City of Umbar - The Haven

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

He knew in his heart that his brother was dead, though he still ran down the alleyway towards the destroyed house that Saemund had been in. He needed to do something, to see if there was any chance of saving someone, perhaps he was wrong and Saemund would be right there where he could help. However as he reached the site of the house and reached out for the nearest fallen plank, it shifted and with a loud crunching rumble settled into a new position. Something was not right. Even if the house had fallen apart, a very real risk as it was in such poor condition, this somehow looked wrong. Not only had the house fallen in on itself, it almost seemed as if something huge had stepped on it and crunched it in towards the center.

Distracted Jorund wiped the rain away from his swollen eye, trying to get a better look, but there was nothing to see but rubble. There was no one to save. Drenched through from the ceaseless rain, his small body shivering in the cold, Jorund expected to feel devastated. Afterall he was all alone in the world now and his hopes and dreams of becoming a member of the Black Dragon's was now literally crushed.

But he did not feel sadness, instead he felt a rush of pleasure like he had never felt in his life before, causing him to gasp in surprise. For the first time in his short life, he felt happy, the almost overwhelming emotion confusing him. Wiping away more rain and snot from his face, he was not given much of a chance to contemplate why he was feeling so happy as a familiar voice seemed to echo around him, beckoning him.

Jorund. Jorund. It is time for you to come to me. Follow the sounds of my voice. Follow them and come to me.


The elf. The gem. He looked down at his hand and saw the gem that had been clutched so tightly in his small hand that it had pierced the skin on his palm. Looking up at the crumbled remains of his life for the last time, he suddenly set off running back down the alley as fast as his little legs could carry him, his bare feet slapping through the many puddles as he made his way towards the beckoning voice, towards the harbour.

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Balakân
The Dead Reckoning

Balakân found his palms were slick with sweat when his hands balled reflexively into fists. How could Tollor be so stupid? Giving away their names to threatening strangers, exposing the knowledge they were attempting to keep quiet? He knew he owed nothing to the drunken man - Agrakhan, they'd named him - from the docks. But he didn't like getting tangled up in these kinds of search-and-murder missions that were so common in Umbar, particularly among rival crews loyal to rival Houses. He preferred to flit freely from one ship to the next, going where his interests were best served. Revealing secrets to cunningly menacing figures was not a part of this survival strategy. At best, they would be satisfied and walk out right now. But for all he knew, he'd be found in several pieces tomorrow morning in payment for what he'd just told them.

The huge uruk scrutinized all three men through eyes that glowed with malice. Balakân could see Tollor fighting not to cringe with his whole body; Haedirn had once again looked down at his boots. The navigator kept his chin up. Having shared what he knew, he could at least meet the uruk's eyes without guile. He did his best not to quail under the malevolent gaze and redoubled his efforts when the mammoth spoke directly to him.

"You."

The word hit Balakân like a physical blow. His heart pounded as more words followed. He did not dare open his mouth to answer the query about the company he kept. Instead, he swallowed thickly and glanced at his cartographer companions at the word "rats." Tollor certainly was, at any rate. He scowled. The iron coins scattering across the tabletop clattered loudly in the small space before the uruk shouldered abruptly out of the shop, leaving the offer of employment hanging in the air in his wake.

Before the navigator could turn to accuse his companions of their treachery, there was another explosion of breaking glass and the woman uttered a low threat.

"Do be wise in how you proceed, gentlemen. Your lives aren’t worth much as they are. Don’t make them worth nothing."

Balakân watched the woman go with fear resolving into interest. Could he make more of his life (and his purse) with these two than on the Rôthgimil? He did not stand in idle consideration for long.

"What," he snarled, rounding on Tollor, "was that about?"

The aged mapmaker allowed himself his full-body wince now. "I'm sorry, Balakân. You know this shop, this work - it's my life." He looked at his old acquaintance with a plea for understanding in his eyes, hands spread helplessly. Haedirn said nothing but edged toward the door to the back room, the new map he'd created curling slowly into itself on the table where it earlier had been unfurled.

Balakân's lip curled. "And so your cramped shop is worth more than my life? They might have killed me or Haedirn for what little we did know - it could have been information they did not want spreading within the city. Did you not stop to think of that in your rush to keep this little operation running?" He approached the table and pushed the iron coins back into the pouch before pocketing it. With a last acid look at the two men, he turned on his heel and stepped into the rain.

The Docks

The rain had subsided slightly. Balakân wrapped his cloak about him and allowed his hood to fall over his face as he disembarked from the Rôthgimil, a light sack of his possessions wedged under his arm and concealed by his cloak. He'd made some excuse about forgetting the coin for the map, laughed at some gibes about going back out in this downpour for one meager map, and scurried away from his crew mates. A spyglass, a compass, worn maps of the south, the pouch of iron coin, and a few personal effects mingled in the bag.

He wove through thinner crowds than usual as he searched out the ship he would be joining. He supposed the storm had driven people indoors or below decks, but it was only a matter of time before the merchants would roll out their carts and shouts from men - buying, selling, haggling, cursing - would fill the air again. The wood of the docks was dark and heavy after the rainfall, and the scent of storm competed with the scent of saltwater.

This was not the first time he'd abandoned one crew for another when opportunity struck. But it was the first time he'd done so as much from self-interest and curiosity as from fear. Something about the two who had come to the Reckoning - their words, their demeanor, their knowing smiles - made him think he'd be found and flayed if he didn't take them up on their offer.

It did not take him long to find what he sought. He saw the massive uruk first, still accompanied by the woman who'd thrown about so much glass. Two others were closing in on them now, too: an ancient crone and a tall, dark elf. Now out of sight of the Rôthgimil, Balakân threw back his hood and slung his bag over his shoulder. He had no idea what lay ahead, but it was better to find out willingly than to wait for this crew to cross paths with him in the south.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Sat in his usual spot at the end of the bar, tucked away in the corner where he could oversee the whole room without necessarily be seen himself, Dagon did not immediately reply. He was not a dog that could be called and made to sit for treats. Nazir knew this well enough, though often in his ire he would forget himself, as he did now. Leaning forward and ignoring the barkeep's nervous glance, he took a deep swig of the dark thick ale that he favoured. Setting the empty mug down, he pushed it towards the barkeep and gave him a nod, knowing the man would add the cost to his tab, one that Nazir paid of course.

Slowly, taking his time, he pushed his stool back and stood, adjusting his sword and dagger before he made his way over to the aggrieved man. "No need to yell, Nazir. My hearing is perfectly fine.." His comment bordered on being audacious, but he had far more leeway than anyone else that worked for Nazir.

And as expected, Nazir merely shot him an angry glace at the way he had spoken to him. "Get m.."

"Get you the brother, I got it." Dagon rudely interupted, not stopping and heading for the door, casting a look back over his shoulder. "Dead or alive?"

Seething, Nazir took a moment to swallow his anger at the impudence, knowing he needed Dagon. That did not stop him from mentally picturing sliding his dagger into the man's skull as well. Taking a deep breath he replied in a strained voice. "Alive. If Kha'nar refuses or makes too much of a fuss, then make sure the brother does not survive the night." While the brother might be a bonus, his original deal was only the girl and he did not care one way or another if the brother was brought to him.

Dagon merely gave a curt nod and bent down to grab the dead man's ankles, dragging him towards the door which he kicked open with a heavy boot and stepped out into the storm. Dumping the body a bit down the road by an alleyway, he pulled the cloak closer around him and headed for the Serpent Pit.

Arien
Arien
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Amaris at the docks

She nods, slowly. She understands this. Amaris has been brought up with an accountant’s precision, sitting on boxes at the pier and watching the careful counting out of barrels and the clink of coins. And the swift penalty that comes for false trade. The brand. The knife. Amaris knows the value of things, in many ways much better than her half-brothers.

And she knows the value of herself. As a daughter of Harân, her worth would have been her bride-price, her market trade value. She could have bought an alliance. Peace between houses. An heir.

What is she worth now?

Amaris knows it is not nothing. She has seen the appraising, weighing look in her - her foster father’s eyes before. And, after all, he has kept her. Even if her worth is the price paid to stop her mother’s tantrums... it is something.

“So what will do with your false coin?” Amaris says, keeping her voice slow and steady. “Melt it down? Turn it into the banks to be stricken?”

Lord Harân breaks into a wide and genuine smile.

“Perform sleight-of-hand,” he says, leaning an elbow on his desk.

“Amaris. You are a clever and resourceful girl. You are my acknowledged daughter, but you will never be a true heiress of Harân, nor will you be fitted for marriage to another House - although you’re House blood, through your mother.

I must break any thoughts of marriage for you now, before I have any more offers I must dissuade, before I run out of excuses. But I will not have my name shamed in the process. To everyone you will remain Amaris Harân.”

He waits for her nod. She understands.

“So,” he continues casually, “you’re going to disgrace yourself for me.

You’re going to run away.”

Amaris’ heart throbs painfully in her chest. The air is suddenly very cold.

“There’s a ship,” Lord Harân is saying. “Bribes have been paid. There’s a berth for you, even a companion. I don’t expect you to stay away forever: just long enough to set those dogs quiet.” He waves dismissively, brushing off the imaginary swains baying for Amaris in their beds. “Go. Live a little, learn of the world; and then come back to us, if you will, foster-daughter; for there are skills I think you have that will be valuable to me. You will come back better and stronger, so that I do not lose faith; or you will come back a pauper and I will have to have you drowned.”

He smiles as though he’s joking.
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Corin Longknife
The Warrens:
Gang Wars

The Longknife's were as much a family as they were a gang. Corin had been five years old when they found him wandering the streets, a wretched little waste stealing from merchants, and sleeping in gutters. Jazari had found him there, shivering in a back alleyway. He was the one who took pity on him and brought him into the fold. He was a boy himself, no more than thirteen or fourteen when he found him, but Corin looked at him like a father ever since that moment. Many of the other younger ones did as well, which worked well in his favor when it came time to vote who should succeed old man Kirath as their leader. The vote was nearly unanimous, and upon taking the mantle of Chief of the Longknife's, Corin's devotion to Jazari was well rewarded when he was named his second. Since that moment, he had dedicated the last four years of his life to expanding the reach of their gang and battling their enemies wherever they could.

Their greatest foes were another gang of street urchins brought up from the gutter, a group called the Ghosts of Kular, named after their leader. While the Longknife's stuck generally to petty theft and crimping, the Ghosts were killers for hire and smugglers of some renown. Their territory was expansive, taking up many blocks of the city of Umbar. Very few passed through there without their leave and those who attempted to do so often found themselves at the wrong end of a blade. Many streets separated their territories, but clashes were inevitable. When he was twelve, Corin had accompanied Jazari and two others to a local pub. It was not unusual for the young ones to join in the drink, and no one would cross one of the leaders of a local gang. Not, at least, without the backing of another. Such was the case this day, as the innkeeper refused service to them, saying they were unwelcome in his establishment.

Jazari had drawn his long-knife and slammed it down into the counter, demanding to. be served and asking who the innkeeper thought he was to deny him. It was at this time when out of the corner of his eye, Corin saw them. A half dozen of the Ghosts had followed them into the place, and they were armed. With a shout he alerted the others, quickly enough that they were able to draw and defend themselves. A Ghost was quickly cut down by Jazari, who moved to engage two others and try to keep them away from the boys. Each of the other three faced off against a foe who was vastly more experienced with fighting and much taller and heavier than them as well. One of them, Werik, was of a cunning sort and managed to bridge the gap between him and his opponent by kicking a chair at him. His blade pierced the man's side, between his ribs, going deep into his innards. A laugh escaped his lips before he looked down and saw the blade sticking out of his belly. The two collapsed, falling on each other and pooling their blood on the floor. Varia, one of the few girls in their gang was not so fortunate. She managed to cut her opponent a time or two before the club hit her head and she fell.

Corin then felt fear grip him, as the two Ghosts pressed on him and forced him back against the bar. One was almost within an arm's reach, and instinctively Corin reached behind him and grabbed a tankard of ale that was sitting on the counter. He threw it, smashing it into his enemy's head. It was a split-second decision, but one that gave him an opportunity. He moved to his right and slipped behind the man, driving his long-knife into his back, before pushing him forward into his comrade. He rushed forward behind the man and tumbled to the ground with them. He raised his long-knife over his head and plunged it down, sinking it into one of the men, though he knew not which. His eyes were blind with tears and blood, and he was in a fearful rage. Half a minute passed before he felt arms pulling him away, as Jazari yelled at him, "Corin! Corin! Enough, we have to go! C'mon, run! Follow me!"

They tore from the pub, leaving behind the bodies of their friends. They would try and recover them later, as they always did, but they never got the chance. Halfway home to their territory they were crossed by another three Ghosts. Whether they had been waiting for them already, or the commotion of the fight had drawn them, they were there now. They eyed the two Longknife's with loathing, and then fury as they realized the two were covered in blood. There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other, a mere ten meters separating them all. "Run!", shouted Jazari, as he threw his long-knife and sunk it deep within the chest of the foremost Ghost. They turned heel and fled down the nearest alley. He had begun to turn into another when Jazari grabbed him by his collar and pulled him back. "Give me your foot! No time to argue, go, start climbing!"

Corin looked up at the crumbling building of old stone and rotting wood and shook his head. "I can't climb that, it's too high! I'll fall! I'll die!"

"You'll die if you don't, now get the hell up there!" Replied Jazari.

Corin stepped into his hand and was thrust upwards, grabbing onto a ledge of dust-covered stone. He pulled himself up and began to climb, his thin fingers finding any notch or handhold he could among the building's walls. He looked down and saw Jazari following, nearly being grabbed by the two Ghosts that followed them. Had they waited for a single second longer he would have been grabbed and Corin would have been able to do nothing to help him. The shouts of the Ghosts below them were foul, vulgar insults and profanities were thrown at them with reckless abandon. But they did not follow. The two found their way to the rooftop, and Jazari patted him on the back. "You did well Corin. I'm proud of you."

Corin stifled a cry, responding, "I've never done that before Jazari. I've never killed anyone. And Varia...and Werik...they didn't make it."

"No, no they didn't. But we avenged them. We killed their killers. And we'll get our true revenge on them all soon enough. What's important is that we survived and that we make it back to the others. C'mon, follow me. We'll travel the rooftops. When we get back, we'll get you some hot soup and you can take all the time you need to weep for them, but not now. C'mon."

The sun was beginning to set as they moved on, jumping from rooftop to rooftop all the way home. When they dropped in from the attic they surprised all the Longknife's, all of whom immediately started pressing them for information. They were not able to get a word out though before a booming voice silenced the room.

"What happened?!" Came the words from a dark corner of the room. Kirath was standing there, his arms crossed and his face stern and cold. "I got word not more than half an hour ago, that the Ghosts of Kular got into a scrape with someone and over half a dozen of them died. Explain this. NOW!"

Corin looked at Jazari, trying to find the words to speak but Jazari placed his hand on his shoulder and stepped forward. "Irt was my fault Kirath. We went out for a drink. The innkeeper must've been bought off by them. They cornered us in the bar. Wirek and Varia both died, but Wirek killed his own murderer. Corin dispatched two of the others. He fought well. We managed to escape when we finished them off, but there was more waiting nearby. We killed one of them, and I lost my knife in the process, but we got away by climbing to the rooftops and running."

A flash of anger crossed through Kirath's eyes. "So you ran from a fight, is that what I'm hearing, boy?"

Jazari's was full of anger, as he shouted back, "It was trap! A setup! We were outnumbered from the start. We were lucky to get out with our lives, and two of us didn't, mind you!"

Kirath crossed the room, standing eye to eye with Jazari, then struck him across the face. "Don't ever speak to me like that again boy. You may be my Second but you're not entitled to talk to me like that." He stepped away and began to address the rest of the boys and girls in the room. "It seems the Ghosts of Kular want a war. We've won the first battle, but I want to make sure the next one is on our terms. Get out there and find out whatever information you can, and get back soon. Go, NOW!" There were nearly two-dozen of them there, and they all began to scatter immediately. Corin sat down to take a moment to breathe, and Kirath moved to confront him, before Jazari stepped between them. He could not hear what the younger man whispered to their Chief, but Kirath shook his head then turned back to his corner, leaving them be. Jazari knelt down beside Corin and told him, "Take your time. I'll bring you some food. It's gonna be okay Corin, I promise."

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Obsidian
The Market, Many Years Ago

(Private)

Zôrzimril was pretending to be a woman on an errand, and she played the part well. She flitted through the crowded market, keeping her eyes up and an expression of interest fixed on her face. Here and there, she paused to gaze momentarily at some item or other: a tangled mess of roses, a bag of crystalline powder supposedly imbued with healing properties, a meat pie shining slick with oil from the pan. The air near the pie stall, heavy with grease and steam and smoke, shimmered before her. She inhaled deeply, licked her lips, and tasted salt and spices; her mouth filled with saliva, and her stomach gave a groan. Focus was key: food would have to come later. She moved on, occasionally slipping small trinkets plucked from pockets, purses, or countertops into the black bag slung across her torso. None of this petty theft was planned, but when she saw something she wanted, she took it. Zôrzimril had come a long way since her earliest days of stealing to survive. She still kept her dagger with her always, but she was subtler now; or, rather, she could employ subtlety when it suited her. This happened to be one such occasion.

Despite her wandering gaze, her attention and focus were fixed upon a thin man. She had received whispered information about who he was and what he carried, and he was easy enough to spot: the grey streak in his black hair was distinctive, as were his guards. Swords at their hips, the two burly men flanked him and shadowed his every move as the man threaded his way through the press of people. She tailed him from a distance, but never so far away as to lose sight of him. At times, she got close enough to see the outline of the rectangular item tucked inside his jacket. While Zôrzimril could not hope to overpower him and his guards, she was confident in her ability to outfox them. Compared to the first time she’d stolen from a man, this would be simple and clean.

How her target had come to possess the magnificent set of sapphires said to be on his person was of no concern to Zôr. She cared only about relieving him of this burden and securing her share of the take. The currency she gained from jobs like this had elevated her position in the world over the last several years: she’d gone from surviving one day to the next on the streets to a modest set of rooms of her own. She was gaining something of a reputation, too; recently, new jobs had come in because others solicited her services. Although still a far cry from the kind of infinite wealth that some in Umbar seemed to possess, she felt that she might be on the brink of prosperity. She even had started her own small collection of jewels - some purchased, many stolen. One of her favorites, a rare gem which sparkled teal in the sun but deep red by firelight, hung now from a fine gold chain around her neck. Above such material treasures, though, Zôrzimril prized the security her coin could buy. She could eat whatever and whenever she wanted; she bathed with scented soaps in hot water; she dressed in silks, not tattered rags. She wanted for virtually nothing, and she was content.

She tailed her target past the wet market’s butchers and fishmongers, all brawny and bloodstained from their daily toils, and into the quieter corners of the marketplace, where books sat in wait on shelves and old men with papery skin sold scrolls more ancient even than they. She found herself surrounded by a dizzying array of paintings and precious items, all of it for sale at the right price. She watched the man stop to smooth his grey-streaked hair in front of a long mirror, then listened when he inquired after the price of a fine sapphire brooch. Smart man, Zôr thought. I’d want to know if I’d been offered a fair price for my items, too.

Almost out of nowhere, a small, dirt-streaked girl approached Zôr and tugged on her wrist. “Please, miss,” the child whined. “Please.” Zôr looked down at the urchin, raised a haughty eyebrow, then nodded silently. At this, the girl ran off toward the men still making their way through the crowd.

And here’s how it would go: The little girl would pick the pocket of one of the guards, and clumsily at that. She would be caught. When the huge man gripped her wrist and raised his other hand to strike her, she would scream. The men would roar with indignation, and people would begin to stare. Zôr would hasten over in a swirl of deep blue silk and stretch out a long arm to intervene, shoving aside the man with the grey streak to get to the little one and swiftly slipping the parcel from his jacket and into her bag in all the commotion. She would return the guard’s coin to him and swear to have the City Guard bring the little thief to justice. She would make much of the fact that he was clearly an important man on important business, and proclaim that whipping street urchins must be beneath him. “Why trouble yourself with the likes of this rat?” Zôrzimril would conclude, roughly seizing the girl’s filthy collar. Coin purse back in hand, the guard would look to his employer, newly bereft of his sapphires but still ignorant of the loss, for direction. The man with the grey streak would roll his eyes and shrug, and the three men would move on in a huff. Once they were out of sight, Zôr would release her grip on the girl’s collar and smile. She would press a silver coin into the girl’s hand, then both woman and girl would hurry away from the scene.

Zôrzimril was not a generous young woman, but she was willing to employ a select few children from the Warrens when they suited her smaller schemes. She knew what it was to be hungry and alone, and that coin would feed the girl for a week or more. Satisfied with her work, Zôr slipped into an alley to change her clothes and pile her hair into a bun - small changes which would allow her to blend in with a crowd should she be pursued. Dressed in her usual black, she stepped out of the alley and onto the street. Evening was falling, and a cool breeze off the harbor whispered all around her. She wound her way through narrow lanes to an unmarked establishment and pushed open its battered oak door. Her buyer would arrive soon, and she had worked up a thirst in all the excitement.

“Your deepest red,” she called to the man behind the bar. She scanned the room. They were the only two people here. Zôr swept over to an old favorite stuffed armchair and sat. It was one of a pair which hulked before the fire; between them sat a delicate table whose surface was just large enough to hold two drinks. No one would dare to seat themselves beside her without invitation; the assumption here was that these high-backed chairs were reserved for those who came to strike deals and resolve disputes. With Zôr in one and the other vacant, everyone would simply assume the other party was on their way. Her wine arrived soon after she settled in, and she took an appreciative sip in silence. Her bag, still slung over her shoulder, she clutched tightly before her.

She sat for a while, replaying the successful heist in her mind. She smiled over her cup. Her cut would be large, and with that financial foundation she could, perhaps, start to set her sights on larger prizes to bankroll more lavish pleasures. This pleasant reverie vanished when a light voice from behind her suddenly broke the silence in the room. “I was so sure you would be heading to the House of Studded Midnight, but my employer insisted that we be prepared for you to come here.”

Zôr swallowed another sip of wine in haste and set down her glass before twisting slowly in her seat to see the speaker. A young woman, perhaps a few years older than she, was seated at a nearby table. She must have slipped into the pub after Zôr had taken a seat. Zôrzimril’s jaw worked visibly in irritation. Back at the market, she’d been so focused on the guards that she had not noticed this woman tailing her. “And here I am,” she replied coolly.

“And here you are,” echoed the woman. She stood, pushing back her wooden chair, and crossed to perch upon the armchair opposite Zôrzimril’s. Zôr glanced quickly around the room. No one else had entered with her, but the barkeep seemed to have vanished. They were quite alone. The woman crossed her legs and leaned back comfortably. “Oh, these are nice. I can see why you prefer to sit here.” She smirked from the depths of the armchair.

“What do you want?” Zôr murmured. Though the place was practically empty, she kept her voice low, somewhere between a purr and a growl. She had yet to decide if she would bite, but she had little time for games. Her buyer would be here soon, and she would not have this woman present for that.

“I’m simply here to recover what you took. Preferably without a fuss.” The woman’s silvery voice was edged with a threat. She gathered her chestnut hair over one shoulder and began twisting it idly in her hands while staring Zôrzimril down.

Threats were like casual greetings in the streets of Umbar; Zôrzimril was not intimidated. She would get her cut from this job, and then she would ensure that this woman was silenced. She tried to set her face in an expression of polite neutrality. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

The woman smiled and leaned forward, resting an elbow on the arm of her chair and her chin upon her hand. She stared with interest at Zôrzimril for a few long moments, her gaze following the chain of gold which disappeared down the neckline of Zôr’s dress. From her own bag, the woman withdrew a small vial, sealed with a cork. She held it aloft; in the firelight, the liquid within appeared pale pink.

“An antidote?”

“Yes.”

Zôrzimril’s eyes flicked to the goblet beside her. She sighed. “For whatever poison I’ve just consumed with this wine, I presume.”

“Good girl,” murmured the woman, a playful smile on her lips. “Very clever. You almost know what you’re doing.”

“And I can have the antidote in exchange for ... what, exactly?”

“For what you took.”

Zôr returned her smile. “You’ll need to be a bit more specific than that. I’ve taken quite a few things today, you see.” She mimicked the woman’s earlier posture: an elbow on the chair’s arm, her chin on her hand. As she moved, a burning sensation rose from the pit of her stomach and into her chest, and she swallowed uncomfortably. The moment did not pass unnoticed; the other woman, already observing the thief with interest, saw and knew what she must be feeling. She had deployed this particular poison a few times before, and she had watched as strong men crumbled with pain, as they choked on their own blood, as they wasted their last breaths crying for water to soothe their burning insides. These effects would take hold of this thief soon enough if she did not relent.

“I could say nothing now, let the poison do its work, and take everything you’re carrying without consequence, including whatever trinket hangs from that necklace,” said the woman. Zôr grimaced, both in pain and irritation. She was not enjoying being outsmarted, and resigned as she was to the inevitability of her own demise, she was not particularly inclined to die this very day. The other woman smiled, satisfied, and twirled the vial deftly between her fingers. “Normally, I wouldn’t even offer this up. But I didn’t expect the thief to be such a pretty little thing, and this particular poison can make for quite an unattractive corpse. I’d hate to let your looks go to waste.”

Zôr coughed into her hand to relieve the pressure now building in her chest. Pain seared her throat, and her eyes began to water. She knew that, of everything she had stolen today, only the sapphires would warrant these measures. She gamed out the possible outcomes. A small slip of the woman’s hand - intentional or not - would send the glass vial crashing to the ground, and the antidote would seep between the stones in the floor as Zôr died. This would certainly happen if she hurled herself forward to seize the vial. If she simply sat here much longer, she would certainly die. If she was to live, then, there was only one way forward. She cursed under her breath, then reached into her bag to retrieve the thin parcel she’d lifted from the silver-streaked man. It had the feel of a slim jewelry case, but as it was wrapped with paper, Zôr had not yet looked inside. She ran a finger over the wax seal which held the paper together: on it, a minute eagle spread its wings in flight.

“I’ll have that antidote first, I think,” she whispered. At this, the other woman stopped fidgeting with the vial and gently placed it on the spindly table between their chairs. It began to roll toward the table's edge, but it was stopped by the base of Zôr’s glass. Both women inhaled sharply, then breathed out in relief.

“There. I’ve done my bit,” said the woman. “Now you do yours.” Her brown eyes danced with amusement and reflected firelight. Zôr took the vial from the table and replaced it with the parcel.

The woman slipped the package into her bag and leaned forward to push a stray lock of black hair behind Zôr’s ear. Zôrzimril was so shocked by this overly-familiar touch and so fully gripped with pain that she didn’t even think to protest. The woman rose from her seat. She looked back as she walked away to smile and say, “Thank you, darling.”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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The Ivory Moon, Many Years Ago

(Private)

Lôminzil exited the unnamed tavern and made her way through the winding streets surrounding the market. She moved aimlessly, turning to walk along several random alleys at first to guard against the possibility that the thief had mustered up the strength to follow her. Still, she took care to skirt around the market entrances to avoid the urchins who, awaiting the emergence of the shopkeepers, hung about each evening. Those children were bold and, in Lôminzil’s opinion, overindulged by the citizens of Umbar. “Put them to work,” she always said. “Give them a task to do for some coin or a meal. Take them on and train them as apprentices. Make them work for what they want.” She’d certainly had to. Instead, the little beggars seemed to survive off pitying looks and a scrap of unsold meat here, a stale day-old loaf of bread there. By the time Lôminzil left the tavern, the shopkeepers had indeed begun to emerge, exhausted from the day’s labors, heavy stall keys clanking on their hips. A few shouted and swatted at the children, but several others paused to toss them their unsold, useless goods as she had known they would.

She shook her head and continued along familiar routes until she reached The Ivory Moon. Its arched door, thick and reinforced with iron bars, could not entirely contain the raucous sounds of the crowd within - even when shut soundly against the night. When Lôminzil entered the tavern, the shouts and chatter of men and women crashed over her like a wave. She withstood the roar and moved through the crowd to find her usual seat at the end of the bar nearest the back wall. A man and a woman with identical smiles - they were, after all, brother and sister - served drinks, and the barmaid winked at Lôminzil even as she pushed four foaming mugs of ale toward a group of waiting patrons. As soon as she’d tucked their coin into her apron, she made her way to Lôminzil and began pouring out another mug of ale.

“Here to see him?” She slid the drink across the bar and into Lôminzil’s waiting hands.

“Mmmm,” Lôminzil confirmed as she drank deeply from the tankard.

“Well, drink up, then,” said the barmaid. She glanced once around the crowded room with deep brown eyes lined with exhaustion and, in this case, a bit of mild concern. “He’s been waiting. One of those guards has been up here asking after you at least twice already.”

Lôminzil’s eyes went wide for a fleeting instant. She drank down the rest of her ale in two massive gulps, then hopped off her chair and slid sideways behind the bar through a narrow gap between the counter and the wall. “Thanks, Azrâ,” she said, passing the barmaid enough coin to cover both her drink and the tipoff. She pulled open the door which stood between the counter and the side wall lined with drinks; then, she stepped sure-footed onto the top of a long flight of stairs. The first time she had come through this door, she’d felt her stomach drop as her foot fell through the air before landing on that step. She had nearly tumbled her way into a broken neck in Nîlû’s lair then, but she knew better now.

The door shut behind her - no doubt Azrâ needed to reclaim the space taken up by the open door - and the sounds of the crowd instantly dropped to a murmur in the background. As she adjusted to the relative quiet on her descent into the basement, she heard three low voices speaking quickly. Lôminzil made sure to step heavily onto the creakiest parts of the stairs, just in case the people below did not want to be overheard. Such consideration had earned her much favor with Nîlû.

She turned left at the base of the stairs and entered his lair. It was a sumptuous space, for a basement: all the furniture was of rich, imported mahogany; a great carpet stretched across most of the floor, lending warmth to the underground space. The man for whom the pub was named sat behind a desk upon a massive chair, his long legs crossed and one booted foot tapping out an unknown rhythm in midair. The highly polished wood of the furniture gleamed in the light flickering in the hearth and the candles scattered across every surface. His clothing matched the richness of the wood in quality, but it was his hair and eyes which drew gazes whenever he entered a room. He was not even middle-aged by Númenórean standards, but his deep black hair had faded to white several years prior - well before Lôminzil had entered his circles. His amber eyes shone like firelight, though with a keen intelligence which no flame could claim. Those eyes fell upon her as she walked into the midst of the great room, and he smiled. The voices she’d heard earlier, which belonged to the three people seated around a large table in a corner, fell silent. She knew each of their faces from the marketplace, of course: two bodyguards and the man with a grey streak in his hair.

“Lôminzil,” Nîlû wasted no time on formalities. “I’d just begun wondering if you were ever going to turn up.” His eyes ran over her, searching out her intentions as well as her curves. Maddeningly accustomed as she was to the latter, the former was unsettling. Had he ever looked at her with anything resembling doubt before? The answer was, obviously, no. She had long been a trusted, invaluable cog in the machinery of his operations here. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “I believe you know my guests?” She nodded, and he grinned again. “They’ve been waiting for you, too. Waiting and hoping you would return with the goods, as promised.”

“I apologize for the delay,” she said calmly. One of the large men at the table looked up at her with renewed interest at the sound of her voice. She had that effect sometimes.

Lôminzil withdrew the slim package from her bag and ran her thumb over the wax seal, just as she’d seen the thief do earlier. To the grey-streaked man, she said, “I have your package here.” She set the parcel delicately upon Nîlû’s desk, then stepped back a respectable distance to convey her indifference toward the valuables with which she had just parted.

“And the thief?”

Lôminzil gazed directly into Nîlû’s strange, amber eyes. “She’s been dealt with.”

“Excellent,” he said, clapping his hands together, all skepticism forgotten. “I think that calls for a toast, wouldn’t you say, gentlemen?”

The men at the table were less enthusiastic about this proposition than her employer, but they acquiesced all the same. Nîlû poured two fingers of whiskey into pristine glasses for each of them, even her, and returned to his massive chair. He raised his glass to his client.

“To the safe recovery of your jewels - and the elimination of that particular threat to my enterprise. Well done, Lômi.”

Lôminzil grimaced into her glass. The whiskey burned her throat, but it was still easier to swallow than Nîlû’s unwanted flirtations. She tolerated them because he paid better for her work than anyone else, but she was quite certain there would come a day when she didn’t need him. She would tell him how she really felt when that day came.

Nîlû and the bodyguards made idle conversation about the state of Umbar’s criminal networks, and Lôminzil listened with only the mildest of interest. The grey-streaked man remained silent and still, moving stiffly to lift his glass to his lips every now and then. Once Lôminzil had swallowed the last of her whiskey, she set her glass down upon Nîlû’s desk and begged them to excuse her. They waved her off with another toast and a chorus of thanks, and she ascended the stairs into the noise of the Ivory Moon’s common room. She waved to Azrâ on her way out and, once she had emerged into the cool, quiet night, she took several deep breaths and made for home.

* * *

Nîlû drained his glass and strode to the bottle sitting upon his desk. “Another round, gentlemen?” he asked loudly, elated by the success of his chief alchemist. In addition to her skills with potions and concoctions, she was proving to be quite the clever schemer - it had been her idea to put a tail on the thief, rather than letting the bodyguards do all the dirty work. It would’ve looked strange, she had argued, for a giant man to slash a pretty girl’s throat or to snap her neck in the middle of the marketplace. Stranger things had happened in Umbar, to be sure, but Nîlû didn’t want to draw attention to the operation and cause a scene. Lôminzil had guessed that this thief, connected as she was, might have some guards of her own in the crowd, and convinced him to go the route of a quiet death by poison.

“No, I think not,” said the man with the grey streak in his hair.

“Ahh, Minlubên - surely two glasses of whiskey won’t do you in?” he protested.

“They won’t,” said the man, “but there is only so much celebrating one can do. You and your pretty assassin have merely cut off one arm of the kraken. And an anonymous arm, at that. My guess is that the head doesn’t even know who she was. Do you?”

“Just another rising-star thief out of the Warrens. She was good, I’ll admit that. But why does it matter? She’s dead now. I’ve seen the stuff Lôminzil uses on people like her. It isn’t pretty.”

“Mmmm.” Minlubên brought the tips of his fingers together before his face and considered Nîlû over them. Did this criminal, well-connected and successful as he was, not know the history of the Houses? Did he not know that it was in this particular thief’s very blood to manipulate and steal from the men who dictated life in the city? Sometimes, Minlubên thought, it was a wonder that the city functioned at all, the way they all let their collective memories slide. Still, he said nothing. He would keep and use that bit of information when it suited him - and just now, with a half-drunk crime lord pushing another glass of whiskey at him, was not the moment.

Minlubên finally relented and set the glass on the table without touching its contents. He exchanged meaningful looks with each of his bodyguards, and the three of them rose as one.

“I thank you, Nîlû, for your collaboration in this matter,” Minlubên said. He and the guards walked toward the stairs, and he slid the thin package from the desk into his jacket pocket as they went. In payment, he left behind a fat bag of gold. “You and that - ah, Lôminzil, was that her name? You both have done very well. We may look to you for your services again.”

This was high praise from a man like Minlubên. Nîlû bent his neck to demonstrate his gratitude.

The three men ascended the stairs and reentered the tavern above with a sudden influx of noise, which died down just as soon as the door snapped shut. Nîlû sat himself upon his heavy mahogany chair. Sometimes, he liked to imagine it as a great carven throne. In this fantasy, his fingers were bedecked with gold rings and all the jobs in the city ran through him and his people. He had one such ring already - a signet upon his left little finger. The bag of gold before him would put him well on his way to another, even after he’d paid Lôminzil for her trouble.

Another burst of chatter from the tavern alerted him to incoming company. He swept the bag of gold into a drawer and shut it just as two pairs of feet came stomping down the stairs.

“Azrâ!” he exclaimed, straightening and smoothing his hair at the sight of the barmaid. He wouldn’t touch her now with her brother still upstairs, but they had exchanged more than a few passionate kisses after hours in this room.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said breathlessly. She had clearly rushed down here before the young man who trailed behind her. “This lad wants a word. I didn’t know you were expecting anyone after Lôminzil, though, so I thought it’d be best if I came down with him.”

She was a clever woman. Nîlû might be indulgent with certain women who worked for him, but an unannounced intrusion was likely to spin him into a rage. He had dispensed with his second-best thief only last year because the man showed up without warning to demand more work on one too many occasions. Now, no one would ever hire him. Azrâ had seen all this transpire.

“You must be quite convincing, to have Azrâ vouching for you,” Nîlû said with a sneer, looking at the young man. He was slender and dark and wore an apron around his waist, just as Azrâ and her brother did. “I’m afraid I’m not hiring - as you can see, we’re all set on bar staff. But what’s your name? Perhaps we’ll let you know in future.” He feigned politeness but he had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

Azrâ stepped aside as the man moved forward to speak with her employer.

“I’m Tolog. But it’s not a job I’m after, sir,” said the young man. He twisted a corner of his apron in both hands, betraying his nerves. “And I don’t like to cause trouble. But I just come over from the bar where I work. That is, the bar where Lôminzil had her job. Most don’t know it’s got a name, but we just call it the Cloak.” He was rambling now. Nîlû raised his eyebrows and drummed his fingers impatiently upon his desk. “Sorry. She hired me on to help her, y’see. Told me I’d be helping out Nîlû - and you’re a legend. How could I say no? I was meant to put the poison in whatever drink that young thief asked for. The one with the dark hair.”

“Go on,” Nîlû commanded, for Tolog had paused to swallow his anxiety.

“Well, I did like Lôminzil asked. Put the poison in the girl’s wine and all. She even drunk it. I was s’posed to stand outside and make sure nobody else came in ‘til Lôminzil had done her bit. When she left, I was s’posed to deal with the body. Only I went back in and there was no body there at all.”

“What?”

“It’s like I said. I don’t know if she moved it herself or what, but there was no body. And I had my orders but couldn’t do ‘em, so I figured I’d tell you that something didn’t go to plan.”

Nîlû saw a dozen possible scenarios play out in his mind’s eye. Many of them - far too many - ended with the thief walking out of that tavern of her own volition. His right hand balled into a fist, and he rose to his full height. He towered over Tolog by more than a head.

“You’ve done well to tell me this, Tolog. Perhaps I will hire you on, after all.”
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Parting the Shadows (late TA)
Umbar Market
~Slave~

She was known only as Slave in this wretched land. Once she had dreamed of adventure, of the thrill of seeing new lands, and learning new stories, and ill she had been repaid for her foolishness. Now as she threaded her way through the bustling market few would connect the slave, abroad on an errand for her mistress, with that girl of long ago.

She had long-since ceased to exist, now she endured, her mind most often blank as it sought to protect her from the worst of her reality. But even her mind could not protect her from that which now seemed to define her world; Slave.

She felt the madness creeping in, its insidious trendrils stealing more and more of her memories from her. Dimly she remembered a time when she had fought its sweet oblivion, flashes now only remained of defiance, of chains, of the sea air, of pain, pain, pain …

Still, sometimes in the darkest watches of the night, as she lay shivering upon the floor, she could feel despair at what she had become; and amidst the grief and torment she knew that meant a small part still hoped, and that was perhaps the cruelest injury of all. For what hope could there be in this dark, cursed land; a land where she had lost all that she held dear, and been reduced only to this, to Slave.

The chill dawn air and weak sunlight had greeted her as she ventured forth from the house. Many would think her fortunate if they glimpsed the grand house she had exited, for surely even to be Slave within its confines and to serve such a noble house must be better than the fate of many who shared her name. Pushing her short, dark hair away from her face, her fingers brushed over the scars adorning her cheek, and Slave flinched at the horror that accompanied them. For in Umbar there was little fortune that fate could offer.

Her mistress had bidden her to fetch a trinket she had purchased from the market, and whilst she dreaded going back to that place, she dreaded the mistresses’ wrath more. Determinedly she made her way towards the heart of the large square, her only hope that the early hour and the bustle about the docks at dawn would mean the market would be emptier than usual. As she wandered the market, she kept as best she could to the shadows, the hood of her cloak drawn up to shield her face. Her grey eyes were downcast as often she could afford, only furtively glancing up when needed. The sigil of the house burned onto both her wrist and neck should keep her safe as it marked her as property of one of the ruling houses, but she would trust to nothing in this faithless place.

The orc manning the shop was thankfully distracted by another customer, and with only a little snarling the package was thrust into her hands, and she just as speedily stowed it in away in a pocket where prying eyes would not discern it. But of course such luck could not hold for long, and before she could make her escape the customer and shop keeper began to quarrel. Almost at once the angry words turned to violence, and as she turned to flee she felt the smaller of the two orcs crash into her.

She was thrown back into the stall, the sharp pain of the counter digging into her side and freezing the breath in her lungs even as her outflung hand scrabbled desperately at the table to support her. In her clumsiness several of the smaller wares at the front of the stall clattered to the ground, and she knew instinctively that more pain would soon follow. “Why you stupid snivelling …” however the insult might have ended she couldn’t say, for pain had consumed her, the booted foot of the shop keeper finding its way unerringly into her already injured side and robbing her of her senses. Fortune must have felt she was owed some recompense, for the argument between the two orcs quickly intensified and drew all attention from her. Slave quickly crawled away, teeth gritted against the screaming pain from her ribs, and slumped behind a pillar several feet away.

Agonising seconds passed as Slave fought to regain her breath, an effort that almost proved fruitless as she falteringly pushed to her feet. Rest was a luxury she could ill afford, not in this place where weakness would only be preyed upon. Painfully she staggered for the first few feet, and it was only with effort that she could smooth out her gait enough to attempt the walk back to the house. As she left the square behind her she became conscious of a weight in her hand. Looking down she could only stare confusedly at the small knife in her hand, a knife she remembered seeing just a short while ago, laid out amongst others of its ilk at the orcs stall.

The longer she stared the more she became certain she was looking at the same hand, clear of brands, with its strong fingers wrapped expertly around the hilt of a much larger sword. Cursing quietly, she forced herself back to the now, back to forgetfulness. But even as she convinced herself she had seen nothing at all, her fingers kept a tight grip on the knife, and a spark flared in the darkness as a voice whispered soundlessly, you must find a place to hide it.
Last edited by I hate Eärendil on Mon Sep 06, 2021 1:49 pm, edited 6 times in total.

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Sleeping with the Enemy – Part 1

The Astronomers Daughter
in The House of Halsad


She had never had one of her lily-white limbs snagged within an animal trap, but she felt increasingly that this must be something like that horrific experience. No sharp iron teeth had closed about her flesh, but an immense, dull weight of a Man who would not be prised over to his side of the bed. She had woken near two hours ago, and had naught to show for all that she had trialled since. Her leg was numbed to the point where she fell careless awhile, into a lost memory of swimming off the cape. The water that winter had been so cold that she had not loitered overlong. But after even a short time, it had seemed that her brain had shut down all feeling to her body, that the cold ought not concern her. Might be it was now employing a similar strategy.

Cold was no antagonist in Umbar though. Heat here was the smug villain which dominated all. From the most vile and sloth politicians, swooning in their litters, to the basest slaves, staggering in their toil. None escaped the sun here and she wished more than usual to be home, even for the wintry waters of Belfalas. The closed harbour of Umbar was as though a fortress, conceived of hard, high-reaching rock. The passage which led out from the sheltered, stifling harbour into the open sea was a funnel. All that she had ever known of breeze here, even stood upon the dock, was the screaming echo which ran through that natural gateway, and pummelled itself against the suffocating embrace of the city. There were times she imagined it might be her own scream, yearning for freedom, tiring of this horrific nightmare. But she did not dare to scream aloud. Best leave that to the wind.


Such time had been spent in seeking to lift Uhta’s massive, muscled haunch, that she hadn’t realised quite how far off the bed she had leant. Gravity as much as a sudden release took her by surprise, and the cold hard stone floor bruised her behind. But cool ! How refreshingly cool it was, after scrambling about the sweat-stained sheets and sodden pillows all the night ! A small squeak fled from her throat at first, and one clammy hand soon clapped over the ironically dry lips of her mouth, even as she dared to keep her eyes from scrunching up in fear. But the sleeping giant did not stir. And so she indulged in a brief and simple luxury, as was luxury here. Space to stretch as far as ever her fingers and toes could manage ! Cool, stone bathing her bare back with a plummeting temperature ! For less than a minute, she experienced utter and unblemished relief.

Then the recognition of where she yet was. The beasts outside punched the cruel reality of frightful howlings through even heavy wooden shutters. Ever hungry they were, and their eyes, straining as ever were they pulling at their leashes; to reach her. To bite her. They would devour her if they could ever manage to get close enough. They were all that kept her from flinging back the shutters and, in a state of final despair, pitching herself from the chamber, to the yard below. The concept of dying not at once, but finding herself broken, battered, no doubt badly bleeding .. and then to be consumed alive by the wild dogs ? That was enough to deter even the bravest soul, and she had never considered herself be such a thing.


So she crawled, on hands and knees, quite beside being too proud to do so. That ship had long sailed, months ago. But gnawing at her lip all the same, to distract from the ache of where her bony form had struck the floor. She got all the way to the door before recalling that it was locked. And as though he had been awake the entire time, Uhta chose that moment to sit up and yawn.

Mouse,” he patted the bed beside him, to summon her return to him. “Little Mouse" Such was his ‘pet’ name for her, and it mattered little whether it appealed to her. She had tried once to pierce his thick skull with the fact that she had been a person, upstanding with a good name and social expectation .. back in Dol Amroth. But ‘This is Umbar. Not Dull Amroth’ he had concluded, and that was the end of that conversation. It might be his accent or his deliberate intent to sound the ‘Dol’ as ‘dull’. She was to this day not quite sure that he wasn’t smarter than most people gave him credit for. Still, it did little to endear him to her. In the end she had foregone with complaining about the ‘new’ name. After all, it aided her survival in the mindset of two worlds. That the ‘Mouse’ who had endured things here, was a person utterly apart from the girl, the astronomer’s daughter of her far-off native city. Maybe if she ‘played’ the part here, she might one day remove the mask and costume of this whole horrible experience, and simply go back to being her other self. Her old self.

There were days when she properly believed that this was possible. Those were the days that she did not catch sight of herself in one of the many gargantuan, gilded mirrors that bedecked the house.


I need to feed the dogs,” she tried to decide whether this was actually favourable to returning to his side, and spoke though in such a small voice to almost justify him naming her for a mouse. Thin fingers rattled the door handle as she heaved her shaking stature upright. It was a thing she had never grown accustomed to. The lack of clothing. There had been some reasoning at the start, about how she would only get clothes dirty, with all that she was expected to do about the house. But truly, she knew as well as they that it would disgrace her entire morals and upbringing to flee from their property, sky-clad. Uhta certainly seemed to like her this way. It saved time and the perplexities for him of imagination.

Those are not dogs,” he guffawed, and slumped back unto his back. But one hand grasped for the key about his bed post and saw it across the room. Freedom clattered to her feet with a sharp jangle of mocking temptation. Freedom meant another day in this house, another day as ‘Mouse’. Now that it came to it, she almost wished to crawl back in against his great shield of self, and hide from everyone, from everything. But .. “Do not forget to feed Uhta also,” he added, through a slovenly drawl which was already luring him back to sleep. “You can eat what I do not.”

With a deep sigh, she planted the keys, and dared the door open. The descent down stairs was a descent her heart took as much as her feet.
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.

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Sleeping with the Enemy – Part 2

The Astronomer's Daughter
In the House of Halsad


The sight and sound of it were abhorrent in equal measure. Still the smell defeated all else that threatened to overwhelm her. It was inescapable. As the gluttonous carnivores fought and snapped over the fresh meat, the sound of broken bone punctured the ripping tear of ruined flesh. The carcasses were a veritable feast; they writhed and contorted with each new challenge, as though some parts of what they had once been were still alive and struggling.

One slab of … something … slapped against the stone near to the slave girl’s bare, immediately flinching, foot. As much as she might have sought to shrink back against the wall, there was that horrendously present temptation to snatch up the morsel within reach. She was that starved that she might have thrown herself unto all fours and bared teeth at any creature that dared make a try to have it from her.


Still there remained enough humanity about her still that she held resolutely onto her will, and counted. How long were the beasts occupied by their massacre ? Slowly she backed up until her back pressed up against the iron bars of the tall fence. A fence tall enough to keep the beasts within. A fence that if she could manage to ascend, while they feasted … she might slip beyond the reach before ever a body observed her. Any that might chance to note the way she here recoiled, would sure think she was seeking to withdraw only from the mauling and the mutilation. They would not have been entirely incorrect.

Still, she had begun to consider the second issue. How many steps backward would take her to meet the barrier ? She threw her head up as though to save her sight from such a scene. She threw up her head in truth … to try and gauge quite how high the iron bars extended. She counted right up until Mistress called out of the opened door, to summon her within.


Dropping her head in apparent subjugation, she smothered the tiny joy of satisfaction. An expensive education had allowed her the tools to make estimates and average. She knew that when her chance came, she must be prepared. She must know as much as she could, and so did. She must somehow find a way to have some clothes about her if she was to take the risk and run. It would be hard to not gather attention unless she might fit in …

Jenahda Halsad did not trust a crew of subordinates, taking the word of her husband as good sense; that too many slaves would find the family outnumbered. Gael had took notice of perhaps two other bodies who shared her shelf of the hierachy within the house. And they, having been there longer, paraded their own entitlement of seniority over her, whenever the opportunity allowed. Not a one of them was allowed in the kitchen; that was the domain of Mistress. Whether she feared others might poison her little litter of offspring, or whether she kept them close by controlling what they consumed, either way, she prepared the meals. All three of the triplets were seated already about the table when the slave girl scampered into place, Jenahda striding so fast behind her to ensure compliance, like a dog herding dumb sheep. The Umbarians took little heed of her, save for Uhta, who jerked his head in a gesture of command. To come hither.

They were discussing Lond Daer. Again. Subconsciously, the girl glanced up, to where ropes were yet draped about the massive, scorred, wooden wheel. Candles had replaced what sorry soul had recently bedecked the structure, and these squat crumples of light wept their wax unto the table below, like the wretched boy had not so long ago wept tears. There was still blood on the flagstones from when his shoulders were splintered. She could not tell now though, whether the blood had been his, or hers. For Matsu had taken the greatest pleasure in striking her, time and time again, as she had struggled to clean up the mess.


But it was not Matsu’s chair which she inched around, as though she were avoiding a dangerous reptile. This terror was ever stoked by the sight of the second son; Keket. He straightened up without even speaking a word, and she knew beyond all comprehension that his eyes were watching her take from his one side to the other. She scarcely dared breathe in case he sensed her fear in the air, and enjoyed it.

A grab or a squeeze from Matsu she can endure. It marks him a man devoid of honourable intentions, but still it is not unheard of behaviour. For a human being. Keket is another species utterly. A cold fish, some unblinking, unfeeling thing.


As though he might sense that her mind was upon his brother, Uhta’s immense fist hammered a wave of vast echoes the length of the ancient altar. Bowls laden with exotic fruits discarded their wares, like small mountains wracked by avalanches. Hastening to harvest those which tumbled close to hand, she added to the mound which buried her bedfellow’s plate. Bedfellow. He was not her ‘lover’, as much as she understood the word. Surely he felt elseways, but she was as much a toy or an amusement to the great giant who saw her not as an equal, or even a thing he ought to consider, save as how she might best please him. The notion of feeding the great titan baby, hand to mouth, might have been degrading. Except that so long as she stayed close to Uhta, she was safe. From the rest of them.


You don’t really believe, do you, that the more food you fetch up from the table for him, the more chance he’ll leave more scraps for you upon his plate ?Matsu managed to find mirth in what she had hoped was a subtle hope, and duely destroyed her dreams. “Should know by now, girly,” the eldest Halsad son emptied his many-times dented chalice, and waved it about until his mother threw a new bottle of blood red elixir for him to catch. He did, with his spare hand, and a smug ruffle of one eyebrow. “There ain’t a pile of food as can defeat Uhta !” he finished, knowingly. To which claim, Uhta himself raised his spent platter over his head, triumphantly.


The riot of a family breakfast was quashed by the arrival of Pharak. Patriach and Blood Priest. He bore the sort of face which made all onlookers fall silent in great awe, for all of the wrong reasons. And he held himself with the same dignity and presence which made all onlookers grow discomfort in no time at all.

Matsu you shall not be going to Lond Daer” The Burned Man descended unto the soiled cushion of his seat as though it were a mighty throne and he a king. “You shall mind Captain Sarabeth Gameela in the taking of the Wethrin Isles. Since she has solicited an alliance with the Mole King, our craft shall be able to navigate the West Coast without interference.”

Matsu ran a finger around the rim of his plate, and planted it firmly into his mouth, smacking his lips happily. Until his father mentioned the Mole King. Up until that point, he had been making clear with his expression quite how glad he was to be paired with the alluring but ferocious Sarabeth. Still he knew better to dictate to his father any disapproval of the plan. At least not to Pharak’s ruined face.


What of the Elves in Lindon ? I hear there is yet a pocket of power about their harbours ..Jenahda had never been shy of making her voice heard. It was a fact which her husband rarely disapproved of, since it allowed him to demonstrate his cunning. That he had already composed answers to the questions he knew she would ask.

They are few and ill prepared to match our force," The Umbarian declared, as though assured of the fact by some means none here knew. "Kfir is already about the region of Bree, to hit hard their logging industry and remind the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains close by why they ought stand hostile against their sharp-eared neighbours. By the time our landings on the archipelago are noted, we shall be too deeply settled to uproot. Uhta, you will draw the eyes and ears of Rangers and Elves in the East of Eriador .. keep their minds fixed on matters southward. Take the Tharbad Crossing, hold that harbour. If you are able, draw what strength they may have cloistered away into your nest, and crush it when it reveals itself. There may be a clutch of folk who lock themselves away in Rivendell, but this time a siege shall swarm them. When Angmar ignites in the North, and the Orcs march out under the great Shadow from their Mountain holes in the Eastern wall, the fool rebels shall find themselves surrounded.

This time, no help shall come to them by sea. The sea is ours.




Uhta brought his glinting metal plate to rest back on the table and tipped up his drinking glass, that the girl took his hint. She held her eyes on the table, steady, as she poured the rum … and wondered yet again at the Man’s strong stomach.

You have three sons, Father,”

So intent was the girl about her task (being eavesdropping), and all else there so fixed in thought of their instructions, they without exception startled to recall Keket. None had remarked of his injuries, nor where or how he had obtained them, though the city was abuzz with the retribution of the Shadow. The Night of the Jackals had left seventeen citizens dead. The jackals in the Halsad front yard had devoured their remains that very morning … Keket was the only of their number harmed but yet allowed to keep his life. Now as he spoke up, declaring himself, all awaited for the Blood Priest's judgement.

Pharak carried sentence without ever needing to shape the words. Ignoring his middle child, he arose with stately poise from his seat, and held forth a crooked arm which his wife linked and proudly supported him in leaving the room. Neither of them looked back. Immediately that the enchantment seemed lifted, Matsu embarked on a grim imagining of his time to be spent with Sarabeth Gameela. Uhta glanced toward his ‘Mouse’ and frowned to see the sorrow about her sea-grey eyes.

Not long gone,” he prophesised. “You will not be alone long enough to forget Uhta” he promised.

But it was the fixed and unblinking stare of Keket which had struck the girl unto some abject terror. That she would be staying in the house, and so would he. And he was not at all happy. And there would be none to protect her …. nor distract him ...

She could only hope against all hopes that he might find some project to keep him occupied ..
Last edited by Ercassie on Sat Sep 04, 2021 7:50 pm, edited 2 times 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.

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Sleeping with the Enemy – Part 3

The Astronomer's Daughter
In the House of Halsad

The sun had crawled into it's grave and so night fell across all Umbar, brandishing a chill that made folk miss the stifled heat of day. The girl laboured up the ancient staircase, expectant for the relief of rest, a thing brought about by the long hours of hard toil. Lost years of indulging in fine silks back in Dol Amroth, and exchanging pleasantries with friends, contemplating on husbands, fortunes, futures …. such were no longer things which she missed but rather things that shamed her. For all of the preparation, the priming of manners and the lessons in the art of entertaining, years of fluency in music; what had been the point of any of it ? Faced with keeping a house clean and people fed, she truly was the drudge they assumed her, for she was about as useless as a soiled doily. Without Uhta to make her his plaything, she was beckoned by every mouth in the house which could demand something of her. There was no let up. There was no pride in managing to scrub a floor well, for she had not been schooled in such arts until lately, and her amateurish efforts showed, insisting for errands to be done and re-done, until they were done to satisfaction.

By now she harboured vague delusions that she missed the titan man who had made her his pet. To have seen his great round face at the head of the stairs, summon her to snuggle in warm beside him, where no one would dare disturb her … mayhaps it was only the rest and peace he awarded her, that she now yearned for. Finding the corridor at the height of the staircase, she grasped the door handle in her hand, so cold that she drew back startled from the touch. And then fretted that the large chamber within would prove no warmer. Without the bear who hibernated there. Still, at last she would have peace, privacy, and for once, no great lump to suffocate her with his attention.

If the door would only open. But it seemed that her last and meagre hope now was denied her. Collapsing like a bundle of fallen laundry, she unfolded into a seat by the surprise barrier. One hand turned the cold doorknob, again and again, as though she might make a plea to the lock. But when her despair bred a response, it was not the one she desired. Not at all.


"That is my brother's room. Not yours."

The bedroom across from Uhta's belonged to Keket. And his door, unlike Uhta's, stood ajar. Wearily the girl raised wary eyes to gauge her peril. The middle brother was sat crosslegged on his bed, elbows creased into his knees, chin roosting in the cradle of his hands. There was no light emanating from the man's lair, but what was cast by the moon that hovered in the window at his back. It was more than enough light to see the man's slow smile, some unspeakable crevice that split wide his cadaverous face, an abyss that who knew what might slither forth from. She swallowed, and her hand dropped to the floorboards as the man gave a suggestive pat of the bed beside him.

"I am your brother's …" there was not a word that she felt happy to conclude that sentence. There was naught else to make her point, save "not yours." she returned, in a voice that barely broached the distance between them. She was not sure if she hoped he heard her, or not.


Keket did not move, he did not speak. He simply stared. And as though things existed only when she observed them, she tucked her glance down to watch where one splitting nail rubbed the dark wood at her feet. She pulled herself closer, foetal, as though she could take up the least space possible, and be left alone. But he did not leave her be, and neither did he do or say a thing. He simply .. stayed.

Counting didn't help. The vast number that she spelt out in a silent dance across her lips became a game, as she left it longer and longer each time, between daring to look up. Every time, the same. He remained. He watched. And it was becoming apparent that she would find no solace this night. Not while his eyes bored through her like a sword. Ceaseless. A gentleman back home would never have dared so at a lady. But here … anywhere in fact that she might envisage they two, she would not know comfort for so long as he .. stared. At length, she was forced to move one leg, which had fallen to a numbness beneath her. Summoning all strength, she rose, a little wobbly at the first, from that numbed leg. But she managed a stride gingerly across the hallway, no more commandeering in her approach than a feather blustered about by a breeze. Reaching Keket's door, she put eyes finally upon him, as her hand forced the door to blind those same eyes of his unnerving sight. The wood stood between them now, a solid obstruction, and she sighed. A tiny emission, that in the silence and anticipation of her challenge seemed like an almighty fanfare of selfworth. Still ungainly, she hobbled back across the hallway, and slid her back down the locked door, as far as she could be away from the staring strange man.


The door on the opposite side of the hall yawned wide, skeletal fingers tapping a tune around the edge of the wood. Keket loomed around the door, the same way that smoke curls around buildings, swallowing their height. She was back on her knees on the floor by Uhta's door, eyes wide and evolving wider still as the man quietly, calmly, backtracked to his bed. He settled, and she shuddered. Would he really make her walk all the way back across and … what this continue all night ?

Failure in the first attempt slowed her enthusiasm in the second. Still, she pushed up with both hands pressed flat against the floor, and resumed her full height, such as it was. Each step felt as though a thousand leagues, as though she waded through quicksand. Still, she reached the door again, and he raised one eyebrow amused. She put hands upon the handle and made to remove herself from his cold gaze. Yet with the speed of a serpent Keket met her there at the doorway, one hand clasping tight around her pale wrist. One hand holding the cold steel of a small curved blade against her throat.

"I could peel you like an apple," he chose to regale her with such a notion. "A long, single, unspoilt stream of skin, curled away from your bones by the close shave of my blade."

"He will return
," was the first and only threat in her arsenal. "And he will not be happy that you lay a hand on me."

"He will return
," Keket agreed, flicking his head so that tendrils of his dark hair did not hide his amusement. "And when he does, he shall bring back with him a new toy, a delicious souvenir, of his latest escapade," the bored voice of experience outlined it's prophecy, dispassionate. "My brother likes to have pretty things about him. But you are no longer within reach, or memory .. Or did you think you were the first ? The only ?"


What could barely be defined a laugh hacked out of the Umbarian's scrawny throat. The girl knew better than to try and pull away from him. She went limp, and he took it as a betrayal of her broken hope.

"Uhta takes whatever he wishes, and Matsu takes whatever he can, to pay for whatever he wishes," the girl surprised them both by prolonging the conversation. "I have never yet observed Keket obtain a single thing that he wishes .."

The blade nicked her chin as the man withdrew his advance. He released the girl's arm and caressed his sharp knife in his second hand, thoughtfully. Turned aside and with some small space between them now, he did not appear to note the release of that breath she had been holding. "You had best pray that you never do, Gael" the Man chose to educate the woman, his own brand of elation emboldened by the terror in her face.

"How .. how do you know my name ?" she could not comprehend, nor keep herself from confirming the title; so simple a thing that it was. For none since she had been taken ever had put thought to ask her. She was 'Girl' or 'Mouse'. None here knew about 'Gael', the daughter, the lady, the girl who was of Dol Amroth. How much did they know of her, of who she'd been, of what .. of whom ..

"And all this time you have indulged such a selfish despair," he shook his head, brought the knife up to his lips and appeared to press it lovingly against the words which wounded, twice so well, as any injury the steel might incite. "Resolved to your fate, this life now yours with self pity your constant companion. For how could you now ever be accepted by your folk back home ? Even were you to against all odds make your way there. One day. Some day. Noone in Dol Amroth would believe that we, the dread ilk of their most horrific nightmares, had not done all the worst manner of things they could fear to such a lady of such fair .. breeding .. " He chuckled, in time to her panicked faint, and the girl clutched at her own throat now, to breathe.


"You know naught of me," she whispered, daring to believe it might be so, and finding the truth as sure as her own muted voice.

"It is you," he corrected, drawing back upon his bed now that he had her intrigue. She was released of his hold, unencumbered by the threat of his knife. Still though trapped by the most deadly weapon at his disposal. "You who knows naught, of what Keket truly wishes."

Her eyes closed then, opened, and found all conditions were not changed at all. Tears leapt then to action, though they would find here no such kind audience as might have been moved by their craft, back home. Keket revelled in the horror etched across the Gondorian's face. She shook her head, slow and stunned, as though she might deny the knowledge, erase that she knew in fact not half of what a sorry state of things she faced. Had it not been foul enough, the circumstance which she believed her own ? True, yes, she had wept at the understanding of how she was clearly 'lost' to Umbar. And she had pushed thoughts aside of how her doting father must be lonesome, and fret who would tend to him as the years hastened their relentless pace of time … But at least all that she loved and treasured were removed, or so she had believed, from any ill effect of her own unhappy affliction !

"O, prized daughter of Lord Heledir Estennin" Keket advertised his ace, and witnessed the girl flounder to her knees before him. "Fret not, for soon your devoted father shall have outlived all use we might think of him to attempt in your name." The Umbarian basked in the delight of the girl, cramming her hand into her jaw, to stifle the pangs of grief and woe that he had imposed on her. "I shall find myself removed of all reasons to prolong his miserable existence a moment longer," the proclamation began to wound down to it's grand conclusion. "Just as you shall find your own worth usurped by some other in the delight of my brother. You have never yet observed Keket obtain a single thing that he wishes ? Well soon all the seeds of my pending triumph shall come unto fruition !"


Quite what could be inferred by Keket's grandiose ambitions, it was not a thing he was yet willing to disclose with the girl. Thus, catching her up by the long trail of her unwashed hair, he cast Gael out of even the doorframe of his personal 'realm'. Awarding the former lady the same care and consideration as a sack of unwanted kittens destined for the bottom of a lake. She skidded across the floor she had polished herself some hours hence, and collided with the still locked door of absent Uhta. Keket's door now closed upon her, and whereas she might have longed for such a thing not long ago, now her sore head was lit by questions and concerns. Sobs did little to console the long, long stretch of time which would resurrect the dawn. Sobs did not remotely bother the deep, tranquil sleep of Keket Halsad.


He who had much to look forward to.

@Pele Alarion
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.

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Pele, enjoying Umbarian hospitality at Relic's house
@Ercassie , @Isolde Alarion

It felt like ages had gone by since she was locked away in this iron cell; and even though Pele knew it was not quite ages, she had lost count of days. At first she had kept a record in her mind, but after a while she could no longer keep track, as everything was constantly dark, and she no longer knew whether it was day or night. Perhaps days had gone by, or it could have been a week - maybe even close to a month? She knew not.

She was aware that probably her 'kind' hosts considered this a good way to break her: leaving her alone in an isolated cell with no one else nearby; only Niera visited her very seldom, or Shamara, but she could count these visits on her fingers.

There was only that much one could do in a dark room with bare walls and absolutely nothing to be occupied with. If only she had anything... something to use to pry the lock open. But there was no such luck, and to keep herself sane, Pele had counted the steps across her small space in all possible directions in between attempts to open the door.

At some point, she heard the approaching footsteps in the hallway, and for a while stood still, listening. Her body tensed, and a faint hope of escape was lit in her heart, as she wondered whether she could overcome the owner of the footsteps and get out of here. Then again, maybe someone was just passing by...
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Parting the Shadows (late TA)
Umbar
~Slave~

Soft sounds were all that disturbed the peace of the dawn hour. Shhh, shhh, shhh they sounded, shhh, shhh, shhh, a soothing lullaby to the only one to hear them. Softly they echoed the rhythm of the brush as it was drawn back and forth and back and forth across the stone of the great hall. The weak dawn light filtered softly through the paned windows of the majestic hall, barely illuminating the solitary hunched figure crouched near the base of the stair. Slave willed herself to become lost in the measured movements and calming sounds as she scrubbed the floor of the grand entrance. Oblivion was welcome here, a short respite before her day truly began; where usually she would tremble to be seen above stairs, here the early hour shielded her from harm. But oblivion could not be complete, for with each passing moment the quickening dawn ate away at that shield, her movements becoming more frantic as she raced the rising sun.

Hastily she scrambled to her feet, disregarding the aches and pains from her labour. Sharp eyes further scoured the space, checking the all was as it should be. Fleetingly she noticed how lovingly the rays of the sun traced over the soft, sweeping lines of the graceful staircase, the beautiful rich fabrics and touches of gold gaining in vibrancy with the sunlight. It reminded her of the beauty of a bitter frost, the icy beauty of its cold perfection … that would be quick to fade and reveal the reality beneath. For the beauty of this house was so incongruous against the dark savagery of those who dwelt within.

If Slave had any expectation of the day, it was only that time would eventually pass as she completed her chores, until somehow she would find herself back on the hard kitchen floor as night settled in. Yet this day, almost as soon as she slipped through the kitchen door she felt two strong hands grab her, and her bones rattled under her skin as she was shaken back and forth, enraged words spat at her by the voice of the cook. “Where is she you mongrel? Come on, I’m not about to be punished for the sake of you and that filth.” It was almost as if the assault shook her back to the now, and as her gaze ricocheted around the room, snagging on the empty corner, the unwashed dishes, and most telling the cold and dark grate of the fire she could guess what had happened. The stone of the hearth rose up to meet her as a hard backhand caught her across the mouth, the skin of her lip splitting open almost immediately. Yet Slave uttered no sound, and only rising to her knees she remained where she had been thrown, unmoving, her head bowed. She remained mute, for silence was her only chance now. Soon the house would be in uproar; slaves may be easily acquired and just as easily used up, but they were foremost possessions and no House in Umbar would suffer such defiance from its property.

“Leave her be, you know that one was broken long ago, we have more important things to worry about now. You, report this to him, now, and you, rouse the guards. Our only hope is in making sure we are the ones to sound the alarm. The mistress will not be kind if the slaves absence is discovered later.” The voice was probably all that saved her from the further attentions of the cook, for the servants of the house had no love for the slaves. In Umbar there was a strict sense of worth, and the servants that hailed from the further lands of Harad, or were of mixed and somewhat sullied blood might be beneath the yoke of the Black Numenorean families, but they were still far above the slaves the corsairs bought back from their raids.

The slave that was now missing had been new, or at least as unspoilt as wares purchased from the filth of the market square could hope to be. Even in their sheltered House the unrest and foreboding sweeping the land had been felt, the ripples strong enough even to touch the lives of the nameless, but this was unprecedented. Only when they were used up would a slave be cast aside; but for a slave to escape, to so openly challenge the authority of its owners, retribution was sure to be swift and brutal.

Nerves were stretched taught as they waited for word, though none could doubt the outcome of the hunt. A mere hour later as they were called to assemble in the courtyard the results were visible, for the escaped slave hung bruised and bloody, yet still conscious between two of the orc guards. Resplendent in form as only a noble lady of a great House of Umbar could be, the mistress crossed to the prisoner. Wrenching her head back by the hair, her cold inhuman eyes remained fixed on the slaves face. Most would be watching the mistress, for the sight was as mesmerising as waiting for a coiled snake to strike; but Slave had eyes only for the prisoner, for even through the blood, and broken features, a smile began to grow as she stared brazenly back. It was beautiful somehow; beautiful in its horror, beautiful in its defiance, and its beauty remained undimmed even as the mistress raised the blade concealed in the folds of her dress and slit the prisoners neck from ear to ear.

Exquisite and terrible the mistress seemed as she faced the assembly, unconcerned at the spray of blood decorating her once pristine dress, or that a pool of ruby still spread beneath her feet, the still twitching body dumped there like an offering to a god. And like a god of their small world did the mistress seem as she pronounced their doom. “Clearly I have been too generous a mistress if my authority is so easily defied.” Tossing the blade to Head of the House, the most trusted and loyal of servants, she smiled cruelly, “Why don’t you remind some of them where their duty lies, maybe the bite of my blade will discourage any further foolishness.”

Terrified but unable to move she was the first to be seized and eagerly Slave let her mind fall into the darkness as her body endured the torments of its owner. Bitter were her tears as she awoke, sprawled across the cold stone of the kitchen floor, for waking could give no comfort to her broken spirit. There she lay, incapable of moving from where she had been dumped as if nothing more than a piece of trash, her body now feeling as shattered as her soul. Yet she endured; Slave knew not why she had again escaped the clutches of death, but somehow neither was she yet ready to embrace it with open arms.

The days were long as Slave watched the new scars form upon her skin. Each night she eagerly sought the refuge of dreamless sleep, only to awake disturbed; for now glimpses of dreams followed her into the waking world, too confused to focus on, save the image of that growing smile, but bringing with them an echo of the emotions she tried so hard not to feel. And with them came the awareness of the abyss of loneliness rooted in her heart.

And then the soundless whisper crooned to her in the waning evening light, but you are no longer alone…

Long she stared at the barren patch of dirt within the courtyard, tucked up against the side of the house and out of sight of any that may venture out even at this late hour, for it was well shielded by shrubbery from the only door, and she would easily hear any approaching steps before they could glimpse her. A harsh, indrawn breath broke the reverential silence that had seemed to envelop her, and Slave reached out with trembling fingers to dig through the ashen dirt. Mere moments discovered the flash of polished metal underneath the earth, and it was soon firmly within her grasp. Greedily her gaze devoured the small weapon, and she allowed a brief respite of peace to settle upon her mind, sure in her conviction that this was no dream or delusion. Surely now, her free hand reached toward the blade and gently but deliberately she stroked a single finger across the edge; and then a small smile graced the usually blank features as the blood drip, drip, dripped down the blade.

Balrog
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Luna Malefica
The Ossuary Guild Headquarters

(Private)

Duathion the Bitter Shadow and his charge, Gîzan, had been waiting for hours. The Lady of House Belnîn had received a summons at the behest of the Ossuary Guild in the predawn hours. It had been delivered by some pale squamous fellow with eyes that bulged like a fish. He had thought to dismiss the summons, the Ossuary Guild had poor representation in the Senate, it would not behoove them to be seen with such a lowly union of workers. Gravediggers, groundskeepers, and hangmen. It was not the kind of association that the House of Belnîn needed. Yet the Lady was insistent. They were a new house, poor, and unremarkable. Alliances would not come easy. Any additional voices they could muster would help them rise against the power of the three houses that dominated Umbarian politics. And so, the Lady of House Belnîn had decided to pay them a visit, with her ever loyal uruk bodyguard and counsellor in tow. They had set out from their home in the early morning hours, the sun was still wash of grey light, the streetlights were still burning with protean flames. The mists had crawled in from the harbor like cadaverous fingers try to clutch at them. The cold was heavy and empty around them. The sounds of the city were muted and far away. Duathion did not like where they were going. The Ossuary Guild’s Headquarters were in a very dangerous part of the city. It was not the gangs and lowlifes and cutpurses that made it dangerous, the uruk could easily deal with the likes of them, nor was it the hags, hedge wizards, or shadowmancers, again he was confident he could deal with them with the end of his blade, it was the structure of the city itself. Most of the quarter had been abandoned, shops, inns, and homes had been vacated for better, more choice locations. The buildings were cracked and crumbling, the boardwalks were rotting and falling into the sea, and the entire slope of the district seemed to be ready to slide off into the ocean. There was no telling when some decrepit edifice was going to crumble and collapse. This had all the earmarks of a trap. Yet he dared not disobey.

And so they waited. And waited. And waited. Each moment felt to Duathion like a moment closer to their doom and the doom of their House. He heard the hourly bells and heard the death knells of the dynasty he’d worked for decades to build. He stood close to her, the feeling of her aura next to his was the only thing keeping him calm. It was cold in here, colder than it should have been. There was some fell magic at work here. He could smell something off about the place. The room they had been left in was massive, but lit only with a single torch. The light did not extend far, but he could see shapes in the darkness, statues or columns maybe, it was impossible to tell. The walls of the room were deceptively high, they seemed to stretch on into the darkness far higher than the building’s outside might suggest. His fingers itched, he put his hand on the hilt of his blade. Her hand went to his, small and delicate in comparison. “Patience, my Bitter Shadow.” Her voice echoed in a thousand different directions, but each echo was smooth as silk and as rich as chocolate.

“My Lady,” he began, but her finger touched his lip.

“To the outside world, you must obey my every command. Without question.” Her voice was firm. His shoulders sagged for a moment. He hated the outside world and the parts he had to play to satisfy the reasons for his existence. Nominally, all the people of Umbar were loyal to the Shadow, but that never stopped some from trying to gain some advantage over others. One faction played off against the others, alliances, betrayals, plots, and schemes. It was distasteful. Yet for her, he would play the role he must. At least when the outside world was creeping in.

Lay me to rot in unhallowed ground.”

The sound came from no particular direction. It was a voice, but it was unlike any voice the uruk had ever heard. It was more akin to the howling and speaking of wargs. He drew his blade. Command or no, he was not going to let his Lady by slaughtered by something out of the darkness.

May the vivisepulture find strife; send unholy angels to despoil this grave. Leave me to worms who might sup on my cadaver; purge my corpse of its eternal consumption.”

“Show yourselves!” The words were coming form all around, still sourceless. He growled and bared his teeth, an animalistic, feral display of warning. The torch light flickered.

Whispers followed the voice, or voices, whispers so vast and varied that he reasoned there most be hundreds of inside this room. He couldn’t make out a single word. He could feel them closing in, grasping hands in the darkness. The sword swung and missed, swung again and found naught but void and empty air. “Show yourselves!” He stood at the edge of the light between the voices and his Lady. There was a nauseating sound in the distance, something metallic, rusted. He could see the outline of something, of someone maybe, in the fading light. The whispers increased. There was no end to them. They were all around, some even felt as if they were coming from his own mouth.

“My Lady,” he said, desperately turning to face her, “Get out of here. Get out of here!”

But she wasn’t there. No one was there. He was alone. The torchlight flickered.

Then something loathsome and gibbering crept out of the shadows and into the pallid light. It was human. Or at least wore the shape of something human. It looked at him, eyes droopy and rheumy, teeth cracked and yellowed. “Welcome… my friends, to the Ossuary Guild.” The voice was fluid and phlegmy, as if it were about to vomit forth a flood of milky seawater.

“Where did you take her?” He grabbed the thing by the collar and lifted it up off the ground. “Where is my Lady?”

Duathion,” a voice like honey and fire. “I’m behind you, my Bitter Shadow, always behind you.”

He looked and there she was again, raven tresses, dark eyes, blood red lips, and pale skin. He dropped the messenger who broke into a fit of coughing and giggling. “This way, you have passed the first test. The masters… the masters are eager to meet with you.”

Before the uruk could respond, the creature skuttled into the darkness like a beetle.

“Bring the torch,” it said, the voice fading in the gloom. “You will need it where you are going.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Of Stars and Smoke
Some Time Ago, The Rookery

(Private with Tara)

Life without a husband suited Zôrzimril. Granted, it had only been a few months since her husband’s (less than) tragic drowning in the bay, but the weight off her shoulders, the lack of second guessing, the lack of a stinking rotten bastard curling up to her in bed, was life affirming. The first thing she’d done since becoming a widow? Throw a gala of course. Now that it was her home in both word and deed, she had every right to do whatever she damned well pleased here. Her husband had hated the trappings of society, but he would scarf up the benefits without complaint. Never afraid to (attempt to) manipulate his wife and son into doing his dirty work. He would have hated this gala. It was flashy (for Umbar) and it was opulent. It was a display of wealth that would have made him physically ill. The best part? She decided to throw it in his honor.

Her home was aglow with paper lanterns. The shades had been thrown up and the grey light of the sun spilled in. It had been so long since the Rookery had seen light. Her husband was a brooding fool, always insisting on keeping the house and dark and haunting as he could. It was a morbidly stupid idea, to go with his morbidly stupid sense of self. Everyone here was for her, not him. It was her, a scion of House Castamir that helped raise House Nûlukhô from the gutter. If he’d been in charge, they’d have lost their home and been out at the mercy of the street gangs.

This party was a shout of defiance and triumph. All hail Zôrzimril Nûlukhô, Matron of Crows!

She’d invited members from all the houses, great and small. Sure a few fights and scuffles would break out, a trade war might ignite, or a few heirs go missing or find themselves with the wrong child, but it was all under her auspices, all under her control. She would be cause of the strife or the fortune. She was the master of fates within these walls. And by the end of the evening, every damned person here was going to know that. She smiled. Everything was ready.

She wore a smoke colored dress that shimmered with hidden gems sewn throughout like a web, a corset of the same color with a white raven, rampant was embroidered on the front with rubies for the eyes. She wore a hairnet studded with deep purple amethysts, imports from the far east in anticipation of this event. She came to the head of the imperial staircase. Her escort was waiting for her was a hulking uruk nearly seven feet tall, dressed in a crimson jacket with bronze ravens embroidered all through out the pattern, with a matching kilt and crimson and bronze beret to set the whole outfit ablaze. He wore his massive falchion, nearly as tall he was, at his side, with a ceremonial scabbard and a tassel. He looked dashing, for an uruk. It was almost strange seeing a race known for savagery and bloodshed dressed up in the fine trappings of civilization. If he were not somewhat handsome, he would have looked more like besuited ape. Truth be told, Zôrzimril would have rather had her son escort her, but he left after his father’s demise on a trip down south. He was as headstrong as his father, but thankfully not as stupid.

“Are you ready, Rök?”

He cleared his throat and stood to attention. “Yes, ma’am. Awaiting your pleasure.”

She leaned in close and chided him. “Not so stiff now, you aren’t a bodyguard tonight, you’re my escort.”

He shuffled. “Yes ma’am.”

She sighed but cast a smile his way. That was as good as it was going to get with him. A servant behind them stepped forward, dressed in the livery of the house. He carried a small gong and rang it once at the top of the stairs. The masses of people below stopped and looked up. A shiver ran up Zôrzimril's spine. Finally, all eyes were on her. Everyone knew she was the power behind the house, now they would be forced to acknowledge it.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I require your attention.” He rang the gong again, quiet a few of the stragglers (she took note of those that had not been silenced by the first bell, she would think of an appropriate way to chastise them). “I give you, ladies and gentlemen, lords and ladies of the noble houses of Umbar, Lady Zôrzimril Nûlukhô, the Matron of Crows and your hostess!” An applause broke out, a rippling wave of cheers and gratitude. She took it all in. Rök offered his arm and they descended the stairs to the adulation of her peers. She took the stairs slowly, as she was taught, and her escort followed suit, having been trained to make sure he would offer no faux pas. She waved and smiled and blew a kiss here and there until she reached the bottom. As soon as she stepped onto the marbled floor the string ensemble began to play and upbeat tune, a frenetic song with energy and movement.

She had arrived.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Of Stars and Smoke
Some Time Ago, The Rookery

(Private with Frost)

Sakalthôr held up his wife’s cloak and watched as she twirled into it, her skirts flaring for a fraction of a second and the rubies upon her ears and at her throat glinting in their bedroom’s firelight. She was a vision of elegance and beauty - that much he had known since he’d first come across her in his youth - but beneath the alluring sparkle and sheen, she was a woman of greater cunning than most men in Umbar would ever dare credit her for. Sakalthôr saw all this and more as she turned toward him, fastening the clasp at her neck.

“What do you think?” Zimraphêl asked him, grinning mischievously. She swept a hand from her shoulder toward her toes in a gesture of presentation. He followed the motion and took in the crimson satin dress which clung to her every curve. The firelight dancing upon the material’s luster served only to accentuate them, making them appear as though they were aflame. He tried - only just - to conceal his basest thoughts.

“You are lovelier than I ever could have dreamed,” he murmured. “That ball gown is but an afterthought when compared with your considerable charms.”

She smiled. Sakalthôr was skilled in the art of flattery and she knew what he was thinking, but she relished the compliments all the same. They were one of the best things he brought to their partnership. His was a lesser house than hers, and so he had adopted her surname when they wed: Izrêphan. With this, he had assumed a subordinate position to her in the ever-changing scheme of political life in Umbar. Where some men might chafe under such circumstances, Sakalthôr had never been particularly ambitious. He luxuriated in the pleasures which Zimraphêl and her status afforded him, and most of all, he enjoyed building her up. What was a shining star without the dark sky behind it to serve as a contrast, after all? That was his role, and he performed it dutifully and well.

There came a knock at the great wooden doors of their chamber.

“Enter,” Zimraphêl called. She glanced in the mirror one last time as the servant cracked open the door and spoke softly.

“Your transport is outside, my lady.” The young boy bowed and left, dismissed by a wave of her hand.

Zimraphêl turned and picked up a small bag from her dressing table, whose strap she wound around her wrist. “Well then, my darling,” she said. “Shall we?” Without awaiting an answer, she swept first from the room. Sakalthôr followed close in her wake, hands clasped behind his back.

The ride through the streets of Umbar was long, circuitous, and unfamiliar to them both. They had attended balls and masques in the past, but never before had they been invited to this particular corner of the city. The place to which they were bound, called simply “The Rookery” on the invitation, was perched comfortably a world away from the riffraff in the Warrens and so far from the docks that the smells wafting from the wet market would never, even on the windiest day, reach it. This was true class, true style: to live above and away from the noise and clamor and stench of it all, descending amongst the people only when need be - and even then having the luxury to send servants in one’s place. Zimraphêl watched the city slide by through the window at her side. She saw it all: shops and houses and inns - some with dark, empty windows and others aglow with warm lamplight. She didn’t bother looking into the alleys. There was no world in which she saw herself having to descend quite that far.

The long years of her mother’s strict instruction all made sense when she looked at Umbar from this perspective. This is what it all is for, she thought. To have access to this. One might say that House Izrêphan had come by whatever power and influence it had by cheap means, but Zimraphêl understood that there was more to seduction than a pretty face. There was trust to be built, flattery to be indulged, and the great intellectual challenge of making meaning of information when faced with the tangled web of politics within this slick, unscrupulous city. What she did was far from easy and far from cheap. She had paid with her innocence, as would any daughters she might one day bear.

The carriage rounded a corner and both husband and wife inhaled sharply. The house before them was strung with bright lanterns, and a small throng of people lined the steps, awaiting entry. The driver jumped down to open the doors for them and they stepped out into the world of House Nûlukhô. Both Nûlukhô and Izrêphan were ancient houses whose histories stretched back to the height of Anadûnê. She smiled up at the grand house, intrigued by the fortunes of this particular family. It seemed the women were doing all the work these days.

Sakalthôr slid his arm about his wife’s waist, and together they entered the vast house. A buzzing hum of idle conversation met their ears, as did the clinking of glasses and sudden bursts of laughter. It was a rich, merry sight. Zimraphêl heard her heels clicking as she walked and, looking down, found herself entranced by the house’s shining marble floors. Sakalthôr, however, kept his head up. They passed a drawing room and a small library, each outfitted with luxurious furniture. Outside the library, Sakalthôr balked. Within the room, he saw a man slipping something into his breast pocket and looking shiftily over his shoulder. Another man stood just inside the door facing the hallway. Seeing Sakalthôr watching them, the man on guard snapped the door shut. Sakalthôr frowned but followed his wife through to the foot of a grand staircase.

Once they had crowded in among the gathered attendees, they plucked bubbling drinks from a passing tray. No sooner had they taken their first sips of the sparkling wine than a gong was struck, its reverberations amplified by the marble floors. The pair gazed up as the matron of House Nûlukhô, Zôrzimril, descended the stairs to join her guests. When the music started up, Sakalthôr leaned in and whispered, “My love, I know how you like to catalog information.” Zimraphêl turned to look at him, an eyebrow arched. “And I think I’ve just seen something that may be of interest to you.”

He began to lead her aside, searching for a powder room or a more private hallway in which to speak. As they went, he himself looked about rather furtively. He knew his wife would wish to dance and mingle, but for the moment he only hoped they might slip off unnoticed.
Last edited by Zôrzimril on Thu Jan 27, 2022 5:36 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Some Time Ago, The Rookery

(Private with Tara)

“You are too kind, Lady Matane,” Zôrzimril said with a perfectly manicured smile touching the younger woman’s shoulder with a light hand. “Young ‘Zagar off on another of his trips. Something about finding a hidden city in the jungles of Far Harad.” She could feel Rök stiffen ever so slightly. He was not best pleased about having been left behind, no first mate would, but she had more power over things than her son.

“Far Harad?” Lady Matane sounded against, even drawing back and placing a hand over her heart. Zôrzimril could have smacked her, the insolent brat. “I do hope he returns safely. I worry so about our young lords going so far afield in these darkening days. We ought to stay closer to our lands.”

The Matron of Crows didn’t strangle the woman. “I never took you for a member of the isolationist faction. House Inzilazûl has long been an ally of House Castamir in pursuing an expansion agenda.”

“Oh…” the woman faltered, her grey eyes frantic, “I think I only meant that… I just…”

“You worry after my son?” Zôrzimril asked, the edges of her lips twisted into a predatory grin.

“Well, I worry after all our sons,” she countered.

“Aye,” she nodded and passed a look to her uruk escort, who merely sighed. “How old is your son now? Nine, right? It’s almost time for him to take up an apprenticeship. Has Yorgo been able to find him a suitable place?”

The knife found a mark. “No,” she admitted, “my husband has been trying to get him a role in the office of Senator Belzagar, but he hasn’t heard back yet.”

She smiled inwardly. Hasn’t heard back yet meant the bribe wasn’t big enough. Nothing would be suitable now, and the money was already gone. Yorgo, the head of the House was nearly as useless as her late husband; he was a poor wealth manager and his patronages were growing slimmer by the day. Zôrzimril herself had stolen two this very morning, one a ship caulker and the other a clerk, lower-rung to be sure, but every little bit helped in the end. “I’m so sorry to hear that, darling. Well, Senator Belzagar would be lucky to have your son as one of his aids. If he refuses, more the fool him. When my son comes back to port, I shall talk with him. Mayhaps he can offer your son a position on his vessel?” Blessedly, Rök did not laugh; Zôrzimril was happy for that.

Lady Matane looked aghast. “Oh…” was all she said after a moment, a surprised and subdued tone. “I wouldn’t want to trouble your… your son with such a silly request.”

“Nonsense! He’ll learn more about politics in a single year with my ‘Zagar than he ever would with that oaf of a senator. And,” she paused dramatically and touched the young noble’s cheek, “that would mean he would be able to more readily assist you with anything at home…” she let the insinuation drop. “And it would also lead to a regular correspondence between you two. You are still a prodigious letter writer, are you not?”

Lady Matane blushed crimson and bit her lip. Ha! Got you, you little harpy!

“Oh, oh I don’t know. I’m sure a yeoman position on the Grand Conjuration is much sought after… I… I…” she stammered into silence, her moony eyes fixed in the direction of Far Harad, then across the room to where her husband was talking with a few of the lesser nobles. She bit her lip again. “I must speak, uh, to my husband, Lady Zôrzimril. Oh, that is so kind of you. I… what would you need in return for such a favor?”

“That’s quite simple,” the Matron of Crows said with skilled indifference and coyness, “your support for an expansionist agenda. If you and your husband were to take my side when I make my appearance at the Halls in a week, I would consider the debt repaid.”

There was a lustful twinkle in Lady Matane’s eyes that had nothing to do with her husband. “I shall convince him then you will have the full support of House Inzilazûl. You have my word.”

And your thighs, it would seem.

The lady moved on to greet and mingle with other guests.

“Are you sure he’ll go for that?” Rök’s voice was thunderously deep.

Watching the crowd for her next conversation, Zôrzimril chuckled. “He always needs yeoman. And you know as well as I do through him, I can control everything that that House does from now until he kills the husband in a duel over her.”

“You intend to marry him off to that house?” Rök asked, genuinely sounding shocked.

She scoffed. “Are you kidding? That House dies with Yorgo. Lady Matane can pine after my son all she wants; she’ll join a troupe of women around the world.”

“And if he finds out you planned the whole thing?”

“Can’t a mother give her son a few nice things every once in a while?” She asked demurely. “It’s not like he’s going to marry anyone anytime soon and,” she lowered her tone considerably, “you know how close I am to achieving a certain goal. I won’t need him to take over the House for a long time, if ever.”

Rök nodded. “I assume you will be traveling back east soon? Shall I accompany you?”

“Do you want to?” taken off guard, she looked up at him. Rök was not one to mingle with the nimir unless he had to, let alone those she was going to see. “Won’t you miss the sea?”

He nodded again. “I would, but I am ever your humble servant.”

“You are as humble as you are peaceful.”

They both laughed.

“Alright, who are we going to speak to next?” she asked, taking a flute of sparkling wine from a white-clad host.

“I believe you mentioned House Azgarâbêl earlier today? I thought I saw them enter earlier.”

She finished the sparkling wine and nodded, giving the uruk her arm. “Then let’s see if we can find them. Shall we, my Phazgân Uruk?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Of Stars and Smoke
Some Time Ago, The Rookery

(Private with Frost)

“Darling, the music’s just started,” Zimraphêl protested. Her husband gave her a serious, knowing look, and jerked his head in the direction of a quiet little alcove off to the side of the grand room, where he had just seen an available plush settee. Zimraphêl scowled but, with a regretful glance at the crowd gathered around their hostess, followed him toward the little spot.

Sakalthôr sat down on the crushed velvet couch and leaned back, crossing his legs luxuriously. He found it quite comfortable: well-stuffed, but still soft. He ran a hand along the arm of the thing, admiring the pile’s silky feel. He brought his hand back up the arm, and gazed transfixed at the dark trail it left as it traveled against the fabric’s natural nap. He sipped at his wine and gazed around the room, searching for familiar faces. He saw few enough, and both the faces he’d seen looking so guilty were absent. But what he saw of House Nûlukhô from the inside impressed him: the house was short on little in the way of luxury.

Zimraphêl had seated herself on the settee as well, but she had chosen not to sprawl out quite so comfortably at such an early hour. Instead, she perched primly on the edge of the seat and, over the rim of her glass, considered her husband. It was not like him to draw her off from a crowd, especially one populated by so many people who might be used to their advantage. He was as skillful at identifying men carrying secrets as she was at extracting the information from them. Each had their part to play, but her house and her role in their partnership carried more weight.

“So, what is it? Has something spooked my dashing husband into mouselike shyness?” she teased, lowering her glass and giving his ankle a gentle kick with the toe of a delicate shoe. “Or have you lost your nerve in the presence of the great lady of House Nûlukhô?” She smiled wryly.

“I saw something,” he murmured, sitting up and leaning toward her conspiratorially. He drained his glass but did not set it down. “I suspect that there might be some, ah, uninvited guests here tonight.”

“Oh?” she asked, suddenly curious. So he wasn’t just being dramatic, after all. Zimraphêl craned her neck to scan the crowd.

“You won’t find them out here, my dear,” he told her. He transferred his glass to his left hand and took her right hand in his, then proceeded to idly spin the gold ring she habitually wore on the third finger of that hand. The sizable diamond set in the ring spun round and round; in better light, it would have sent sparks of reflected sunlight scattering across the walls. He had seen no trace of the two men from the library in this grand room, and given the horde of admirers still crammed into the halls awaiting entrance to the party, he suspected that they would not be making an appearance anytime soon. “They’re ensconced in the library, unless there’s a secret passageway that will lead them out. I think they were stealing something.”

“My, my,” Zimraphêl said with mock disapproval. “How rude of them, to betray their hostess’s trust like that!” He laughed and she winked and went on, “Ironic as that may be, I wouldn’t dare steal from the lady of this house. I’ve heard it said that her husband did not perish by accident, and you know where she is positioned. Well, darling, it seems you’ve done my job for me tonight. What shall we do with this information you’ve come by?”

“If you still seek favor in the upper spheres of Umbar, I say we use it. Here she comes now.”

Zôrzimril Nûlukhô, an impressive woman in a smoky, bejeweled dress, was floating toward them through the crowd of guests, who all inclined their heads out of respect - some even bowed obsequiously to her. Even without the finery, she would have radiated an imposing elegance. She cut through the crowd easily enough thanks, in part, to the monstrous uruk accompanying her. Sakalthôr, who stood above Zimraphêl by several inches, would no doubt look almost like a child standing next to him. Husband and wife rose and raised their glasses - one still half-full, the other empty - to Zôrzimril in greeting.
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Of Stars and Smoke
Some Time Ago, The Rookery

(Private with Tara)

Umbarean fashion was, in a word, bland. Zôrzimril had had to find her dress within the Easterling quarter of the city. Númenórean fashion, despite the great heights it had achieved on their lost home, had stagnated. Pride or lack of imagination, she was not sure which, likely it was both. Dressmakers, tailors, and cobblers alike had not deviated from the proscribed style since she was a child, and likely longer than that. She tried not to think of it as endemic of the entire culture of Umbar but looking at all the dresses and suits that looked like they were all made by the same tired, bored, weak hands did not do much to assuage her misgivings. These people here were the best and brightest and most powerful in Umbar, and they all looked as though they got dressed in the dark. There was no flair, nothing dramatic, nothing… She paused and smiled as the two standing separate from the rest of the crowd. They looked as though they had some sense of propriety and imagination. They were quite a handsome couple, she noted; if her proclivities were anything similar to her son’s she might have invited them to a more private fête. As it was, she was not, she had a far more lucrative and long-term interest in the couple. They raised their glasses to her, and she raised hers back.

She was just about greet them when a boringly besuited man leapt out from the rabble and made an elegant bow. “Mistress Zôrzimril, it is a pleasure to meet you at last.” He took her hand and placed a delicate but moist kiss on it. She could feel her skin crawl. Rök must have sensed her discomfort. With feral grace, the uruk stepped between them, his massively broad chest blocking any view the man might to be trying to get. “Oh, well, I…” he stammered and took a step back.

“You’ll have to forgive my partner sir, he is quite protective of me,” she looked at the elegant couple behind him and gave him a terse smile. “Unfortunately, I am –”

“Oh, mistress, this will only take a few moments of your time I assure you,” he paused and looked into her eyes for a hint of recognition and found none in her gleaming eyes. “I see you don’t remember me. It is my fault to be sure. My wife is always telling me I need to be more memorable, more resolute and assertive. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Abrazîr of House Kalama. I –”

“Are perhaps not aware of dangerous position you’ve put yourself in, good sir,” Zôrzimril finished for him. “I don’t know who you are and at the moment, I don’t care. I am sure you will find someone at the party to talk to until I am in a more open position.” She stepped around him; and the fool then had the audacity to step with her.

“Please, my lady, I only mean to take a moment of your time. I promise that you will be well rewarded for it, I just –”

Rök stepped up to him, leaving no space for the lordling to try and make eye contact with Zôrzimril.

“You are in a very dangerous position, Lord Abrazîr. If I were you, I would take advantage of the free and exotic alcohol and forget that you tried anything. If I see you again this evening, my companion will make sure you head decorates my bedpost.” She was done playing games or trying to maneuver around without causing a stir. The ballroom had gone quiet the sudden, the eyes of Umbar on this weasel of a man. What would he do? Slink away or stand up? Either way it was going to be the talk of the town for the next day or so.

He bowed his head and slunk away, as she knew he would. She huffed and looked up to Rök who was just releasing the tension in his shoulders. She could tell he wanted to remove the man’s head from his. She placed a hand on his forearm. “Let him go, but if you see him again, well don’t make it gentle.” The uruk snorted in response.

“Now, where were we? Oh, right.” As if nothing had happened, Zôrzimril ambled across the room finally to the couple she’d been trying to see before, the Lady and Lord of House Izrêphan.

“It’s so good of you two have been able to come. I hope you are enjoying yourselves?”
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sat Jan 29, 2022 5:17 pm, 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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Some Time Ago, The Rookery

(Private with Frost)

Zimraphêl laughed lightly at the sight of an anonymous partygoer accosting their hostess. The man apparently thought his errand important enough to stop the great lady in her tracks; he seemed utterly oblivious to her initial dismissals of him. She could see the sparks practically flying from Zôrzimril’s eyes as she - and her bodyguard - tried to throw him off politely. “Abrazîr of House Kalama,” he introduced himself. Zimraphêl made a note to learn more of his house and his mission; surely there was something in his cloying, clutching attempts to Zôrzimril’s attention she could exploit.

She watched eagerly as the matron of House Nûlukhô let her bodyguard take control, marveling all the while at the sudden hush which fell over the crowd when the uruk stepped between the two and Zôrzimril spoke with ice in her voice. To have the power to drop silence on a crowd as if by a magic command: it had been an age since anyone of House Izrêphan had wielded such influence. Izrêphan owed its success in Umbar to its members’ ability to operate more subtly, it was true, but this was still an impressive show of force which made Zimraphêl long to possess such power.

Sakalthôr, meanwhile, traded his empty glass for a full one as a servant passed bearing a tray of sparkling wine. He took a sip but kept his eyes on the uruk who stood by their hostess’ side. Huge and fearsome but impeccably dressed, his whole appearance could be summed up with the notion of contrasts. He wondered vaguely when House Nûlukhô had begun to employ bodyguards of this sort, and what it must cost. Not enough to secure the whole house, he mused. Then again, to maintain a constant watch on a house of this size would require more than a dozen guards. Sakalthôr did not like to think about how the odds of betrayal must increase with every man one added to one’s staff.

“So this is the sort of life you’re after?” he whispered in his wife’s ear as their hostess finally made her way toward them.

“Shhh. Let’s not speak so boldly, my love.” Still, she smiled at him, then lowered herself into a curtsy. Sakalthôr bowed deeply alongside her, and they rose as one.

“We are honored to be here, Lady Nûlukhô,” Zimraphêl said, straightening and looking Zôrzimril in the eyes. She nodded politely to the uruk, and Sakalthôr did the same. “Though,” Zimraphêl went on, “we were sorry to hear of your husband’s passing. I hope the adoration you’re receiving here tonight is some small comfort.” She made no mention just yet of the rumors which had reached her about that sorry man.
Last edited by Zôrzimril on Thu Jan 27, 2022 5:39 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Parting the Shadows (late TA)
Umbar Market
~Slave~

True night had wrapped Umbar in its embrace, and for most the silence held sway at the quietest of hours, as many sought their beds and whatever kind of rest they could claim. The darkness lay heavily over the grand house, where few torches now burned, and further disguised the slight disturbance of the dirt within the courtyard. For the lowest in the land, the darkness oft brought some respite, a surcease from the suffering and torment that typically haunted their days. But that night even the air about the house seemed restless; the bitter wind whipping about the scant vegetation, dancing with the flames of the torches and finding its way through gaps and cracks to settle on the already cold floors.

The body of Slave lay curled within the corner of the kitchen, her worn and stained cloak the only shield between her and the cold flags of the kitchen, whilst her mind wandered down far off paths. Had anyone passed nearby, they might have wondered at the low moaning sound emanating from the kitchen, the anguished sound punctuated by a sorrowful chant, “No, no, no, please no.” But no soul walked the halls, and as she was now the only slave the house boasted, there was no-one to wonder at what dark dreams plagued her spirit. Each night she welcomed the oblivion that came in the darkest hours; still she could remember naught of what she dreamed, and often she would wake with the frustration of echoes of memory. Shapes that troubled her thoughts, but showed no detail to her fractured mind, though she sometimes strove to align the pieces. She wondered if she would ever manage to sort through the fragments of herself, or if she would ever find the desire to truly try, for she was weary. Weary not just from toil and sorrow, but weary of her existence.

The next day brought little comfort with the rising of the sun, for it found Slave once again within the streets of the market. Desperately she wished for deliverance, for she found herself in the company of the mistress and her guards as they bent their steps towards the slave pens. Whilst not rare to see one a noble house within the market to browse the wares they wished to purchase, as was her want the mistress caused quite a stir as she swept through the filth-lined streets. Few would challenge her within the town, so their way was unimpeded by the crowds, and they moved quickly past the shops and stalls. Dutifully Slave followed in her wake, head bowed as if a great weight was upon her shoulders, attempting in vain to block the sounds of the cries and screams of the pens from her ears as they came nearer to the stage.

Reality distorted as they came in view of the accursed stage, and the vile pens that stood beside it. Misery, pain, anger, anguish combined in a caustic stew that seemed to colour the fetid air that surrounded them. Boisterous was the crowd about the stage, the vile creatures taking great delight in the sport as the slaves were dragged in turn to their doom. Each slave was pawed at by not only the crowd but by the auctioneer, as one showing off the attributes of cattle. Ugly a spectacle as the stage made, somehow the pens and the faces that waited there were worse, and Slave tried hard to keep her eyes from straying too often towards them. Some were pressed up against the bars, chains rattling, anger fired in their eyes as they sought a way to escape. Wounds lavishly decorated their bodies, scars forming that would map the tale of their capture. But still fate would be cruel to their spirits as hope withdrew from their hearts. Or was it worse to see those huddled in the back? Faces tucked against their knees, as if they could hide from what awaited them. Or were those whose faces were now blank, devoid of life and hope, death staring out from their blackened eyes the ones most to be pitied?

Though she made not a sound, her mind keened at the sight before her. Her defences were laid bare in this place, and she knew that the mistress felt the pleasure of her terror, for why else would she bring Slave here each time a new slave was purchased? Here to where she could not help revisit the worst of her memories, the remembrance of pain, of fear, of cruel hands and crueler words.

A lone tear had escaped, to wind its solitary path down her cheek. She dared not make a move to dash it away, for she wanted no part of the mistresses attention in this place. Foolish it was to think luck would favour her, for the mistress had eyes as keen as the hawk hovering far above the land. A laugh escaped her ruby-red lips, as she crossed to Slave, her fair hand capturing Slaves face as she delicately licked the tear from her cheek, savouring the taste of her terror as one would savour a draught of the finest vintage. Her voice was a soft caress of madness as she whispered in Slaves’ ear, “How you do delight me, pet. Every time I think you have been crushed beneath my heel, I find there is yet a part of you left to torment.” Fear seized Slave’s body, and no further tears would dare to make an appearance under the gaze of such a predator. Firmly fixing her grey eyes upon the stones of the street, eyelashes fluttering against her cheek, Slave waited, hardly daring to breathe, to see if she would be subjected to more attentions, or if the mistresses fancy would be caught once again by the show upon the stage.

Faint she felt as she was released from danger, for the moment. Hazy was her thinking as she drifted between the past and the present, detached from herself, feeling that she observed from a great height the proceedings as the mistress bid upon the slaves, until two were dragged through the jeering crowd, to be flung at their feet. Faced with the anger that brewed in the air, emanating from the man still fettered by many chains, and the whimpering cries of the girl beside him Slave felt herself careen back into her body as fear ruled once more.

She avoided examining the new slaves, neither wanting or needing a connection with the new inmates that shared her existence. As one of the slaves let out an angry shout she closed her eyes, seeking the sanctuary of the darkness. A sharp crack of sound rent the air, followed quickly by a pained scream but Slave kept her eyes safely closed. She was not an object of attention for now, and she did not want to see the training of the new slaves begin. For that was how the mistress would describe this, as training; training them to submit, to obey and to fear both her wrath and her mercy.

“Home, I think.” A negligent wave of the mistresses hand indicated the prisoners as she spoke to the guards. “Bring the new ones. Drag them if you need to.”

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Shamara
In her abode... sometime in the past


The small inner courtyard with a single leafy tree formed a refreshing island enclosed and sheltered by the walls of the house on all sides. Shamara sat cross-legged in the shade of the tree on a low wicker bench and idly snacked on grapes after a filling meal: only a plate with a couple of bones on it testified of it.

This house, and this yard, seemed to be the only place where she felt completely at rest and did not need to constantly be on her watch. While it was not near the size of the houses owned by the most prominent and wealthy folk of Umbar, this was still spacious enough for her alone, and more than anyone coming from her background could have dreamed of.

For a few fleeting moments Shamara thought of her home, and felt rather appreciative that the fate would turn just so that she had been able to rise out of her lowly existence so fast. Well, it had been her brother's merit more than anything, and yet...

"Well..." with a contented sigh, she got up from the seat and collected the plates. Her bare feet carried her a few steps across the yard and through a narrow hallway into the kitchen. There she put the bones aside and placed the plates into a wash basin which was half-filled with lukewarm water. Without a second thought, the Umbarian took to washing off the dishes she had used and placing them upside down on a towel.

She could well imagine the scorn she would receive, should anyone realise that while she looked luxurious in public, she did all the cleaning herself. Of course, she could easily afford a couple of slaves, but she had firmly decided that she would not share her home with anyone. Life clearly showed that trust came at a high cost: even when seemingly broken, slaves could still rebel. Weren't there enough masters that had been killed by their servants? She certainly did not wish to come by the same fate.

Bones in hand, Shamara walked over to the outer door and took a glance up and down the street. A sharp whistle that escaped her lips caught attention of a pair of dogs that had laid themselves against the wall of the house further down the street in search of a shade. She tossed the bones towards the animals, and then quickly slipped back inside and locked the door securely. For a split second she stood indecisively, and then, as if suddenly enlightened about any future plans, hastened off into the room to her right.
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Luna Malefica
The Ossuary Guild Headquarters

(Private)

They went down and down and down and down and down and down. They passed through dizzying depths and pits of despair and black and lifeless as the Void. Duathion was fairly certain they were at least halfway to the bottom of the endless abyss by now. These tunnels and stairways were monstrous works of arcane trickery. The Uruk was certain that they could not truly be as far down beneath the earth as it felt, his sixth sense told him that there was some insidious rouse being played upon him and Lady Gîzan. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, his fingers buzzed with electricity and his brow was damp with nervous tension. He was ready to strike at anything and anyone. They’d been walking for what felt like half an hour. But that couldn’t be right. The building, if building it could be called, was not large enough or deep enough. Time felt strange down here, away from any semblance of movement. His kind had been bred in the darkness but what surrounded him now was something other than darkness. This place they were going, this place they were being led, it was to a place of impossible, eldritch depths. The tunnels, barely tall enough for Duathion and Gîzan to walk up right, were filled with a smell of cold, wet, rot. There was a decay in the air, a musty scent that clogged and burned the Uruk’s nose. There was something dank and fungal here, a presence that was large and feral and filled with screaming, voiceless madness. The further they went, the more the feeling of being buried alive began to creep over Duathion’s shoulders and into the muscles of his neck. He felt stiff. The more he hunched over to avoid the dripping, sagging ceiling, the more he felt it closing in on him, touching his head, grazing his shoulders. The torches gave almost no light, a deep orange glow cast more shadow than it did light. Things moved in the shadows, things skittered and scraped and ambled from darkness to darkness, ever just out of reach, ever just a glimpse.

The Ossuary Guild was a strange one. Most guilds were formed by workers to consolidate powers, share skills, and protect secrets of the trade. Not so the Ossuary Guild. No one was sure how and when it came into existence. There was no history that stretched back hundreds and hundreds of years, nor was there a grand announcement. It simply existed, it operated in the background, outside of the limelight of political intrigue, forever remaining aloof from the back-and-forth struggles of the great houses. It was an entity that people avoided unless there was no other recourse. They were grave diggers and necromancers and fortune tellers of the queerest sort. There were rumors about them, rumors that would give pause to even the most savage and feral orc.

Still, they continued down. How far down could they be going? There was no logic to the movement. Were they under the waters of the bay now? Duathion could smell something in the air. It was not the dank musk of whatever fungal growth was searching mindlessly in the darkness, it was not the rotting decay of flesh sloughing off bones and dissolution of muscle. It was a sickly-sweet smell that appeared and reappeared at random. He looked to Lady Gîzan, but she gave no hint that she sensed it at all. He grimaced. Uruks had a better sense of smell the humans, they had a better sense of smell the elves. The Uruks, monstrous and unnatural as they might be accused of being, were closer to the stuff of the earth than either race, having been so recently crafted, molded, and shaped from it. Dwarves alone might have a better olfactory sense. A growl began to build in the back of his throat, he grabbed the hilt of his sword. He couldn’t identify the drug, but he was certain beyond and shadow of a doubt that one was being used here, spread through the moist, humid air. It was confusing their senses, clouding their thoughts, made them physically and mentally sluggish. He was going to kill them all.

He’d argued rigorously against going to them. He told Lady Gîzan that the Ossuary Guild were charlatans, madmen, and psychopaths. He didn’t believe half of the rumors going on about them, but there were more than enough out there for him to know that these people, if people they be at all, were not to be associated with. Yet House Belnîn needed allies, needed a force to back them in the Senate, to help expand their influence. They started with nothing. He and Lady Gîzan were foreigners, outsiders, utgarders from the far lands of the East. He’d been born in the breeding pits of Carcosa, a dead city by a haunted lake. She had come from a nomadic tribe. They’d found each other when she was sold to a nobleman for his menagerie, and he’d been hired as a gladiator. They ran as fast and as far as they could. They came to Umbar with dreams, to wield the power that had been wielded over them and use it to become greater.

There were sounds in the tunnels now, sounds that could not be explained by the shuffling of feet or ragged breathing. There was a creaking and groaning like the bones of a giant or the cooling and contracting of a ship in dead of night. There was a drone, barely perceptible but real, nonetheless. There was a music in that sound, an atonal, amelodic sound that flittered from the lowest of the brown notes, giving Duathion a headache, to something so high it was barely within his hearing range. The only thing he could image was the piping of mad flutes and demented violinists carrying on against a raging storm. Again, he looked to Gîzan. She could hear, could feel, the music. The discomfort was plain on her face. She hid it well, but there was no living soul on this earth that knew his Lady better. Their eyes locked. He could see the well of emotions, fear, determination, anger, pain, panic. She shook her head. As easily as he could see her emotions, she could see his. She knew him, knew his bones and blood and viscera. “No, my Bitter Shadow.” she mouthed. “Not now. Trust me.” He did trust her, but his instincts were strong, his urge to fight and kill and destroy. He wanted to tear these pathetic things, wormy masks of decay and decrepitude.

He could not shake the wrongness of this place though.

“We’re being led into a trap!” his hissed.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Sleeping with the Enemy – Part 4


Jenahda Halsad and the Astronomer's Daughter
House of Halsad, before the War

She wasted neither time nor stores on purchasing false light, before true day stirred. She was not accustomed to abiding by the rules of social hours, having learned long ago what could be accomplished in even an hour before any others woke. There was no fear she might trip upon the bundle which hunched before Uhta's bedroom door. Which was not to say she was not utterly affected by the sight. A frown curved the shape of a wide mouth, and a kick found contact, as well as some satisfaction, as she kicked out at the huddled flesh.

"Pathetic," was the first word that the astronomer's daughter heard that morning. Jenahda Halsad was the first face she recognised. In as much as recognising she should hasten to her feet and seek to appease this woman. If it was the last thing she might otherwise fail to do. "How do you dare it ? When you are meant to keep my house clean. Instead you lie there, like an infection, festering. Spreading grime with your polluted hide. Come idle. Up !"

The girl learnt enough from the first kick to avoid the second, and the woman of Umbar regarded her small trembling subject without any courtesy. Easing to her feet, the 'Mouse' of the house held a hand before her stomach, protectively. As though her antagonist could harm her with the memory of her assault. Long dark hair veiled the face of the once noble of Dol Amroth, shoulders rounded, and eyes flinched back instinctively, to check on the door of Keket's chamber.

"He locked his brother’s door," Jenahda made a knowing guess, which led Gael to suspect that the cruel man had done such a thing before, to the others who had been once where she now was. For certain, she could reason that the door had been unlocked since Uhta had bone back to ship. So he had not locked her out himself. It had been Keket. Why ? Why not ? A small sigh escaped her before she might know sense enough to be more vigilant. Bracing for a blow, the unfortunate woman startled nonetheless when it did not come. "Best you're not here when he wakes," she was bid, and thus shadowed Jenahda down the stairs.


Gael knew their destination before ever they had reached it. The kitchen, Jenahda's realm. She alone held the key to all sustenance, possessed the means to nourish or neglect her clan. Lady Tannabett Halsad was the lady of all the house; Pharak's mother no less, which made her the surviving Matriach. Still it went without saying that Jenahda was mistress, in all but name, of the house. None but her had seen the Lady Tannabett for years uncounted And as many said that she had killed the widow long before, as suggested she still controlled her, as a puppeteer contorting unseen strings. Either way, the House of Halsad would have fallen unto ruin, in the years that Pharak was abroad, if it had not been for Jenahda. His prize. His slave. His wife. She had seen off the vultures who meant to pick the bones of their dilapidated mansion clean. She had gifted him not one, but three sons, a dynasty by which to cement the name of Halsad for future generations. Pharak was no fool. He considered Jenahda one of his greatest assets, and not merely for the trade links garnered from her father's tribe out in Harad.


"The affect a woman has over a man is a mystery to my son," the elder woman led her wary protegee into her very den. Gael shrugged her hands up and down her arms as she followed, where she had never before been allowed, and asked not why she was now privy to this .. was it a conversation ? Jenahda had not spent more than demands upon her thus far. "A mystery that Matsu or Uhta are content to simply enjoy," Jenahda resumed. "They do not exhaust their minds on questions, but take what they can, and care not how or why it happened to exist at all. Keket though, he is more like his father. A Thinker." Jenahda rounded from where she had been leaning over a bucket and pans, dashing Gael with a soaking that set her back a pace or two, in shock. "He would rather take a thing to pieces to find out how it works," the narrative persevered, as though there had been no freezing wet assault in it's midst. "You don't pull your weight about the place, when in one piece ! He takes it into his head to take you into pieces though and I'm left with even more mess than I have now to clean up. Might as well make meat of you and an end to it."

The young woman's mouth formed a 'please' but the sound never escaped her. Quivering with cold and terror, the riotous uproar of the beasts out in the yard beat wildly into her conscious. Whether they were truly at hand, or merely the very real threat of them.

"I have done my best," the girl managed to force the words out, at length. "To see Uhta happy".

"He could have made happy with you without ever needing your help," the response was dismissive, and Jenahda bustled about the kitchen, pushing Gael here and there, for wherever the woman placed herself, she was stood in the other's way. "And he shall again. When he returns."

"When he returns," she admitted, what Keket had fed into her worst fears, and her only hope, that it might (however it happened) all be over. Sooner or later. "He shall bring home another, who shall take my place." For all the disgust it did her, Gael could not even care for the prophesised replacement, and the commencement of another woman's despair. What could she do, after all, to halt the wants and desires of such a man as Uhta ? It was as much as she could manage to admit she was survived this long, because of his attentions at all.

"And what worth shall you be to us then ?" Jenahda thrust a tray of bowls and an antique goblet into the chest of her inferior, jabbing the Astronomer’s daughter twice before she took the hint, and raised up hands to grasp the tray herself. "Keep up!" the Haradese woman bade her, sharply and awaited for them both to exit from the kitchens, before she locked up the iron studded door again.


The stairs were not difficult to manoeuvre, during the day. But with the hour still cloaked in shadow, Gael second-guessed her footing often, and could only fear how much of the bowls' contents she had already spilt on the tray. Jenahda ascended the heights with some ease, as though she were some kind of mountain goat. Silently the more hesitant woman sought to reason what had prompted this exchange between they two. Was she bartering, without warning, for her survival in the house, now that her standing as Uhta's pet was on the brink of an unwelcome succession ? It was no secret to any that she was not well versed as a housemaid, so was this some spontaneous audition ? To serve the needs of the mysterious Lady Tannabett instead of Uhta ? Mayhaps Jenahda required some assistance in the tasks none knew quite what her duties entailed. Mayhaps something else ..




They passed the corridor which catered to the boy's chambers. The bedrooms of Matsu. Keket and Uhta. On and upward they continued, climbing then to the second floor where the younger woman had never been before. Here, she assumed were the chambers of Pharak and Jenahda. Here, she had been told by whispers, was also the secret chamber of the Lady Tannabett. But there were three doors on that corridor, as there were upon the floor below. And so there was at least one unknown outcome to this, her story. Gael hung back from following into whatever came next. Numbed with terror, she let the tray fall, and cringed as it clattered to the hard floor. Yet another mess to be cleaned up. She really was the worst sort of servant with no reason whatsoever they ought spare her .. Instinctively, Gael staggered forward into the room, seeking blindly for her lost duties, now wheeling about the floor. She could feel dust under her fingers. She could taste the silence which waited to trip her. Out of habit the young noblewoman cupped her hands before her abdomen, again expecting to find a foot there. It throbbed still from before. But it was not a cruel kick which contacted with her soft muscle. It was rather, a hand, an exploratory hand.

"He knows," Jenahda glanced sidelong up from where she was knelt, inspecting Gael's unwrapped skin. "Doesn't he ? Keket and his untamed intrigue for the human form. I expect he means to hack it out of you and keep it in a pickle jar to study."


A wave of confusion and terror rocked the young woman's form, as she tried to find sense in what the other meant now. What would Keket hack out of her insides ? What would .. ? Glancing down as Jenahda rose up, kicking the tray aside, she found that her own hands were between those of her mistress, and her unprotected belly. Oh. Dear. Gods !

Did Jenahda think that she was … Could she honestly be ? With child ? Grey eyes closed, tight, wished they had no need to ever open again. Was this the worst thing that could happen to her, or perhaps .. the best, under the circumstances ? But, she had prayed her silent whispers to the Valar every single night ! They would not have forsaken her. They could not ! The woman of Dol Amroth had been raised to place her hope in them.

As though she were equally as unsure what to make of the potential, Jenahda made from the room, a whirlwind without explanation. The door was closed behind her, a key turned in the lock. Gael sat there for another she knew not how long and struggled to make sense of quite what had just happened. She could not have Uhta's child in her belly. The dull throb from earlier made with a reappearance, and she was quite sure it was for a completely other cause now.

What if she were, against all her wildest nightmares, safe ? And there, what if she were … not ? Wrinkling her eyes, the young woman sank to her hands and knees and wept over the spilt tray. On the other side of the door, Jenahda set her back to the wood and one ear to discern what small trickles of interpretation might worm through it.

The test had begun. The seeds of possibility planted within the slave girl. How she now reacted would prove telling of her true potential, and quite what sort of a woman hid inside that little mouse. It was not the first time the woman of Umbar had played this game, and every time Jenahda told herself that it would be the last. But still they managed to surprise her, if she got to them before Keket and Matsu ruined her fun. It was an audition indeed, but not the sort that an educated noblewoman had been schooled to face.
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost
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Alternative Sources of Entertainment
The Umbar Ports

(Private with Windy)

They waited and they waited, and then they waited some more. Eldûrien was already in a testy mood but being stood up by some two-bit wannabe pirate was making her seethe. She and the rest of the Grand Conjuration crew had been either played for fools or were being tested by someone who didn’t deserve their patronage. Half of her wanted to find the man and drown him in a cask of ale, bad ale of course, the other half hoped he ran all the way back to Haradwaith so she could have a good chase. The ‘other’ voice in her head agreed with the latter, a good chase would do them good. She could feel his itching fingers, like ghostly tendrils of smoke intertwined with her own. She could smell the burning desire. For now though, she was done standing at attention like a dutiful monkey. She spat in the direction of the ship they were supposedly going to board and muttered a curse.

“I’m done with this Rök,” she said turning on her massive uruk leader. “You can wait like a good soldier all you want. I’m not getting made a fool of twice in one day by this miscreant. He’s clearly not going to show up. If we’re lucky someone knifed the asshole in an alleyway and the rats are making a nice meal of him.”

The uruk snorted in response. Eldûrien was about to start in on him when he lifted a finger and cut her off. “I have a feeling you’re right. Whatever game he things he’s playing is over. I, nor the rest of the crew, deserve to be kept waiting like landloving children or stock meat.” He spat too, a thick green glob. It took the rain a long time to wash away the angry stain.

Then the uruk looked at the boy jump now running through the bepuddled streets. There was a spark of recognition in his eyes, a vein in the side of his neck budged, and he grabbed the mablui by the arm. “Black bleeding stars, woman. A child? Really? What is wrong with you? Don’t you have anything better to do than charm an urchin off the street?”

Eldûrien laughed thickly and pointedly removed the uruk’s thick, gloved finger from her arm. “Darling,” she purred dangerously, her face thick with insincerity. “What I do off the ship isn’t your concern. The same as what you do and who you chose to fawn over in your free time is none of my concern. Don’t make me rethink that and tell the captain how much time you spend with his mother.”

Rök removed his hand, but the vein in his neck didn’t stop bulging. She didn’t like striking that particular nerve, but pressure where pressure is due. He spat again and muttered something under his breath. “Very well, but if this one loses his mind too, I’m not going to help clean up the mess again. Once is enough for all that.”

“Duly noted Rök, duly noted. If you will excuse me,” she touched his arm, maneuvering around him so that when the little urchin came around, he didn’t run into a brick wall of angry uruk muscle.

“Well, Jorund,” she said with a suggestive lilt to her voice, “if you’re going to want to hang around me, you’re going to have to learn to be more punctual. A waiting elf is a hungry elf.” She flashed her pearly white teeth and snapped at the air.

“Come along child, I have a lot to teach you.” She beckoned him with a finger and began walking from the ports and their noxious fishy smell. To do what she needed to do, she needed a place that was drier and smelled less like the insides of a trout. There were inns and taverns aplenty here. One that was out of the way and discreet was in order. She turned once to looked at the orphan and his lack of proper attire. “Coming?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Jorund

His lungs were on fire, but still he ran. She was waiting, he had to get there quickly. The overwhelming rush of elation was still tingling in his body, driving him on past his limits. It also drowned out the fear and shock of what had happened back at the den, glad that the look on Saemund's and the other members faces weren't crowding in to haunt him. He knew they would, eventually, but for now he clung to the elation and the need to get to the elf. Can't keep her waiting, he chanted over and over in his mind.

Water splashed up around his legs, the rain drenching him from above as he took every short cut he knew. And he knew them all well. He knew where to hide if he had been careless, he knew what fences could be climbed when it looked as if the alleyway ended in a dead end. And it was a good thing too as both his eyes were swollen, allowing only for a slit of view from beneath his puffy eyelids. That he would look like a racoon come morning did not bother him, he always had some kind of bruise or another.

Gasping desperately for air, he rounded the final corner and almost ran right into her. Fear pounced as he looked to see if he had splashed her with the puddle at his sudden stop, though it grew exponentially as he caught sight of the giant Uruk behind her. Though barely able to see, something that large could not be missed and still breathing heavily he took several steps back, almost giving in to the urge to turn and run away.

But then she spoke. It was the loveliest sound he had ever heard. Even above the sound of the rain and distant thunder, her voice sounded like.. like.. he could not find a comparision, nothing in the Warrens sounded good. Or looked good, or felt good. There was nothing he could compare it to, but he knew it sounded more beautiful than anything he had ever heard and that was enough. She even looked beautiful. Despite being drenched as well, she looked stunning, making him desperate to know what she would look like on a sunny day. Could someone be beautiful and scary at the same time?

"So-sorry.." he gasped between heavy breaths, anxious to not make her mad at him, eyeing the big Uruk behind her fearfully as if the Uruk was there to punish him for being late. His eyes would have gone wide, were they capable, at her words of teaching him. His stomach somersaulted with excitement he could barely contain. Anything was better than being left in the rain. Anything would be better than living alone of the streets, a sobering thought as he realised there was no "home" to go back to anymore.

She did not have to ask him twice if he was coming. "Yes," he said as he cast a side glance at the Uruk and carefully made his way away from him and set off after the elf, the gem forgotten, but still clutched so tightly in his hand that his fingers had locked.

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Matsu, Keket and Uhta Halsad
with Gael of Belfalas
"Shopping" at the Souk (Umbar Market)

 
The marketplace paraded an array of colour and of character; as much seen in the avenues of trade and wares, as in the people themselves. Both the city locals who had hatched into the streets, and also those more exotic migrants who had flocked toward the commercial oasis from afar and wide. Accent, fashion and bearing betrayed their tales, before ever they looked to break words.

She wondered what they thought to see her, bare feet stealing the hard river of cobbled streets, as though she had any right. She wondered what they might look to do to her, if she were not flanked by so ominous an escort. She wondered what her little convoy itself were capable of, truth be known. Their presence was undeniable, and imposing as they were, the three posed as much threat to her wellbeing as toward anyone else who might seek to arrest her.

To her left, the bolderous heft of Uhta. 'Her' Uhta. He had promised that he would break the bones of any man fool enough to touch her, to mere powder. Save himself, of course. It would be impossible, even for him, to break his formidable bones. They felt to be composed of iron. Ever when he wrapped his arms about her, she imagined she were clamped within a vice. He had a hold on her wrist even now, leading her as though she were blind or feeble. He was extremely possessive, was Uhta, but amazingly proud also. He glanced sidelong at her often, and the smile that grew dimples in his round face almost could be thought endearing. If she could somehow overlook the inky jungle of tattoos. She swallowed, nervously, without properly managing a smile back. 'Her' Uhta. There were no men like him where she had come from.

There were men like Matsu infesting all corners of the world, alas. Swaggering his stride just to her right, the shameless extrovert stared openly in all the places it was not polite to do so. He swiped fruit from market stalls in passing, pushed small children out of his path, and brandished one hand as a prop in his relentless monologue about some conquest he had no doubt made up, for the details seemed to alter and contradict themselves with great frequency. She had to admit, his efforts caused her humour, although she doubted it wise to clearly express her mirth. His temper was just as swift as his lies.

But the worst of all three was the one she saw not. Keket. She knw that he lurked behind her, in the same way that a field mouse senses a hawk hovering. She heard no fall of foot nor shape of word by which to scrutinise his mood. And as much as not seeing him would frighten her, she knew enough that to behold him was far worse. The cadaverous ghoul, with his many many knives, the way he licked his lips as though he was mentally digesting all those he dropped his gaze upon. And what a gaze ! His dark eyes were not bright as buttons, not like Uhta. They were not even leery and lecherous, not like Matsu. Keket's eyes were like two pieces of his face had been chipped away, revealing the crawling, eerie darkness that bored out without his ever seeming to blink.


Out of the three, she liked Keket least of all. And when their path was delayed by a change in the tide of folks, she found distraction in the guise of several small hanging cages, littering a sprawling market stall. A flutter of colour, far more bright and tropical than any she had seen at home, caught her attention. A flash of some beauty amidst all the sweat-stained crowds and overly pungent aroma.

"You like the birds ?" Uhta realised both her rare occupation, and the first time he had noted that particular look, of almost glad wonder, on her face. She had scarcely time to debate if it was wise to speak true. Matsu was already rolling his eyes, as his youngest brother thundered coin down upon the vendor's stall. "Birds," Uhta demanded, hoarsely, and it might have made no difference how much coin the massive man offered in exchange. Even those who did not know the name Halsad, had eyes enough to see the challenge they were not equal to meeting.

Matsu's barking laughter soon forsook him as three wooden cages of small, screaming birds were thrust into his chest. He brought his arms up just in time to catch them in sure grasp.

"I am wondering," Keket clapped his hands together without sound, and pressed them against one hollow cheek. "What the girl intends for the birds ?"

All three men stared at her, as though instructed.

"I think .." she struggle to discover both her mind and the words by which to express it. Approaching the cages, she tilted a head and smiled, despite herself, at the sweet creatures of flight who hopped about their perches, and clung to the bars, beating their rainbow wings against the bars. "I think I should like to open the door to their cage," she realised, before ever she knew that she had shared the words out loud. "I should like to grant them back the liberty they were born with .."


All three of them found intrigue in Uhta's reaction. It was doubtful that even he, the optimist, would fail to see through the meaning that she had just made.

"You would see freedom ?" he questioned, to be sure. Though the fine line of his mouth suggested he had no true cause to ask. "So be it,"

The moment that he opened up the cage, it was as sure exhilarating for the little birds, as for she who had seen them loosed. Neither seemed inclined to believe at first that such a thing had occurred. Neither could contain their glee. She smiled, properly smiled, for the first time since she could recall in this strange land, since she had been seized up by him. Spoils of war. The facts of the matter were disturbing and all her experience suggested that she fear. And weep. But 'her' Uhta, he seemed to be trying to understand her. He protected her. And now he did as she had spoken her desire.


Tiny feathered bodies impacted with the hard street, and burst, in even more exciting colours. Those who failed to strike death head-on, were chased about the crowd by shrieking children, with sticks. They too met their end. Only one managed to fly, into the glass pane of a grand oriel window. It rebounded at first, dazed. And then flew with greater fury against the instrument of its death.

" Once you clip their wings, there is no freedom to be had for them," Keket served narration to accompany the gruesome scene. She wished he had refrained. "They need locking up, and looking after," he made his point. Beside him Uhta nodded, gravely. As though seeking to console her, the vast man slung his ever heavy arm around her neck. Like a choke-collar. She shuddered under the quite unexpected weight, and yet her legs held her from collapsing. She was growing used to it.

The birds were better off in the cage, she realised, sadly.


"They were pretty birds," Matsu directed the grim lesson of the day. "Until they tried to leave .."

"She got it," Keket hissed, with venom.

She tore at the iron grasp of Uhta around her wrist. She stopped walking. He didn't. But when she came to be dragged, he cursed aloud.

"Don't," Uhta commanded. "Don't be sad."

She sniffed, and closed her eyes tightly.

"Do you know what makes me happy ?" he hit upon an epiphany. It mattered not that she was of no mood to follow, or cared even to wonder of how he sought to gift commiseration. She could not get the image of the birds from her head. Still, he was unused to accepting refusal. "Come !" he bade her, an advantage in physical prowess making any other option quite impossible.


Matsu and Keket shared a knowing, and sinister to observe expression. They knew well what most made their brother happy. And both doubted that it was going to have a similar effect on the girl.

She had to raise her one free hand to shade her squinted eyes. The sun beat down so merciless that the shop's bright advertisement was difficult to read. Once inside, however, there was no mistaking the craft that was showcased all about, immodestly.

A tattoo parlour.

Uhta presented 'his' girl to his great friend and frequent artist, as though the girl at the reluctant end of his grasp was a nervous new puppy that he could not wait to show his friends.

"She's always looking up at the stars," he announced, impulsively. "Give her stars. Lots of stars ..." Her face, as yet a blank canvas, appealed to the vendor. Uhta squeezed her fragile jaw in his mighty hands, and cupped her cheeks. He ran both hefty thumbs across her brow. "No more tears," he predicted.

She honestly was not sure if 'her' Uhta was trying to cheer her up, or daring her to weep, as the tattoist moved to start.

⭐
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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Alternative Sources of Entertainment
The Streets of Umbar

(Private with Windy)

The rains began to lessen until the constant drowning became a light pitter-patter. The fishy smell of rot that had been suppressed by the rain came back with force, assaulting Eldûrien’s nose. The cobblestones began to steam, and the humidity of the area threatened to choke her. She had always been a fan of rain, but when it came to the aftereffects, it left something to be desired. The streets began to fill up again with people, previously empty, quiet streets began to become suffuse with the din of city life once more. All the rats that scuttled away from the rain were coming back out and filled the street with noise. The dark elf preferred them quiet. There was so much more you could tell about a silent street than a noisy one. There was time to look and see, all she wanted to do now was find a place to get away from them all. There was another smell close to her, one that was more akin to a drowned cat than a person. She looked down. Ah! The twisted grin on her face tightened and her eyes grew a hard edge. Her little servant boy. He was, however less than presentable. If he was going to follow her around like this, as he should be, then he was going to look a little more presentable.

Quick as a viper, Eldûrien grabbed the boy’s wrist and pulled him aside. Just in time too, apparently, as a horse and rider came crashing through the streets, heedless of the creatures beneath him. He was garbed in black and grey, and the horse was a deep chestnut, and looked well taken care of. She narrowed her eyes and quickly memorized every feature she could. She was going to find him later and teach him some manners. “Careful darling,” she said turning her gaze back to the boy. “These streets aren’t going to be friendly to you or I. Be glad you aren’t an orphan in Minas Tirith though,” she said with a glint in her eye. “I’ve heard terrible things about what they do to orphans and street urchins in the white city. If the guard doesn’t apprehend you and throw you in prison first, some noble might catch you and turn you into a meal, or worse.” She chuckled and wiped some of the ashy grim from the boy’s face. “Cheer up though, little one. You’re with me, and as long as you keep doing what I say, I promise not to feed you to some fat Gondorian noble.

“First things first though,” she said, wiping the grim from her fingers onto her leather bodice. “We need to get you to the baths and then to a clothier. I’m going to going to be followed around and served by a creature that looks like it lives in the sewers. Have you ever had a bath? And don’t tell me yes if you mean jumping in the bay or getting cleaned off by the rain. I mean a real bath, where you scrub you down and clean off all the grim.” She ran her fingers through his oily hair and sighed. “You’ll need a haircut too; you look like you have a dead raccoon on your head and it’s not very attractive. Ugh, now I’m wondering if you’re really worth the effort to get you ready.”

She looked at him hard for a moment. There was no mirth, malevolent or otherwise in her gaze; for the moment, there was nothing in her eyes but appraisal.
This boy looks like one wave will knock him over and drown him. He’s not worth your time.

“Oh do be quiet, I’m not in the mood to talk to you,” she said aloud, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the little orphan could likely hear her.

Fine, it’s your time you’re wasting. I’m eating him when you get him killed.

“Fair is fair, I suppose,” she said absently. “Now go away I have things I need to do today that don’t involve you getting in the way and torching everything.” She looked down again and say the boy there as if it didn’t occur to her that he would be standing and waiting for her. “Oh no, not you, little one. You are going nowhere without me.” The wicked grin returned to her face, a twist of the corner of her lip. “Come along then, don’t dawdle. You’re going to get cleaned up for the first time in your life since your poor mother whelped you. You aren’t going to enjoy it, but you are going to do it. Right?” Before she grabbed his hand she gave him a hard, questioning look, one that wove a quick spell, similar but less powerful than the kiss she’d given to him earlier.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Master Torturer
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Jorund

With his older brother dead there was now no knowing how old Jorund was. Not that Saemund likely knew it either when he was alive. Jorund could have been small for his age due to malnourishment or big for his age despite the malnourishment. But whichever way one decided to assign an age to the boy, he was definitely underfed and it made him look like he was at most 7, if not younger. Drenched baggy clothes that looked like they were made with old sacks hung on his thin frame and did nothing to protect him from the elements as well as made him look more vulnerable than he was.

Shivering, bruised and starved he looked up the the elf through his puffy eyelids as he scampered to keep up with her pace. Now that the rain had finally stopped, he could do so without the rain clouding his vision or needing to wipe his eyes so he could see her clearly. But he did not see her hand shooting out, only feeling the vice like grip almost crush his thin wrist as he was pulled off the street to safety. It happened so fast that his cry of surprise came after it was all over, her grip on his wrist released before it could snap. He had broken bones before and while he was all too familiar with pain, it was still something that could bring tears to his eyes.

Cradling his wrist and his hand that was still clutching the gem tightly to his chest with his other hand, he tried his hardest not to cry from the pain as well as fear that she had wanted to reclaim his precious gem, though the soft whimpers managed to escape. But like a mother soothing her son, her words stopped the flood before it began. Darling. He barely paid any attention to what she said next, not knowing where or what Minas Tirith was, his mind reeling from being called, darling. It felt good, warmed the pit of his stomach then seemed to spread to his chest. Darling.

The touch to his face made his jaw drop. The only recollection he had of anyone touching his face was when someone slapped it. Which granted was often, yet absolutely nothing like her soft warm touch. He nodded eagerly at her words as a shiver ran through him, desperate to let her know he would do as she said escpecially as he did not want to be eaten by a fat "Gondorian" noble, whatever that was. Was it like a huge dog? He had seen dogs eat the dead on the streets. Jorund winced at that possibility, his stomach clenching painfully at the thought of being eaten by a dog.

"I.. I..won-" His stuttering was cut off as she continued, not hearing him in the slighest.

Had he ever had a bath? Did she mean like the rich folks did in those big tubs of hot water? He had once peeked through a window of the Bathhouse and had seen what looked like people being cooked alive in big tubs like some kind of human stew. He had gotten the beating of his life for that. He shook his head with dread, his puffy eyes going as wide as they could.

His words stopped dead in his mouth as the elf looked at him. Though shivering from his wet clothes, despite the humidity, her gaze made him shake. Bony knees knocked together as he withstood the scrutiny, relieved he had already relieved himself and had nothing left to let go off. He did not want to embarass himself like that again in front of her. The memory of it made his puffy bruised face go pink with shame. That was at least a feeling he knew well.

“Oh do be quiet, I’m not in the mood to talk to you”

His heart sank, crashing into the pit of his stomach. Even though he had not said a word, her disapproval and dismissal was crushing. How disgusting must he be to her to make her disapprove of him so much? A small sad whimper escaped his lips before she clarified that she was not even talking to him, though he was so upset he did not have time to process what she was saying before she continued on. He nodded eagerly when she told him he would be getting a bath whether he wanted to or not. Surely those people survived being cooked, so he would as well, right?! Fear of what was to come, gripped at him and it was all that he could do to keep nodding.

Those eyes. Her hard questioning look stole his breath and cinched his throat tight with fear. The spell that weaved itself around him was not necessary for his compliance, there was no way he dared deny her anything with that look she had given him. However it did stop the shaking. Mouth slightly open, staring back into her eyes unblinking his body calmed.

"Yes.." he whispered hoarsely through his tight throat, not even contemplating resisting when she grabbed his hand, the other still clutching the gem in a death grip. He really did need a bath.

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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Belatedly reposted, from before the Plaza-wide Blip :wink:

Thorongil .. got leave of the Steward and gathered a small fleet, and he came to Umbar unlooked for by night, and there burned a great part of the ships of the Corsairs. He himself overthrew the Captain of the Haven in battle upon the quays, and then he withdrew his fleet with small loss.

(excerpt from Appendix A, ‘Return of the King’)


The quay erupted in a dread effulgent blast that propelled sailors and their vessels alike to a slowly suffocating grave of watery depths, their disfigured bodies already rent by flame and fury. The gulf of Umbar was ablaze. It's every resident entangled in a struggle for survival against demons that came upon them by great stealth and devious contrivance.

White ships manned by white faces, their sharp eyes flinty and unyielding as they spied their prey, suspended in proud latency about the ancient dock. Gondor had come upon the roost of her compounded foes, and laid all to waste. The Corsair fleet was slowly, utterly consumed by the almighty raging hunger of a seemingly endless inferno. Bodies littered the remnants of their berth, cast in disarray about the splintered wreckage, as their migrant defiler summoned all of her ruthless efficiency to render all here ever now no more.

The strength of Umbar was despoiled, by both bonfire and blade. And when they were done, the marauders leapt back upon the decks of their own resplendent armada, and disappeared, with so great a speed that their abrupt departure was as little marked as had been their arrival. Any survivors that remained had little thought to pursuit of their swift antagonist.

The heart of the Corsairs had effectively been ripped from about her defiant chest and abandoned to smoulder in the rising obscurity of retch-inducing, breath-depriving smoke. Deadly, errant sparks arrayed the sky as an anarchic swarm of fireflies. And all that yet drew life within their congested lungs called for some as yet unseen source of power, a beacon of reassuring authority, someone anyone that might guide them now to vengeance in this hour of unforeseen loss.

Long had this formidable anchorage been privy to amended dominion, and factions of divergent motive and historic consequence had evolved to form a coalition with one sole affinity. Corsairs, Black Numenoreans, Haradwaith ... each and all detested the scourge that is Gondor, the residuum of all their long fought grievances ; today revisited without exception.



ImageImage

Jenahda and Pharak Halsad
The House of Halsad
City of Umbar, 2980 TA

The swift hands which cast open the almighty, engraved doors looked not to safeguard the means of their entry. They spilled through the seemingly incompetent space and hindered their own progress with the clog of haste and rushing chaos. They abandoned the screaming, brutal cries beyond, the garish ruddy sky and the call for arms. They bore forth into assumed safety, their own purpose and concern. The Lord of the house, and his eldest son beside him, each laid out on makeshift litters, borne by many dirtied but desperate aids out of the wreckage. Both men were great captains of their now depleted ships; both men were undoubtedly, and horribly wounded. Jenahda released the warm grasp of her dark-haired lover as he turned from her attentions, to the sight of his father and brother so mangled nigh beyond all recognition.

Slaves were summoned and sent with all urgency and unbridled threats of reprisal about their critical tasks, as the bloodied remnants of Captains Korre and Salukatar were lugged unto their each respective chambers. Pharak pulled away reluctantly from the girl he had been gifted – literally - his deep set eyes reading the meaning and significance of the surprise assault.


"If the Enemy can not conquer us, they shall seek to conclude us," Jenah noted, nonchalant as he abandoned her. “It is their way.

"When I felt the earth move," Pharak considered her, "I thought the shudder merely the jolt of your affections .."

It was undeniable that the shrew before him had her wiles, and more often than not, she also had her way. The world around them always managed to disperse from all his proper consciousness when she and he were close. He knew that she thrived upon their much condemned acquaintance, and he knew that he should know better. But the woman knew her way around a man's thoughts with far more expertise than she had ever learned to bow or scrape. He admired the affronting sass and indomitable spirit that she had never relinquished. Even cast into the dregs of all proper society she garnered his esteem.

There were few who could manage to preserve their own sense of self-dignity under such circumstances. Of course, where she now stood was yet still much raised from her previous position, a mere woman lost amidst the ragged tribes, with no more right to choose her husband as to choose what words she might speak without fear of cruel rebuke. She had been traded up to him as though she were a speechless animal, incapable of mind or want for her own needs. Pharak had naturally, given thought to whether her illustrious father had possessed a greater wit than the corsair had first assumed. There was no way the Chieftain could have endured Jenah's provocative behaviour in his own domain for long, and surely had expected that enslavement would contort her unto a more demure character. It had not done so, but for all that Pharak was not displeased with her presence in his home. Of all things that he had to come back to, she stood the gleaming prize of an adamant diamond amidst a field of mere rocks.


I see now that it was .. something else .. ” the Umbarian considered and concluded, calmly.

"You must see to them," the woman decided, at great length and with no small amount of disinclination. Of course, he recognised her reason. How should it look if he did not ? It might appear he did not care for his own kin ..

"We shall celebrate tonight," he promised her, letting his gaze fall one last time unto what she swore was an expanding belly. She smiled, following his eye and his line of thought. They should certainly have cause to celebrate later ..

Pharak was a second son, subserviant to his absurdly nautical elders and she could not accompany him on his far-off ventures, and so she found herself likewise tethered to his abhorrent relations. A prospect that did not find either of the young lovers joyful. Well, now she had given him insurance of a family far better suited to that which he had been born unto. The wise old mystic that the lords here had so sagely assigned to kitchen duties had as much as told her she would give her beloved a son. Maybe two, he had smiled at her, with a crooked wizened leer. Maybe even three, she had suggested, to his great ensuing mirth. She would ensure of it, best to have spare after all.


Of course, if Captain Korre Halsad or his blasted heir, Salukatar, she spat abruptly at the marbled floor to even think their names, were to ever discover that she was with child, then their vengeance would be absolute. Already she had forced herself to keep a far more civil tongue about her head when in their presence, merely to avoid any form of physical penance that would risk her unborn hope. Soon they would become suspicious of her altered disposition.

There was but one option left open to her, to any who might find themselves in her position. Jenahda was simply going to have to dispose of one, or preferably both, of her sources of foul contention. She had small doubt that any within this house would truly mourn the loss of either Captain Halsad or the spewling arrogance he had blueprinted in his eldest son. All feared and despised their master. Even Pharak who, for all his underhand and clandestine dealings with the enemy, was apparently incapable of raising even a finger against his own kin, at least in public. Unless ‘the Shadow’ spoke so to guide his hand.

Men ! Jenah sighed and made a rude noise deep within the base of her throat, for there were none here who might now observe her. Everyone was busy ... Fearful of the tiger's wrath, they flitted about like moths about a dancing flame, burning themselves for no good cause. If they would but realise they should snuff out that flame, or abandon the tiger to his detrimental injuries .... They would all be better off. Corsairs without ships are as much use to anybody as a forest without trees.

She had understood of course, the proper significance of possessing nautical faculty. For centuries, these lands had been breached by strangers that violated their rich shores. Cold, outlandish creatures had the plague comprised. First the pompous and aloof invasions of folk from their distant isle. Then the second wave of executives, this time from mere neighbouring coastland of the north. But sailors undeniable. Her own people were of the true sunlands, unceasing and utterly unconquered. But always, always had their borders been offended by rebels of other nations. Seeking to take what was not theirs, or seeking to stay and seek to claim it so, in all entirety.

Jenahda was dubious when it came to trusting the Gods of the sea. Always, always her people had suffered for the sake of these apparent mighty beings. But to control the port, to possess the means to meet any insurgent from elsewhere in battle at sea, before ever they might cast their hold about the plunder of riches inland; even she had to admit, that the Corsairs had managed to hold their own with such grand wisdom for some centuries uncounted. She had thought perhaps it might be time for her to unwillingly throw in her lot with them, at least as far as they would be aware.

But now ? What point now was there to Corsairs if there were no port to function ? They would diminish in both number and virtue as had the old fashioned relics that had come before them. Black Numenoreans were a tale to frighten small children. They had come, they had conquered, and eventually they had been absorbed. Digested, as it were, by the far greater population that remained inland. Corsairs were already trenching down the self same route. Tribes of Harad may not be united in varying and disputed allegiance to the Darkness, but they were all Haradrim regardless. Sooner or later, all that tried to reign over them were incorporated, and the blend was further more diverse. Soon they would obtain all of the strengths of all the nations that sought to subdue them, until they were a legion to be reckoned with like none before.


Jenah flourished with new vigour and design as she idly made her way along the passage. Of all slaves forced to endure servitude about this house, she was perhaps the only one who might escape chastisement for whatever thought she devilishly entertained. Pharak was hers. She had staked claim upon him, and as soon as her son (or even sons) were born, she would rule him as wholly as his people meant to hold sway over hers. She ambled with deliberate delay along her path to allow time for her lover to go from first his father to his brother. Captain Korre would have to be dispatched first. There was the matter of hierachy to consider after all. Father will best son. And Gondor may have bested Umbar on this opportune of days. But Harad would always remain and Harad would outlive them all.

Jenahda drew a jagged splinter which had been removed from the many pierced form of her now haggard employer. The room was empty of all but his shallow breathing and his already acrid stench. With the arrogance of not even one last glance to check for a possible interruption, she jammed the keen shard forcefully through Korre's ear and drove whatever served him for a brain within his skull to ebb undeniably out of the other ear canal. The desecrated remnants of the dying man shook once with a wrenching convulsion, and then lay still. One arm dropped like lead to seek the floor, but never reached it.

Jenah never reached the bedroom of Salukatar. Pharak got to her first. And as he there beheld the prone form of his father, he reached for her hand. And held her. Tight.

"Your father died in his sleep," she rehearsed their alibi, dropping the dangerous sliver of wood silently upon the bed covers, that she could envelop her lover in her arms. "It is the best he could have hoped for." She smiled.

It is the best we could all hope for,” the second son agreed. “All shall soon learn that was what occurred, and that accursed Gondor is answerable.” His tone caused the murderess to wonder if he had deliberately handed her the opportunity, to ‘do the Shadow’s work’ .. He drew her to him, like a comfort. Like she was all that he had now; the beginnings of a new generation. Their children … their legacy …


As the two began to meld a mutual dream of what they might conspire, together, unseen in his room Salukatar Halsad sat up poker straight upon his bed; as though he was somehow aware that he had just inherited his Household, and all the likelihood that he too should be murdered for the sake of it. A legacy indeed.
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.

Child of Gondor
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Niera, House slave of Relic
@Pele Alarion

For many days she’d not made the perilous journey to the iron cell where the prisoner was being kept. She didn’t know of her welfare and only hoped she was holding on to whatever hope still possessed and that she wasn’t too late.

Niera stood obediently holding the tray with it’s variety of fruits. She waited for Relic to dismiss her so she could head back to the kitchen. It seemed like forever but she was given the order and she tried not to act out the ordinary, head tilted downwards and eyes never seeking another’s as she left the office.

Her eyes then cast around, looking for any of her guards or other house slaves she knew she couldn’t trust. She turned the corner and nearly crashed into her least favorite guard, Augre. She quickly backed against the closest wall and held the tray close to herself as he growled at her. “Watch where you’re going! Stupid Wench!!” Spittle dripped from the corner of his lips and she could smell the drink on his foul breath. She muttered not a word, knowing any attempt at self defense would just further anger him. If she were lucky he would go back to his bottle and leave her be. “You’re lucky I don’t have time to teach you a lesson.” He smirked at her and snatched an apple from her tray.

She breathed a sigh of relief when he left her be to exit the room. She took a moment to gather herself before once more checking the room. Seeing no one she set about stuffing what fruit she could in her apron and pockets along with a couple small rolls of bread. The Alarion would need her strength if she were to escape. Satisfied and feeling she was pushing her luck she left the kitchen and on light feet she made her way to the iron cell.

She approached the door with it’s small window. “You there.” She had to raise up on her tip toes to whisper through the opening. “I’ve brought you some food.” She started shoving it through the opening. “Quickly, before someone comes. I sorry it can’t be more. I..” she faltered slightly. “It’s Niera. You must stay strong. Keket is here. He’s an evil man and I know he tries to bargain with Relic for you..why I don’t know.” She shoved the last roll through.

⭐️
Isolde Alarion/Rohan~Nelladel Alarion/Gondor~Mourgan Alarion/Gondor ~ Dahak/ Umbar ~ Relic RIP

High Warden of Tower
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Pele, at Relic's house
@Isolde Alarion , @Ercassie

Darkness of the cell had robbed her of any perception of whether it was day or night, neither did Pele know how long she had been here, as she could not track time any longer with any certainty. She could not help but wonder whether her captor had completely forgotten about her, or was just attempting to wear her out to the breaking point. At least occasionally someone did provide just enough foul smelling water for her to stay alive, and forced into survival mode, the Gondorian had resorted to sitting huddled up against the wall to conserve as much energy as she could.

The approaching footsteps made her cautious, yet it was Niera's voice that carried through the opening of the door. Satisfied that no imminent danger lurked behind it, Pele approached and caught the provisions that were brought by the seemingly disobedient slave.

"Thank you!" she responded quietly, yet sincerely. "This is more than I've had in... not really sure how many days." Holding the armload of food, Pele paused to consider the news. "Keket. Well, all options seem equally evil, truth be told. Be careful though... I don't want you to get caught and suffer on my behalf." The name seemed familiar, and after some thinking she linked it to the matter of the stolen Arrow and frowned. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place, it seemed.

She breathed in the delicious scent of bread, bringing one of the small rolls up. Bread. She had almost forgotten its scent and taste, and now it seemed like the best delicacy in the whole world. And since it was best to get rid of any evidence giving away the fact that someone was assisting her and because of constant state of hunger she had been in lately, Pele set about devouring the roll she had smelled with such contentment, as well as all other edibles so kindly provided by Niera. It was probably too much to ask the Relic's slave to see if she could steal the key of the cell... So she'd just have to resort to waiting for anything Relic would throw at her, and the food would keep her alive for some more time at least.

"Thank you, Niera," she whispered once again while enjoying the simplified version of the feast, though unsure whether her visitor was still there. She had not heard the retreating footsteps, but then again she had been so overwhelmed by the possibility to eat.
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Balrog
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Luna Malefica
The Ossuary Guild Headquarters

(Private)

His words must have set something off, else they were perfectly and uselessly timed. Duathion drew his blade. Lady Gîzan would have to forgive him for this. The blade rang as it was drawn, but there was no sound of an echo. It was drowned immediately by the ominous sound of a door closing behind them. Wood creaking and groaning, iron twisting and bending. There was a resounding BOOM that did echo. The echo was so loud it forced both Duathion and Lady Gîzan to their knees, covering their ears as the sound kept moving around them, pressing them tighter and tighter together. It the echo grew to an unnatural crescendo then the sound evaporated. Splinters of wood and rubble fell from the ceiling.

Duathion was on his feet first, sword held aloft in a guarding position. The room was black as pitch, the only thing he could see clearly was his lady, still struggling to her feet. He took her gently by the waist and pulled her up. She felt like naught but a wisp of cloud in his arms. She held onto him the way a babe holds onto its mother. She was shaking like a leaf. He couldn’t blame her this moment of fear. Even he, an uruk trained to not feel even the slightest hint of it, could feel the creeping fingers of fear tightening around him, closing him off. Voices were whispering around them now, muttering some sort of chant. He couldn’t make out the words. He tightened his grip on his blade and on his lady, holding her as close as he could. He could feel her warm cinnamon breath on his neck, the only thing soothing him and keeping him from darting off into the blackness to slay whatever he could find.

“Show yourselves!” he roared, the echo of his voice dying almost as soon as it passed his lips. “Cowards! Show yourselves and let this farce be done!” The more he roared, the less his voice echoed, the more the sound of the whispering cultists surrounded them. They were coming from all impossible directions, above them, below them, between them. He scuttled back, pulling Gîzan close enough that he could carry her. Still, she weighed nothing in comparison to the weight of dread settling on his shoulders. The voices would not stop. The whisper was vile and incessant, and he could only make out a few words being muttered and chanted. “Sunken… sky”.

“Show yourselves you bastards! I will gut you all for this treachery! I will hang your tongues from my belt and mount your skulls on the wall. I will sell your guts to the pig farmers and demolish your pathetic house to ruins. I will bring death and ruin to you all for this!” He shouted because he did not know what else to do. The voices were coming from everywhere at once. He could not follow his instincts and go off swinging into the darkness. He would not leave his lady, his love, to fend for herself. His loyalty to her overwrote anything his blood told him. He wanted desperately to end this threat, to slaughter them all and bring down fire upon this wretched house, but he could not. Leaving his lady’s side, even for a heartbeat could prove their undoing. This place was wrong, all twisted and bent over backwards. He could not let his lady out of his touch for any amount of time. This house would see to it that they never found each other again.

“Let us out of here!” His voice was hoarse, his vocal cords felt like they were shredding.

The roof opened. Impossibly, the great structure above them, opened it’s jaws like the maw of something great, colossal creature. Duathion felt his breath catch. “My gods, my gods,” he heard Gîzan whisper in his ear, her voice stinking with fear. “What are those?”

The stars were out, but they were not the stars they had looked to all their lives, they were not the stars that guided them away from the Yellow City by the Lake. These were all wrong, the stars shone in the wrong place with the wrong twinkle and the wrong color. And it had been cloudy when they’d entered the Ossuary Guild. The vision of the night sky was obscured. This, this was not the sky. Whatever this was, it was not the sky.

The crush began then. The stars moved down, hungry black eyes looking to devour them. The floor shifted, Duathion barely kept his balance. Gîzan held him tighter, so tight he could barely breath. As much as he wanted to know she was close, the feeling of being crushed was only intensified. The walls, wherever they were in all this bleak, stygian nothingness, were closing in. Everything was closing around him. He screamed, but the sound didn’t even make it passed his lips. He gagged on the air, something was flying about them, sediment was thick in the air as the sound of the sky closing down on them intensified.

Gîzan, my lady,” he whispered. “Close your eyes.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Chief Counsellor of Gondor
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Warning of explicit-ish description of gore.


Keket Halsad
Second son of the Blood Priest. In Umbar
Bringing a gift, and a renewed proposition to the infamous Relic
"As Promised" ..
some year shortly before the War of the Ring TA.
@Pele Alarion @Isolde Alarion



He might have been the only one there, for the only booted footsteps that played upon his ear, clacking like a cane on marble, were his own. The only other sound was that which slumped along beside him and could no longer be counted as a thing that managed ‘steps’. It slithered, it shuffled, it suffered. With every inch managed it suffered. And with every inch of suffering that it endured, he was all the more satisfied.


Noone had halted him at the door that was not locked, nor had anyone protested when he had pressed it for entry. None had harried down the arcade to expel him or invite him of the house. Keket might have wondered why he was permitted such a leniency to wander at his own will, though he currently was torn between some swollen fancy of his being feared, and the far more likely chance that freedom here was a mere farce. The greatest fool is one who does not recognise his folly and also the happiest of men. Keket was neither happy nor so much of a fool that he did not second guess. There were likely eyes upon him, whether he regarded them or no, gauging of his behaviour when they supposed that he felt himself unnoticed, so they might form a better opinion of him.

If he had not known better, he might have believed that there was none abiding in the house at all. The entire premises might have been ransacked, it's occupants slaughtered by some nemesis, and anything or one not taken off to be sold, therein left to rot instead behind the unassuming closed door which fooled the rest of the street. It would not be the first time.

But he had been to this particular abode at least once before. And having lived to tell the tale, clearly had bolstered enough of his arrogance that he would be permitted to do so again. It was a finer notion to covet than the far more likely; that She who lived here had no mind of him, any more than a grand captain concerns himself of the rats who infiltrate his ship. Keket could not recall whether he now ventured anywhere close to where Relic had made herself known the last time. It might be that the walls had been changed; some walled up, others cast down. Nothing would surprise him. Again, it would not be the first time. Umbar was a perpetual chasm of surprises that would test even imagination.


The slavering, lumbering lump that this time lurched along behind him was the testament to Keket’s own twisted imagination. It had certainly earned the Umbarian some degree of awe and staring as he’d hauled it across the cobbled city streets. He knew the smothered gasps and unabashed, unceasing stares were not aimed in his direction. It was his ‘companion’ .. nay though, that was not a word to suit these circumstances. That which dragged itself on all fours at the end of a relentless barbed leash was merely the evidence of what Keket had spent his time on, in the Prison Pits of Mordor; honing skills that were not standard for even the sun soaked streets of this unforgiving metropolis.

It stilted unskillfully on knees and elbows, for they were now the extent of it’s limbs. One eye was gone, and the adjacent ear, and the entire lower jaw bone, so that the ‘thing’s tongue flapped out of the ruined floor of its former mouth, like a necktie gathering flies. Pus and indistinguishable oozes trailed in it’s wake as does a slug leave it’s abhorrent train. And daubed in it’s own blood across the pustuled and pestilent back were the words

I offended Relic’.

It lived, as far away from any understanding of what life might now be or how long it might indeed persist. It lived because Relic had not ordered it's death. Early treaties to the slaver for want of access to her prize had led to this welcomed challenge; to test the limits of his self-control and the depths of his cruelty. That he was to make sorry a most pitiful wretch who had betrayed the mighty Relic, and been foolishly caught afterward.

Well, certainly this was a case where show would better than tell of what ‘talents’ the Umbarian could bring to their proposed collaboration. The dejected, flensed and broken body which shambled painfully aside him was Keket’s proclamation. Not only of what would become of any who betrayed Relic but of any who she encouraged the Blood Priest’s son to award his ‘attentions' unto.

They may not share another single solitary thing in common, save that both wished for the one who was named the Alarion, to suffer. Relic had not yet apparently decided by which means and to what an extent this would occur, but Keket clearly had a few ideas. And since he was not met or greeted at the outset, this time as the last time, the cruel man crunched with none too much care upon the devastated back of his ruined, but only most recent, victim.

It would serve as a seat for it’s tormentor’s convenience, until the mighty Slaver herself should send forth some welcome; else see her floors forever soiled by the unfortunate tribute meant to bind their unholy partnership. If he were lucky, then she would permit him to play next with her most prized possession. He did not care why Relic wished for this, or that, of her foes to know anguish. Usually he would relish the experience regardless of any other motive. But the officer Pele Alarion had thwarted his efforts to steal the infamous Red Arrow out of Gondor. And what should have been his crowning glory had become Keket’s most devastating failure. So wait he would, for however so long it would take.

Revenge is best served cold they say, and there were few souls more cold than Keket Halsad, save it be the reputed and soul-less slaver; Relic herself.
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.

High Warden of Tower
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At Relic's House
@Ercassie ; @Isolde Alarion

Shamara had spent a couple well-earned days of rest at home, and now was returning to see if Relic had any tasks for her. Having endured the relentless heat of the sun to reach the door she found it to be unguarded, though she knew it was never properly so, and reached for the door handle to open it.

But just as she pushed the door open and was about to step inside, she froze for a moment with her foot raised before she found a spot to place it again. There was a trail of... something gross... leading over the doorstep and all the way along the hallway - as far as she could see. It looked as if some giant wounded snail had made its way into the house. Whatever this was, she knew Relic would not be happy about the dirtied floors, and Shamara almost felt pity for the unlucky slave who would be forced to clean this mess up. Cautiously, she stepped inside, closed the door, and followed the trail that led further into the house.

As she rounded a corner, following the trail, she found herself looking at Keket sitting on something that barely resembled human form. Shamara felt her stomach churning at the sight, and she considered disappearing right back the way she had come, but perhaps it was too late. She would not back off and show Keket she was afraid of him, or that she really felt aversion to all things nasty and much preferred dwelling in luxury away from such. She stood indecisively for a moment, wishing to disappear, but eventually settled for standing with her feet apart and her arms crossed, as she stared at the mess and its cause.
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Child of Gondor
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Relics House
Receiving a gift
Relic

@Pele Alarion @Ercassie

The black feather seemed to dance at an irregular pace as Relic wrote her days business in the large journal she kept on her desk. Intake of slaves. Sales of human flesh. How much coin she won from wagering on human vs beast in the arena. It'd been a busy day but her musing was suddenly interrupted when one of her house slaves hurried into her office. She turned her narrowed eyes on her. "This had better be important." She hissed at the servant who seemed caught between hesitation and the importance of the matter.

"M'Lady, K-Keket is here." The house slave pointed to the entry with a hesitant finger. "Show him in you ingrate." She snapped off at her but the poor woman only seemed to look back at the entry with a scared, worried expression. "He's..he's brought you a gift it seems." Hearing this her brows slightly flicked with interest. What could he possibly be bringing her she asked herself as she ran the feather under her chin. With a wave of the same feather she dismissed the house slave. What was he up too? She knew better then to assume there wasn't an ulterior motive to this gift, they always came with strings but she also knew how badly he wanted to get his hands on the Alarion. She supposed the only way to find out was to see what this gift was and if it was enough to sway her thoughts on the matter.

She returned the dark quill to it's holder and rose from her seat behind the desk. She smoothed her hands over the silken dress that showed her figure to it's best advantage. Satisfied she headed for the entry.

She could smell it before she even set eyes on it. The air hung heavy it and she knew it probably better then most, she dealt with it every day of her life. Blood. What had he done, her mind asked as she approached the entry. Her skin prickled with anticipation of what she would find.

Turning the corner the sound of her heels slowed then silence followed. Cold crystallized eyes swirled and churned as she took in the sight before her, her right hand came to rest on a well formed hip. The sight before her elicited no outward sign of disgust or repulsion as it would to any other person. No, she slightly tilted her head to the right as if seeing it from another angle, as one would appreciate a piece of art. Blood, puss and something else was pooling on her floors but she didn't bother with it, at least not at the moment. She was too intrigued by this perch Keket now sat upon.

Her eyes moved to focus on Keket now. It was obvious he wished to use what was left of this ... thing, to showcase his talents. Better then any resume she thought. She adjusted her stance and crossed her arms over her chest. She could have complimented his handiwork, the cuts were done with precision and with the placements of them the thing wouldn't bleed out, alive yet dead where is crawled from the looks of her blood smeared floor. She wouldn't do that though. Feed his ego.

"You have my attention, these are my demands if you wish to get what you want from my prize. Slice her mind into a thousand pieces if you like but keep physical damage to a minimum. I still have plans for her after you've gotten what you needed from her. " She smiled although it never reached her eyes. " Be creative." She glanced down to the wheezing figure beneath him. "I know you have it in you." There wasn't much for negotiations, he could take the terms or leave, simple as that. She didn't have time to play tootsies with him, besides, his perch was making quite the mess of her floors and now it was bothering her.

She turned her attention to Shamara. "Ahh, you've arrived at the perfect time. I believe Keket and I have arrived at an understanding." Back to him she turned. "Shall we seal the deal over a glass of wine? "
Isolde Alarion/Rohan~Nelladel Alarion/Gondor~Mourgan Alarion/Gondor ~ Dahak/ Umbar ~ Relic RIP

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At Relic's House
@Isolde Alarion , @Ercassie

Shamara had finally decided that she did not really like what she saw and was about to take a step back and disappear around the corner in search of some other task, but it was too late. She was seen; besides she could hear Relic's footsteps approaching and felt obliged to remain where she was.

As she observed Relic and listened to her words the Umbarian found that their views on what was a good gift differed. If it had depended on her, she would immediately kick out Keket and his gift and have the floors scrubbed to a perfect shine. She much preferred shiny and luxurious items and did not find much joy in blood and in tormenting people. She rather took pride in being able to capture people, their wealth, or both by masterful deceit.

"Ah, you have. Excellent!" she said in a neutral tone, glancing at Keket and Relic. It did not quite make sense to her that Relic would be happy with a gift like this, but to each their own. Shamara did not dare voice any objections or show discontentment by her body language for fear of ending up on the receiving end of her employer's wrath.
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Balrog
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Luna Malefica
The Ossuary Guild Headquarters

(Private)

He could not move. He could not breath. Something hard and sharp pressed into his back, sending waves of pain into his spine and down to his fingers and toes. He could feel Gîzan beside him, pressed so deeply into him that she almost felt as if she were an extension of himself. He could feel her breath, hot and small. She was alive. Whatever force they were up against, whatever hell they had found themselves trapped in, she was alive. If she was alive, then so was he, and if they were alive, truly alive, then he would find a way out of this. The Ossuary Guild had constructed a chthonic prison of earth and stone, but there had not been a prison constructed that could hold Duathion. He would escape and he would hunt them down and bury them in their own abyss. He would crush the life out of them and send them screaming beyond the circles of the world, wailing in fear of the Son of the Shadow. The uruk had endured horrors beyond thinking in the city of Carcosa, he and Lady Gîzan both. This torment, however terrestrial and malicious, would not hold him. He took a breath, it was gritty and chocking, filled with bits of stone and rubble, but he could breathe. He smiled to himself. It was a start.

“Lady Gîzan?” he whispered, his voice gravelly and strained. “My lady, I need you to waken. I beg forgiveness for taking you away from the sweetness of your dreamworld, but I have need of you in this waking world. I would not steal you from the throne you have carved in your mindscape unless the choice was dire, and my lady, it is. I need you. Please, my lady, please wake.”

He could feel a tear roll off his cheek. He was shocked that he could feel anything. He blinked it away. “My lady, my lady, please, please wake up. Come back to me, just for a little while, just a little while. I will see that your slumber is peaceful once we are free, once we have escaped this vivisepulture. I swear I will bring you to the softest bed and the sweetest of dreams. I will bring you to the light and sunshine and you can dance with flowers in your hair. Do you remember that? I made that promise to you once before. I will make again, here and now, choked by the earth, I will not let you falter here. You will see the sun again and dancing amongst the hemlock. Just wake for me now, my lady. I need you here with me. Please, please awaken.”

She stirred. His breath, ashy and earthy, caught in his throat. He hugged her tighter, if that were possible. He could not see her, but he could feel her. There was no light in this place, there was no room for even the barest, thinnest ray.

“Duathion? Duathion? Where are you?” She broke into wracking coughs, each felt to the uruk like a knife in his chest. His wrath was climbing ever higher even as he felt them sink into whatever this place was.

“I am here, my lady. I am here with you.”

He could feel her swallow, heard the aching sound as she struggled to orient herself. “Where, what happened? Duathion, I can’t see anything.”

“I don’t know what happened,” he whispered honestly. He could not understand what happened, what sort of ritual they’d been trapped in, or where they were now. Were they still in the guildhall? Still in some vast labyrinthine building with strange geometry and illogical architecture? He swallowed down his wrath. “Close your eyes, my dear. There is nothing to see any way.”

He could feel something digging into his leg, something sharp and painful, it dug into him, he could feel the blood trickling out of him. He felt cold, numb. “We have to get out of here,” he whispered, his mouth filling with dirt. He did not know where he was, did not know up from down, was he upside down, right side up, sideways? There was no way to tell. The entire world was crushing down on them, but the angle of the crushing eluded him.

“Crawl,” he said, his voice hoarse and grainy.

“Which way?” Gîzan began coughing again, hacking, dry coughs that shook Duathion to his core. She did not quiet for several moments, when coughs turned to sobs.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered, “just crawl, crawl with me.”

He pushed his arms forward, the earth was packed around them so tightly there was no way to get a hand hold, but he clawed nonetheless, making infinitesimal progress. He might have been going further down, deeper into the abyss, but for now he did not care, that was a concern for a future Duathion. Moving was progress. Moving was life. Gîzan moved with him, above or beneath or beside him. They crawled together. Each of them barely gaining a hand and only able to move the tiniest amount forward.

“Do you remember that day in the field?” Lady Gîzan asked him, her voice so weak he almost missed it.

“After we escaped Carcosa? Before the hounds?” He smiled, despite himself. The memory was a vivid one.

“Yes, when we ate quinces until we thought we’d burst. I never thought anything on earth could be so sweet.”

“I—I promised you a garden of quince trees.”

“And the butterflies…”

“And the butterflies.”

Duathion felt Gîzan slow, felt her progress slow to nothing. He was still close enough to feel her pulse. She was alive, but something was wrong. She began to cough, louder and louder. She gasped for air and was met by falling dirt, eager to fill the open spaces. Duathion screamed. “No! My lady! No! Do not, do not leave me now. I cannot face this world without you. I need you. I cannot escape without you…”

“… leave… behind…” she gasped between sobs.

“Never!” he hissed vehemently. “Where you go, I go, no matter the place. Where you lead, I will follow.”

“But…” whatever rebuttal Gîzan was going to make was drowned in a coughing fit. She was growing weaker and weaker.

He wrapped an arm around her and began to crawl with one arm. His progress was even slower, so miniscule and insignificant that he might as well have been moving backwards. The spaces between the earth and rubble were filled with voices, with whispers so loud they threatened to crush him. There was no place to escape them, no place to hide or block them out. They were so loud, so loud, so loud…

Gîzan grabbed onto him. She was weak, but her fingers wrapped around his arms like a vice, digging into his flesh with finely painted nails. He could feel the blood trickle out of him. Maybe it would give her strength? He prayed to whatever or whoever would listen, that that would be the case. He had to get her out of here. He could sense her panic rising, her breathing was even more erratic, more haggard. His own breathing was shallow and ineffectual. He was drowning too, he could feel the life leave him as the panic rose.

But that was not the only thing that rose. An uruk’s wrath is terrible when roused. Once more, Duathion began to crawl. His will would not be broken by cowardly men in robes hoping to bury him alive. He would get out, he would save Lady Gîzan, and he would make them pay.

So he crawled, and crawled, and crawled…
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Child of Gondor
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Dahak
The Slavers House
Umbar

Belongings hit the dirt with a clatter as they were cast from their position in the slavers house. Vases, broken into jagged pieces as they landed on the hard packed earth of the road. Various decorative items tosses like a child’s toy that held no value to its owner. It’s new owner anyways. Clothing, shoes, bedding, just about everything in the previous owners life was now cast to those that would fight and squabble over it or that could sell it for even the smallest amount of coin, the beggars and poor were having a field day. The purge only paused long enough to evaluate something of real value or something that caught the eye of the newest owner of the Slaving Pits.

When news of Relics demise hit the streets it spread like wildfire and many tried to position themselves to take over the Slave Pits and the slaving business she’d made out of nothing but they soon came up against him and as the way of it in Umbar it was only the strong who survived. He secured his position with blood, the blood of his opposition.

One merchant watched as his family burned in their own home, another potential owner was soon separated from his head. With their fates put on display for all to see any others that might have thought about going up against him soon thought otherwise and walked away with their families and bodies intact.

Once his ownership was secured he settled into making the place his own and that meant cleaning house, literally. He’d brought men with him and those that wouldn’t bend a knee to him found themselves thrown to the very beast they tended. There would be no room for Relics memory in his world.

She’d become obsessed with this Alarion and had paid for it with her life. He would not make the same mistake. He didn’t care for the Gondorian Ranger, his goal was to line his pockets and fill his coffers with coin. Slaves and stealing cargo and other illegal dealings were the best way to do that.

The only person he wished revenge on was the woman who bore him and sold him into the same service she’d fought to get out of and now she was gone, dead at the hands of a Lieutenant and a Smithy.
Isolde Alarion/Rohan~Nelladel Alarion/Gondor~Mourgan Alarion/Gondor ~ Dahak/ Umbar ~ Relic RIP

Child of Gondor
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Dahak
Slave Master, slave pits
City of Umbar
He lightly blew over the parchment to dry the dark ink. His eyes moved along the words as he made sure his words would be understood and there would be no misunderstand. He wanted to make his message clear.

He wanted no trouble, at least no more than usual and to his reasoning this was the best way to go about it. A peace offering per se. He’d chosen a young woman and by Relics records she and her family had been traveling before being intercepted by Relics men.

Records showed she was around 19 and her parents had been captured with her. The mother had been auctioned off and the father sent to the slave fields over a year ago. No further records were kept on him. Dead he supposed as none lasted in the dry hot fields for very long. It was a long, slow death. Why Relic kept the young woman around this long was unknown to him or in the records.

Just then his lead man Hjar knocked on the door frame to enter, he would never presume to enter without permission. “The girl is ready. Do you have any further orders?” The burly tanned skin man with the deep set eyes asked.

Dahak blew once more across the parchment. “Take this and be sure she gets there in one piece. It will do no good to have a dead peace offering.” Hjar nodded his understanding of the orders. “Yes Sir.” He only stepped closer to the desk to receive the parchment that was now rolled up and tied with a crimson silk ribbon.

“Return as soon as you can. I hear there is a caravan heavily laden with coin traveling west soon. We’ll see what we can do to lighten their load.” He smiled darkly as he handed over the parchment then waved his man away. He had plans to make. Gold coin wasn’t going to liberate it’self.
Isolde Alarion/Rohan~Nelladel Alarion/Gondor~Mourgan Alarion/Gondor ~ Dahak/ Umbar ~ Relic RIP

Child of Gondor
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Dahak, Master Slaver
Slave Pits, City of Umbar

His black hair shone like a ravens wing under the Umbarian sun as he stood inspecting and deciding the fate of some of Relics slaves. The warm breeze lightly pulling at the dark silken shirt and fine threaded pants he wore. Decision narrowed his light honey gold eyes.

What to do with them ? He didn’t necessarily like the idea of keeping her slave stock but then again he hadn’t had a lot of time to gather his own. They would have to be re-branded again of course. Her double crescent would be hard to cover without making it messy but so be it. He couldn’t sell them under her brand if he chose to do that anyways.

Umbar held few rules sacred but selling under another’s mark was one thing they refused to budge on. They said it kept people from simply stealing and selling other slavers property but hello!, that was the nature of the business wasn’t it!? “Re-brand the lot of them.” He instructed Hjar with a swish of his hand as if to wave away the problem.

His orders were met without a word of resistance, just a simple bowing of the head by his lead man. With a slip of his tongue over his teeth he’d made the decision to head back to the office but before that could happen a carrier appeared and bowing low he offered him a rolled parchment with a ribbon tied on it.

His eyes narrowed in interest as he took it from the man and waved him off. His fingers pulled the loose end of the ribbon and let it fall, adjusting the paper to unroll it and his eyes scanned the words as the corners of his lips slipped upwards in satisfaction.

It was from the Captain and although they were few the words were clear to him. Stay out of her territory was the jest of it. He smiled at the proclamation ,which he would ignore of course, but how nice of her to take the time to respond to him.

He turned in a whirl of silk and headed back to his office, parchment in hand. This woman intrigued him. Perhaps he would write back.He could do it under the pretense of checking to see if his gift was received but in truth would it be bad to have a Gondorian pen pal??
Isolde Alarion/Rohan~Nelladel Alarion/Gondor~Mourgan Alarion/Gondor ~ Dahak/ Umbar ~ Relic RIP

Child of Gondor
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Dahak, Master Slaver
Slave Pits. City of Umbar
@Pele Alarion


Seated behind the desk he seemed to be buried behind a mountain of parchment. Scrolls, one upon the other, littered the desk as he seemed to be going through each one. Contracts, arraignments, bills of sale. It seemed Relic had dealing with nearly anyone and everyone that had to do with the business of selling people. He'd been putting off this task. It almost seemed insurmountable to figure out which contracts were still active, and which were now null and void. Which ones he could use for his benefit and which to burn.

His golden eyes narrowed in question as he read through one which listed all those she used as contacts and spies. A name was listed often and the amount this person was paid for their services. Shamara. A woman he presumed but unlike the others this one had no more information like where she could be found or when the last contact was made. He turned the page then turned it back searching for the red mark indicating this person was dead. Stil alive he presumed but then why no recent contact before Relics death?

"Hjar!" He called for his lead man, he'd been there the longest and would probably know. The large man entered and after coming to a stop before the desk he bowed low. "Sir." Cold honey hues eyes met his own dark ones. "Do you know of a woman called Shamara?" He could tell Hjar was taking a moment to think. "Yes, she worked for Relic. Gondor mostly." He added at the end.

"Do you know where she is now?" Dahak asked causing Hjar to shake his head. "No Sir."

Dahak tapped his finger on the list in thought. "Well, we'll have to find her, won't we?" Hjar nodded in agreement.
Isolde Alarion/Rohan~Nelladel Alarion/Gondor~Mourgan Alarion/Gondor ~ Dahak/ Umbar ~ Relic RIP

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