old Grandmother Scrimshaw smiled wickedly, jagged teeth pointing in all directions. “I want a future favor, one you cannot refuse.”

Horna nodded, “That sounds reasonable.”

“And I want a piece of your shadow.”

The orcʼs blood ran cold. “W-What?”

“I want a piece of your shadow.” She repeated with practiced nonchalance.

“How... how can you do that?”

“The same way I can sing songs of war, famine, pestilence, and death, my child. I am nothing if not resourceful.”

Like lightning, she produced a jagged looking dagger, pounced on him, holding him down with strength an old crone should not have had, and cut at the shadowy mass behind Horna. He felt sick as he felt something tear away from him. He could not explain exactly what it was that had vanished, only that he suddenly felt an absence within him, a vacuum. He recovered quickly enough though, he was about to pull his dagger but found she was already seated beyond his reach. She held up the piece of shadow like a piece of flaying skin, examining and inspecting it. She licked it, and grinned approvingly.

“See?”

He closed his eyes and tried to fight back the wave of nausea.

“Take those three bottles there and fill them up with the things I want. By the time you return, I will have finished the songs you want on this hammer. Give Yarltang my regards when you present it to him.”

Horna took the three bottles and went outside, red-yellow eyes glaring at the hag as he did. The first bottle was easy to fill. He jabbed his knife into the crook of his arm, nicking the vein there, and filled the first bottle. The second was simpler, but took longer. Once the bottle was filled with his greenish pale saliva he placed the cork over the opening. The third, he moved behind the hovel, out of plain view from the street. Once it was filled, he put the cork in it as well. The hovel made no sound, no movements though. He eyed it suspiciously. With these three bodily liquids, there was no telling what a hag could do. He was loathed to give them up. Yet the prize, a magically spelled war hammer, was too great a pull.

He reentered the hovel. The goblin hag smiled at him through crooked teeth.

“My payment?” She held out a hand with impossibly long bones and what looked like an extra joint near the wrist.

Her fingers were wickedly long with nails like vulture talons. One by one, he gave her the three bottles. With each
bottle her smile became more malevolent. “There we are now,” she said with a giggle that made his gorge rise. “The
hammer is all yours. Five songs for five payments.”

Horna touched the hammer. It was ice cold to the touch. He picked it up; it was just as heavy as before. “What songs did you –”

“You are not the owner of that weapon, merely the creator. The songs are for the wielder alone to know.”

Horna stifled a growl and bowed.

“It has been a pleasure seeing you, young Horna of the Dead Marshes. Good luck your plans.”

He exited the hovel, shivered uncontrollably as he felt the rays of the sun hit him full in the chest, and made his way toward the keep. It was time to present his weapon to Yarltang.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Wed Jan 05, 2022 7:04 am, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Streets of Carn Dûm with Mokkan

The great pied bat licked salty tears and blood alike from the orc’s face. It was the taste of death. Beneath her and Mokkan’s combined weight, it sank slowly to the ground. She heard the fox’s gleeful giggle ring out, echoing amongst the cold stone buildings of Carn Dûm. Belisaria’s squeaks, while less expressive, were no less ecstatic. Each of the two hunters could have brought down this pitiful creature on their own, but half the fun was in the way they worked together. Joined by whatever act of fate had brought their masters together, they accomplished together what one could not: multi-pronged death preceded by an absolute maximum of pain and terror.

The orc’s movements were less frenzied now, its blows less frequent and less savage. It was as if it was deflating beneath her. In some ways, it was: all manner of things which had previously been contained safely within its body now were . . . not. Belisaria heard the wet slap of flesh and entrails against the stone road and Mokkan’s eager chewing. She flapped her wings and screeched in a final act of dominance, then sank her claws into the orc’s eyes. The last thing it saw before it died were her glowing, yellow eyes.

She lapped eagerly at the blood and fluid flowing from the ravaged eye sockets, then feasted on the remnants of its face. Raw and bloody tracks of flesh lay open to the stars above, her work of just minutes ago. She stripped skin and muscle from bone with ravenous fury. Only once the face was bare bone did she flutter up and off the creature’s skull. The wisps of thin hair still attached to its scalp by a few forgotten fragments fluttered in the breeze from her wings.

Belisaria clicked and shrieked in response to Mokkan’s delighted bark. They had done their work, had had their fun, and had been reminded of what the other could do. She heard him, distantly, calling out to his mistress. She would make no such report to Arioch. He knew she would be feasting.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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The Dagger

The pale being peered at her with unmasked curiosity. She supposed it must be relatively rare for an unknown woman, traveling alone, to seat herself in his spot. But his expression was not nearly as murderous as his words.

Colleth looked up only briefly when a small man entered the pub as if he owned the place. When her attention fell back on her companion, she saw a hint of fear clouding his expression. He scraped the worn table’s edge, his tough nails making splinters of his favorite table.

“Well then, Regin,” she replied, lifting her bag onto the table and inserting a hand. “Let’s see what we can find in both our heads.” The soft clinking of glass against glass betrayed the bag’s contents; her hand emerged holding a small vial stoppered with cork and sealed with wax. It contained a thick red liquid, several shades more vibrant than the wine in her goblet but still bloody in hue. She held the vial delicately between her thumb and middle finger, turning it in the light of the candle upon the table before abruptly uncorking it and tipping half its contents into her wine. WIth her free hand, she lifted her drink. “Your good health,” she murmured. Then, she downed the scarlet cocktail she’d fashioned for herself.

She knew what to expect, but the vision still struck with unanticipated force. The last time she’d drunk this potion, she had clenched her eyes shut. But this time, she opened them. Where the room had been dull and dark moments before, the entire space was now engulfed in flame. In the place where her dwarf companion still sat, she saw instead an eye: The Eye. Her own black eyes flashed red.

“Lôminzil,” rasped a low and disembodied voice. Within the surrounding flames, she saw a vision of herself silhouetted against hungry fires. Her sacrifices screamed and pleaded and, at last, went silent. Her beat rapidly in her chest, and her breathing became shallow and quick. The intoxicating sensation of domination rose in her and made her fingertips tingle. In the vision, smoke and ash rose in billowing spirals into a night sky studded with stars. “It is time to take up your work again.”

She shut her eyes and smiled. When she opened them again, the pub’s interior had reverted to its usual, nondescript self. Her pale companion still sat across from her. She took a long, deep breath, then offered him the vial and its remaining contents.

“What’s in my head are memories of broken lands and flames long-quenched,” she said. “I cannot promise that you’ll see all that I see, but you are most welcome to try.”
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The Dagger

The woman was fumbling with something in a bag, Regin watched her with growing curiosity. What was she about? What was she doing here? And most importantly of all, how could it benefit him? The pale dwarf watched with skepticism as she produced a vial of deep red liquid and poured half of it into her drink. If this was poison, she was going about killing him in the reverse order. He tilted his head as she upended her drink, downing whatever poison or substance that red stuff had been. Regin had to admit, he was more than a little intrigued by this strange, strange woman.

“You’re a unique one, I’ll give you that; wicked as a fox and mad as a bat.”

Then, before his eyes, she seemed to go into a trance or a vision or hallucination of some kind. Regin glanced around The Dagger, making sure none of the patrons were watching the pair as this little scene unfolded. He was not sure what to expect. He had very little interaction with human women, aside from the Iron Queen in her black, onyx towers and even that could barely have been called an interaction. Was this something they did often? Was it some sort of companionship ritual she had initiated?

Her eyes flashed red all of the sudden and Regin scooted back, suddenly taken aback. Again, he looked around the pub. Whatever few patrons were in there, none of them seemed to pay any mind to whatever it was that was going on in this booth. He felt suddenly apprehensive. This was not a normal sort of ritual she was engaging in, that much was clear now. What it was she was doing though, was still a mystery. It made Regin’s pale skin crawl. There was something horrid and perverse in what she was doing, but he could not deny he was more than a little intrigued.

“Strange ye might be, but there’s more of you I’d like to see,” he said, confident that within her vision she could not hear his lecherous odes.

She came out of her vision a few moments later, Regin had missed his chance to move closer to her. Still, when she proffered the remaining ruby red liquid from the vial, he took it was salacious greed. The bells in his head that warned him of danger were ringing with affrighted alarm, but he ignored them. Human women were dangerous, sure, but they might well be worth that danger.

“To lands and flames then young wench; now mayhaps this concoction my thirst shall quench.”

He poured the remainder of the viscous liquid into the glass of whisky that had appeared whilst he had been leering at the tall, dark haired woman. He raised the glass in toast, keeping his locked on hers as he down the burning alcohol.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Dagger

The little hairs on the back of Colleth’s neck rose, and she gave an involuntary shiver. For as far north as they were, the room was not cold, and she had just emerged from a vision of the room ablaze. If anything, she ought to be sweating. The dwarf was looking at her with something more than bland interest or even keen curiosity. There were hints of fear there, to be sure, but he ought to have been more frightened by what he saw of her while she watched the pub burn around them and saw herself burning those of the so-called Faithful. He would have been truly frightened if he had seen what she had seen, surely. So what had brought on her discomfort?

He may be your victim now, came a warning voice in her head, but he would like the roles to be reversed.

He had certainly seemed odd at first glance, but Colleth saw now that the strangeness in him ran deeper than his visage. But what flavor of strangeness might that be? She could only conclude that there was something unnerving in Regin himself, a festering rot at his very core - it had to be, for to unnerve the likes of her was no small feat. With this in mind, she was eager to see his reaction to the concoction. Possibly the expanse of his imagination stretched only to what perverse pleasures he took in whatever dark place he crawled out of each morning. Or perhaps not - perhaps he would be cowed by a power greater than either of them. Time would tell.

Colleth leaned back in her seat and snapped her fingers at the barman. “Another red, if you please,” she said in cloying tones. The old man nodded and returned with her drink as quickly as his old joints would allow. She raised her glass.

“Let us hope your thirst is quenched and your mind’s eye opened wide,” she murmured in reply to Regin’s sing-song toast.
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The Dagger

Regin wasn’t paying much attention to the woman anymore. He wasn’t paying much attention to anything. The more he tried to focus on his here and now, the more something outside of him forced his consideration elsewhere. The room around him shifted and warbled. The Dagger melted away and someplace else was pushed into his view. He was surrounded by rocks, black, jagged, and steaming. It was hot here, stiflingly so. His breath came in ragged heaves. The steam burned his pale skin. He looked up and saw… saw Him or at least what Regin thought He might look like. Far above him, far, far, far above him, above the clouds, above the sun, above the universe itself, hung the Great Eye, the eye of He Who Must Not Be Named.

Instinctively, Regin fell to his knees. The sight was horrifying. It was beautiful and malignant, beyond light. Red tears like blood flowed from the albino dwarf’s eyes. There was a roar in his ears, a roar like no predator he’d ever heard. He could feel a trickle, no a stream, of blood coming from his ears. There were words in that roar. Words of power and destruction, words of death and decay, violence and predation. He began to cackle like a madman, giggling and gibbering incoherently. More than destruction and violation, those words he heard were words of truth. They pushed him, egged him, incited him. The Great Eye knew of his predilections, of his particular tastes. The Great Eye was gracious and understanding, nurturing. It wanted more. More. More. More. More. More. More. More.

And Regin was willing to give him more. There were victims aplenty in the wide world after all. He found more and more every day he traveled to the mines. He enjoyed plucking the fruit from the tree, it was better than picking it up off the ground after it had fallen. The plucked fruit was ripe and juicy, the fallen was broken and sour. He had some a sweet tooth, and he loved the taste of fruit. He had some stored in his home now, cultivating and growing in his basement. Sometimes, in order to bring out the sweetness of the fruit, one must show it the virtues of the knife. His fruit and his knives always came to a balance, always came to an understanding. He was more than a farmer and purveyor of fruits, he was a teacher, a philosopher, a guru. He Who Must Not Be Named wanted him to spread his teaching, extend his learning, find more fruit to pluck. The edges of his mouth glistening with anticipatory saliva. The hunger was on him, far greater than it had ever been before. The Master, the One, saw him and wanted more. Regin would drown the whole world in the sweetest fruits he could nurture if only the please Him.

The vision ended. The world of black stone and heat slowly returned to the disappointedly mundane world of the Dagger. His head felt woozy and unbalanced. He tried to focus on the woman. Had she given him that? She was fine fruit, but if she were the messenger, then she was sacrosanct, fruit only for the One to pluck and devour. Still, his eyes roved over her like the expert judge of ripeness that he was, she was an exquisite piece of fruit. He would not find her like in Angmar, that was for sure. His mouth was dry, like he’s been sucking on his leather bracers. He was hungry, in more ways than one.

“I suppose I have you to thank, but sadly my mind has gone blank; I saw wonders to bleed for, heard words in a mighty roar; I was told to go forth and pluck fruit, and that is a request I will not refute; my lady you are vile, but I am in love with your guile.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Dagger

Colleth swirled her drink while watching Regin, waiting for the effects of the concoction to take hold of him. Her gaze was unwavering; his slowly slid out of focus. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his breaths became shallow and labored. A smile tugged on the corners of her mouth, and she leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table between them. Propping her chin on her hands, she tried to guess which sights and sensations had replaced the everyday drabness of this pub in his mind’s eye. Heat, surely. Heat and power. In all likelihood, knowing Him, the two would go hand in hand. If her vision tonight had been any indication, perhaps Regin would even glimpse himself engaged in whatever activity would bring him the greatest pleasure. Discomfort and elation twisted the dwarf’s features into a sinister menace and seemed to suggest this was the case.

She sipped idly at her wine, eyes still fixed on him over the rim of her glass. Though he began to sweat and fat tears rolled down his cheeks, Colleth breathed not a word. Her attention was so focused and her silence so complete that she might have been a polite audience member at a musical performance in a vast, echoing concert hall. Regin’s reaction transported her to a time and place beyond most living memory, when she had orchestrated the nightly chorus which screeched a discordant song to deaf skies. The intervening years had been long and slow and unacceptably quiet, although she had done her best with what resources she had. The letter had marked a turning point in her fortunes, and this little test would be but the tuning of strings before the music swelled to its full cacophony.

The first notes of the new song were gurgling, croaking giggles. Colleth shivered again. She had been right. He was being offered the fulfillment of his basest desires, emboldened to carry out his furtive rituals in the open. He would, of course, accept. She was sure of this - as sure as she was that there was something wrong about him. She read this truth in the greedy, lustful expression now written on his face. Mere minutes ago, all of this would have put her on edge. She would have reached for her knife and clutched it tightly. But now, she was the woman who had shown him the way to more of whatever it was that he wanted. She was the guide who had illuminated a path where before there had been none, and her intervention would lead him out of the dank depths in which he hid his true self. He would not harm her, and any collateral damage from her task was not her concern. In fact, if He gained a loyal servant from this chance meeting, Colleth would be quite pleased.

Slowly, Regin emerged from his trance. She felt his lecherous gaze upon her once more. It wandered over her body like the scuttling of a many-legged creature: invasive, searching, and direful. Still, she was not afraid. He had appraised her and found her to be of greater value than his usual victims. She would not come to harm.

“With my guile you must be sated,” she said, “but I am sure you will make up for it with many ripe, ah, fruits. Cultivate them, harvest them, savor them, do what you want with them - but do it in the name of all that you saw just now, and He who showed it to you.”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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The Dagger

Regin wiped a thin line of drool from his chin that slip passed his lip. He looked at the woman again, the fruit of the Dark One. She reminded him of all the fruit he’d plucked and eaten, but only in a way that a candle is reminiscent of the sun. The more he tried to look at her, the more he felt like his vision slid off her as if she was covered in oil. He felt a surge of panic. Why could he not look at this woman? Why could he no longer see her? He needed to see this fruit, this glorious ripe flesh. Yet his eyes refused him. His own mind betrayed him. He whimpered and his hands shook.

He could not see her, but he could hear her. Her words were all his brain could contain. Thoughts slid past him like sticks in the river, like dandelion seeds in the wind, like sand through his fingers. The only sound that rattled around in his dungeon of a mind were her words echoing on and on forever.

Cultivate them, harvest them, savor them…

His hands still shook. But they no longer shook from fear or trepidation. No, now they shook with eager anticipation. There was so much glorious fruit in this world. He would turn all the world in a garden for his Dark One. He would offer up his finest, choicest, most succulent finds to his Dark One, and to her.

“I will make a garden in your name, and my fruits shall feed his flame,” he swore, breathlessly. His eyes wobbled in their sockets, still not fully recovered from his vision. The lights in this tavern were sad ineffectual, grey and flaccid. Regin had seen the fiery light of the House of Lamentation. What other light made by man could be so terrible? Humans tell stories about eating the food of the Otherworld and finding the food of Middle-earth to be tasteless and bland. He never understood them, how could something you know all your life to be vibrant and stirring suddenly turn to ash? Now he knew. But he was not like those sad, wayward humans, traipsing and galivanting after something they would never have again. Not Regin. Regin would find that light again and bring it to the whole world.

“I must bid you farewell, for my lady I must bring about hell.”

He scooted from the seat at the table, fumbling with eagerness to cultivate, to harvest, and to savor. Before he even finished his drink, he was back into the cold air, ready to work.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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Carn Dûm

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CW: stalking

His head was swimming. It was not from drink or chemical though. Not tonight. On nights that he went out searching for his fruit he made sure he was clear headed and alert. It was the anticipation that made him giddy tonight. The air was chill, it was always cold in Carn Dûm, a bitter permafrost with a layer of toxic soot and surrounded by ensorcelling shadows. He could see his breath as it formed crystalline faeries that danced beside him. He breathed twisted, deformed shapes into being, just to watch them writhe about and break apart. He smiled, his oddly white teeth gleaming in the pale light. There was no moon tonight. There was hardly ever a moon at night in Carn Dûm. There was snow coming down tonight, drifting dauntlessly and full of discordant delight. Regin loved the snow. Not for it’s wonderous beauty though. The aesthetics of such a thing was lost on his practical mind. He loved the snow for the promise of preservation. Snow and ice were a means of living forever. What could be frozen and thawed could live until the entire world was covered in miles and miles of ice and cold. He knew that day was coming soon, a hungry end for a fiery world. The snow on this night was fortuitous, an omen of good fortune and luck. His task tonight was blessed by the Dark One.

Ever since his encounter with the woman in the tavern he’d felt the pull of his nocturnal activities grow more and more intense. It reached a fevered pitch, a thrumming of blood in his ears that drowned out all other sound until he saw her. She was tall and graceful. She did not belong in such a place as Carn Dûm. Her hair was bathed in red, a pomegranate just waiting to be plucked from the branch. Her skin was soft and tender, pale and clean as the snow. Her eyes were large and round, a deep nutty brown that accentuated her skin and her hair. What was she doing here, in the frozen north hidden away from the sun? He had to wipe the drool from his chin even now. He’d been following her for a week, learning her habits and routines. Piecing together the narrative of her life. He decided that she was there for him. That was obvious of course, she would be one of his fruits of course, but it was more than that. It was deeper. She was here for him not just by mere happenstance or celestial interference. She was there for him because he had willed her into being. Before she came into his sights in the mean, dirty streets of Carn Dûm, she had not existed. She would believe that there was something before here and now, but deep down she would know the truth that Regin so firmly held to. She was his fruit. She was meant to be plucked and savored by him, and him alone.

He saw how the other creatures looked at her. He saw the plain, naked lust in their eyes. They were not gardeners of divine fruit as he was. Their sin would not corrupt her. He saw to that. He was her shadow, her protector. He whisked away the weeds with a thrust of a knife, swatted away the irritating flies and buried them in unmarked graves where no one but the most desperately hunger would find them. He was her gardener; it was his responsibility that she grew to her full ripeness. He would toil and labor hard, the sweat of his brow would stain the earth and stain his soul, yet she would become resplendent and perfect under his tender touches.

He waited outside a guildhall, pretending to be a passing drunk that chose the alleyway across from the entrance to watch for her. She came in here often. What it was she did in here, or even what this guildhall was for escaped him. They were secrets he’d yet to decipher. There were at least a dozen men inside, all of them arriving after his fruit, his pomegranate. Anger steamed from him, jealous and rage and wild fury. How could she go to such places with such creatures? She was betraying him and all she stood for. It was vile that she was here. This was no place for her.

She would have to be corrected. His hands trembled, both from range and from anticipation. She would have to be pruned, but before that, he must disconnect her from the source of her sin and iniquity. He was the gardener. She was the fruit. This was simply how things had to be. He was a patient, constant creature though. He could forgive her. Eventually.

He stayed there, half hidden in the alleyway for what seemed like hours. The dark, eerie grey sky had nearly turned to light by the time his pomegranate left the building. She was followed by several men, treacherous, tactless, and temerarious. They all looked like dogs in heat, chasing after a baggins. He would bring them to heel. Regin snarled but kept his calm. He had to. One by one they all left until the building looked vacant and empty, a soulless, desecrated building propped up by decadence and depravity.

The door was easy to break into. They had not bothered to make the lock secure or difficult. Any duergar worth his beard could have broken in without much issue. The foyer and the halls were dark but stank of incense. Regin could pick out the smells. Ginger, lavender, cinnamon, and vetiver. The air was thick with the smoke still. His eyes watered. It distracted him just enough that he didn’t notice the shape coming out the darkness. It hit him like a bull, slamming him into the opposite wall. There was a form of security after all it seemed. But Regin was a dwarf, solid and stolid. He grabbed he shape with meaty, dexterous hands and tossed it as far as he could. He jumped after it, pouncing like a cat on an unsuspecting rat. They fought, he and the shape. The thing was like a serpent, it slithered out of his grasp and coiled around him like a vice, stealing his breath and his strength. Had it not been for image of his pomegranate in his mind, Regin would have surely perished to the creature within the walls, the thing he could not see no matter how hard he looked. The darkness was strong, but he was given a holy mission by the Dark One himself. He would not fail his lord nor his duties as gardener of sacred and succulent fruits! He tore at the shadowy thing with tooth and nail, his ecstatic rage building until the frenzy was out of his control. His vision was red as were his hands and mouth. His alabaster skin had been stained, marked by this creature, this man, this worm. Yet he felt clean and righteous for having killed it. One cannot allow pests in one’s garden after all.

The fire he set was hot and orange. It blazed quick. He did not have a chance to see what this place truly was. He could not afford the time to look around and investigate. The guardian had taken him by surprise. He hadn’t expected it. As a result his routine had been twisted and interrupted. The only thing to do was destroy. Out of fire came growth, just as out of death comes life.

His pomegranate would understand.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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Vermillion
Carn Dûm

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CW: stalking

Regin stayed away to let his pomegranate recover from her pruning for four days. Four tortuous days. He was listless, irritable, nervous, and anxious. There was not a moment of peace for him. Every step he took that was not doggedly following her, watching her, cultivating her felt like it was inherently wrong. There was something vile wrong about it. A dereliction of duty. If he did not watch her, longing to touch and caress and feel, then who would? It was he that had to control such things. He was the pomegranate’s gardener.

His work in the forges was sloppy and slow. All he could think about was his pomegranate. She drove him to distraction. He saw her pale skin and vibrant red hair in the molten metal he worked. He wanted to touch her, caress the perfectly round cheeks, and feel the warm electricity of her skin. He was driven to such distraction on the first of the four days that he touched the metal without thinking, nearly burning his finger off. He was so angry when it was not her face he caressed that he threw the lump of semi-molten iron into the furnace, along with his tongs and apron. A fellow dwarf tried to attend to him but Regin would have none of it. He spat in the man’s face and rushed out of the forge.

Home was no better. His home was cold and empty. The walls were grey and formless. There was no color in his home, no light. He screamed and screamed just to hear the sound of something in his home. The echoes died instantly though, swallowed up by the wood and stone. He was so alone. His pomegranate lived so far from him. He tried to draw her image with charcoal and parchment. The facsimile was inexact, his skills did not lay in that form of artistry. Yet it was her. He placed the image, the icon, beside him on his cold, lonely bed. He stared at the picture, the curve of her cheeks, the depth of her eyes, the flame of her hair. He woke with his hands shaking violently. He screamed at the picture, told it to come to life and be his and it refused. The page stayed a page. He spat at it, tore it, threw it in the fire. It served her right. How could she not love him? How could she not do as he commanded? She must. It was her duty, her purpose to do as he wished, as he bid. He sobbed next to the fire as he watched the flames lick up the page and take her face from him. He felt envy of those flames. They touched her in ways that he could not, could never. He lay there, naked and shivering, until the flames died, and the house turned back into a cold, grey, lifeless thing.

He spent three days laying on the floor. His dreams were feverish and distant. He couldn’t tell where reality started and the dreams ended. She came to him in his dreams, came so vividly that he for long stretches of time, sprawled out naked on the floor, he believed she was there. It was unspeakable and frantic and ultimately unsatisfying. Her flavor was just as he imagined it would be. How could it not? That was the power of dreams. They were exactly what you wanted them to be which was exactly what he didn’t want. He wanted her. He wanted to touch her face, wanted to wake up in her bed, next to her body. He wanted to see her flaws and cultivate them so that they served him. He wanted her, needed her. He would weep tears of blood and snot when he awoke. His anguish knew no bounds. She belonged to him, body and soul, but she would not come to him as she did in his dreams.

The fourth day, he dressed and did his best to busy himself. He would find her after work and begin his vigil again. He would watch her, see her, know her. He stepped out of his house, a pitiful shack with broken windows, a leaky, rotting thatched roof, and a cracked foundation, and back to the streets of Carn Dûm. He gave each passerby a sunny expression, a smile of warmth and insanity. His eyes, though, were bloodshot with madness and lack of rest. Yet his smile was met and returned by several people. They tipped their hats and nodded to him. How much did they know about him? Did they know of his gardening habits? Did they approve? Did they do similar work in gardens of their own? The thought both terrified and excited him. There was a rush of endorphins. He felt volatile, titillated.

He stopped at the chemist’s shop. The owner was a weasel, tall and thin with a hooked nose and beady, weepy eyes. He wore a dirty black robe, half eaten by moths.

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” Regin said, his eyes wandering, trying to look anywhere but the man’s eyes. “Do you have anything that will promote relaxation?”

The man smiled and his eyes lit with a pale light, his teeth were yellow. Regin wanted to smash that face. It looked through him. It saw too much. His hands shook.

“I do, I do indeed,” the man’s voice was reedy and creaky like an unoiled door. He stepped out from behind the counter and beckoned the dwarf to follow him. “This way, master duergar, this way. I have many, many things that can help you sleep. Do you wish for pleasant dreams as you sleep?” he stopped and picked up a bottle with blue liquid suspended by a clear oily substance. “This is Sorgens Dream. It will make you sleep with giddy dreams…” he giggled. “Perhaps though,” he put the bottle back on the shelf and searched for something else, his eyes bouncing back and forth so much it looked like they might roll out of his head. “Ahh, here we are. You don’t need sweet dreams. No, you are an albino dwarf, you already have that. What you need is… something more puerile, something childlike. Shadowfell Sage. It makes you sleepy but won’t put you to sleep. It produces some very alluring hallucinations.” He giggled again.

“I…” Regin paused and looked at the shelf. It was so full of bottles he could swear there were a hundred different reflections of him. “I just need something to help me sleep.” He made fists with his hands to keep them from shaking. “Just… please…”

The chemist looked at him and cocked his head to one side, his smile was weird and lopsided. Regin could hear the bones in his neck popping. “I have something for that as well.”

His voice was like nails against glass, metal against porcelain. It made Regin’s skin crawl. He wanted the Shadowfell Sage, he wanted Sorgens Dream. He felt his brow become slick with nervous sweat.

“Here we are. Dreamspike.” The chemist held up a bottle of something. It looked like detached midnight. It was black, when he shook it the contents seemed to move counter to the direction he shook it. “One drop on your mead before bed and you will sleep long and dreamlessly. Care though, it’s very addictive and dangerous if taken at too high a dosage.”

“I’ll… I’ll take it,” Regin mumbled, wiping his brow nervously. He could feel an itch between his shoulder blades. He wanted to whimper, but he stood still as he could, “and… and the Shadowfell Sage. Both of them. Give me both of them.”

Again, the chemist smiled, and the expression was so rancid it made Regin’s stomach churn. “Of course, master duergar. Of course. A man of your fine tastes… you need both of them, don’t you?”

They returned to the counter and Regin counted out a score of solid gold coins stamped with the mask of the Witch-King. The chemist took them, counted them, and tested them for purity. When he was satisfied, he delicately wrapped two bottles, one of strangely sentient oily sand and another of pearlescent green paste, in a cloth that looked strangely delicate against the man’s dirty hands and moth-eaten robes. “Do come again. An albino dwarf as a patron is a boon I would gladly accept.”

Regin nodded, trying to avoid looking straight into those strange, distant eyes.

He stepped out of the shop and looked east from where he stood now. His pomegranate was not far. It was time to pay her a visit. He licked his lips and purred.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Balrog
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Carn Dûm

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Andissë was no one’s pomegranate. She was an enigma, and there was nothing more deadly or dangerous in Carn Dûm than an enigma. No one could remember the day she arrived, when she burst through the doors of the city’s decrepit, asthenic library and declared it hers. There were dozens, if not more, different accounts of what she did after she arrived. A weaselly, pinched faced man with permanently damp hair swore he remembered her killing the old librarian with her bare hands, ripping his heart right of his chest, just a few weeks ago. None of his fellows believed that of course, he was a drunk and he was half in his cups at the Dagger when he told the story. Another man, older and with much less hair, believed he remembered her tossing the librarian out a third story window and he couldn’t tell if he was impressed or frightened, but that was years ago now, decades maybe. Yet another man, younger than the other two, a patron of the pathetic stockpile, swore she came in with his mother behind her and paid the man to leave with a massive sack of gold ingots a mere month ago. The only thing any story agreed on was that she got rid of the walking corpse that had been the librarian and installed herself at the panopticon office.

Her arrival to Carn Dûm had, it turned out, been quite fortuitous. The library had been neglected for years and years. One of the Witch-King’s lieutenants had been the patron and after the defeat at Fornost never came back. The library had become a home for more cobwebs and homeless refugees than books. Each successive “librarian” spent time turning the building into something or another, barely bothering to catalogue or clean up. Rumors spread about what was really in the library, whispers of a secret collection of grimoires and spell books that dated back to the time of the Starry Awakening. It become a rite of passage for boys and girls that lived in that quarter of the city to sneak into the library at night and see if they could find the room that contained the books. Yet as years went by, as walls crumbled, glass shattered, and literature was lost, nothing was ever found. People still used the scant resources, but by the time Andissë it was more a haven for vladri addicts hide. She cleaned it all up, both literally and figuratively. She gave the homeless an ultimatum, indebt themselves to her and her boundless generosity, or become fodder for the Eyes of the Watcher. Some took her up, others were never seen again.

Once again, the library became a place of repute. The city’s elite were once again seen arriving for salons and readings. How this foreigner, this elven named, pale skinned, white-eyed terror was able to make this happen so quickly was anyone’s guess. She seemed to possess a power of persuasion that rivaled the former king of the city.

She liked to keep up the mystery. Her abilities were much more subtle and mundane. She built up a vast network of spies and interlopers that washed over the city like a flood. There was nothing she did not see, nothing she did not know. Those in her employ called her the Auger. She could see the patterns in the web and where exactly to pull and tug and snap to get what she wanted. The elite here, like the elite in any city, were prone to exotic and strange tastes, and if they were, she made sure they became that way. She used the information gleaned to suggest they visit her and attend the events she put on. How could they refuse?

Under her less than gentle guiding hand (she’d had to use up several of her archivists since her arrival) the library had regained it’s standing in the city. The people spoke of it with fear and wonder. The shelves filled themselves up with works of literature the world over had never seen or heard, works of terrible and monstrous art lined the walls and passed on seeds of nightmares to all that witnessed them, artifacts from the old north were displayed and studied, and of course there was the hidden rooms. There were so many hidden rooms.

Andissë was not one to doddle and waste time. All of this restoration was for a purpose. While she fed on the stories and adulation she received, it was a mere pittance to her. In truth, she thought all the people of Carn Dûm, indeed all the people of the Middle-earth, were vile, diseased insects and hated them all. She needed this place, this nexus of energy and power, for a ritual. A ritual that was fast approaching.

She became aware of the fascinations of the albino dwarf before he did. She’d experienced many stalkers over the years, each one of them ended up serving a more visual purpose for her. This dwarf, however, was a different story. His obsession and lust for her was stronger than anything she’d ever felt. He was like a viscous glob of mucus that clung to her no matter how many times she tried to scrape it off. He was coming tonight. There had been an accident at a guildhall four days ago. It did not take her sight to know that he was involved somehow. The bodies he left in his wake were less than impressive. She had hoped he would arrange them as presents to her, as gifts to show his undying devotion and loyalty to her. It appeared that he was going to be more difficult to wrangle in.

She stood now on the balcony of her manse, looking over the silent but living city. The moon was rising, a sickle of sickly green rose above the mountains like the horns of some great behemoth. The city was lit with a pale light, luminous and cold. The air bit and stung those foolish enough to be about as the sun sank again beneath the waves. She closed her eyes, or rather, she opened his. He was coming, a furtive, timid shadow. He should not have been so demure; it was not as if this evening was going to steal away his virginity. Did she underestimate the depths of his depraved fascination? She chuckled. Not likely, she could see into him and know and all his filthy little secrets.

The woman went inside and closed the doors. The fire was a roaring orange beast, writhing and squirming and popping with anticipation. The warmth spread through her bones. Tonight, just for the albino, she wore a sheer white gown, a chess move sure to distract him. Beside the overstuffed and opulently stitched chair was a bowl of pomegranate seeds. They were rare and expensive, a difficult thing to have brought up to Angmar, but the alternative was not having them for this meeting and she obviously could not have that.

The fire roared and growled and hissed as the hours passed. The beast began to purr as it fell asleep, casting dark umber shadows across her walls.

“Well now,” she said as she felt a presence stir outside her room. “Don’t be shy Regin. Come on in. I’m sure you have a grand story to tell me.”

There was confusion on the other side of the door. She could feel his mind running back and forth between running away and bursting inside. “Come in. Regin.” She said with more forcefulness. She was going to play too coy with this miscreant creep.

The door slowly unlocked and swung open. There was a rush of chilled, dead air. He entered. He smelled of smoke and saliva. She wrinkled her nose but gave no other outward sign of her distaste.

“I… was unaware you knew me; you should have given us a key…”

She took a pomegranate seed and popped it into her mouth. “Wandering child, so long, so helpless, yearning for my guidance…”

“Your words are so musical; it does force me to be dutiful.” He bent down and prostrated himself. Whatever he had planned, poisoning her with a sleeping draught, had gone out the window. His muscles quivered in a sickening, unnatural, and jerky motion. His insides were coiling, ready to strike.

“You ought to be dutiful, Regin. You have entered the Sanctuary of the Eye. Your brain is unspooling and spilling onto to my floor as we speak. Child, you are trying to prune the wrong tree…”

There was a spark in the fire that awakened it; it roared to life and framed her pale features with a dark, menacing light. “Tell me, what is your story?” Her smile was full of eyes.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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