Raiding for slaves - Mordor Army RPG - Open to ALL

[Winddancer]

http://nicholaswoodesmith.com/march-cro ... /orc_raid/

The sound of the carts bumping noisely through the night mingled with the sounds of the children crying and the mothers and fathers trying to console or silence them. Five carts in all were filled to the brim with the smallest children, pregnant women and the rest of the space were filled with whomever was lucky enough to be nearby. The rest of the poor souls were forced to trudge after the carts bound by rope or chains. And around them were the band of minions that had raided the villages. Among those were Borfang and Mord, Mord the main reason for being so successful with their amount of live slaves so far. Mord had come up with a genius way of ensuring most of the villagers were caught alive and Borfang ensured that the orcs did not kill too many in the frenzies they would get into (a pretty mean feat in itsself). Actually the plan was simple. Torch the barns and then the houses once the villagers emerged to put out the flames and then pick off the villagers as they ran around in the chaos.

But sometimes simple was all that was needed, especially when picking on villages that were poorly protected and with few soldiers. That was Mord's other genius idea. While soldiers could make for good slaves as they were hardy and healthy, they were hard to break and fought to the death. Villagers and farmers, not so much. They valued protecting their possessions and families far more and could easily be subdued just by threats to a family member. And they were used to hard labour. It was a win win situation and it was going swimmingly, so far they had doubled the amount of slaves caught in just a few raids and if they kept this up, they were bound to get the respect they deserved from the higher ups.

Now, all they needed was to bring this lastest batch of slaves back home, having been fortunate enough to raid two villages in one go, thanks to their close proximities.


This is an interkingdom RPG! I have never run a RPG before and this will be more like the free RP threads than me telling people what to do. You are free to interact as you see fit, or not at all. Please post private in your post if you decide to do something that you do not want all to join in on. Otherwise everyone can join in on everyone's posts in here.

You get to decide who you want to RP - slave or minion, or both! Yes you can have more than one character! Have as many as you can manage! And this is not limited to minions, ALL can post and pick whomever they want to rp.

For those wanting to RP either Rohirrim or anyone else coming to the rescue, I ask that you hold off on trying rescue them all just yet. For now it will just be the trek towards Mordor. If anyone IS interested in wanting to attack this gang and free the slaves, then hit me up and we can talk about how to do it, if not, well more slaves for Mordor ;)

This is a Mordor army RPG, so every post will earn you renown. Keep track of it yourself.

I will try and make sure my posts give you something to react to, otherwise feel free to hit me up with suggestions (you know where to find me)

RULES:

You know the rules, they are pinned in Admin ;)
Feel free to add a picture of your character, but keep it small. No other pictures or gif''s

[Winddancer]

Borfang and Mord
Renown 6

"Didn't I tell you it would work!? Didn't I?" Mord shifted into a better position on his newly aquired horse, growling briefly as the horse took a few dancing steps away from his friend walking beside him. "I cannot believe how many we got this time, Bor! This is sure to get us a promotion! Don't you think?" Mord waited about a second, not giving the huge man a chance to respond. Not that he would have as he did not speak all that much anyways. He gladly left that to Mord.

Mord smacked his lips with delight as he eyed the scared villagers packed into the cart he was guarding. "That one over there.. the pretty blonde one.. I think I will keep her to myself.. hehe.." Mord had lowered his voice conspiratorilly, though his voice still travelled, setting the young girl into a new fit of sobs, cringing as far away from the two she could get. "You gonna have one too? Hm? Hey! You listening?" Mord swatted a hand at the large man to get his attention though got nothing more than a disinterested grunt. "Suit yourself.." Mord grumbled sourly under his breath, though the success of the night quickly restored his former excitement as he continued to eye up the girl.

'Burn in the fires of Mount Doom you pathetic snake' Borfang thought to himself over and over again in an attempt to drown out Mord's obnoxious gloating. Even so, Mord's words still passed his internal barrier and for a split second his eyes flickered to the girl in question before quickly returning to stare straight ahead. His jawline became more prominent as he ground his teeth together, wondering for the billionth time why he was even here. 'Sorry, darling. I cannot help you' he thought, making sure not to look at the girl again as he increased his pace so he could not see her out of the corner of his eye and instead focused his gaze on the man who was walking behind the cart ahead. Well, barely walking.

Asmund

The pain engulfed him like a blanket of spears. Everything hurt. From the wound in his shoulder, that kept getting agitated each time he would fall behind and the rope would tug him forward, to the burning in his chest from trying to keep up with the cart. Again he stumbled and almost fell and again he managed to stay upright in the nick of time. He knew only too well that if he fell, there would be no getting back up. Gasping he gripped at the rope bound tightly around his wrists, in a desperate hope to keep himself on his feet. Water. If he could just get some water. His throat burned like he had swallowed a fire, the sensation beginning to drown out all the other aches and pains, demanding to be sated.

"Please.. water.." he croaked as he tried to turn his head to look at the captors next to the cart. But in doing so he lost his footing, not seeing the rock in time and with a hoarse squeal he fell to the ground, shrieking in pain as the cart continued onwards dragging him along behind it as the terrified people in the cart could only watch on, along with the others tied behind the cart.

[The Good Hunter]

Uada grinned. While not usually given over to displays of emotion, the uruk made an exception for today. The raid had gone off almost without a hitch. He’d been caught in a pillar of smoke upon entering one of the barns to herd the humans toward his fellow raiders and nearly coughed himself to death. He emerged from the burning building like a balrog from the depths of old Utumno, a demon wreathed in black fire and smoke. The screams, ah, the screams that he elicited. It was almost worth nearly choking to death, the fear was life affirming, it fed him better than any shank of horse thigh could have. His muscles were tired and heavy, but the ache was one of accomplishment. There was blood on his sword, a sanguine sight he had not beheld in far too long. He had to hand it to the two leaders of the raid, Uada didn’t trust humans as far as he could throw them (which was actually rather far) but these two managed to organize and execute a perfect plan. There were dozens and dozens of slaves to attest to their good fortune.

He took a deep breath; the air was different here. That, of course, went without saying. The air of Mordor was thin and humid and filled with more ash that was necessary. The more he was able to get out from under the oppressive dark clouds the better. This mission had been a great success, with any luck he would be chosen to go on more and more raids. The influence of the Black Lands would spread, and he could spend more of his time under azure skies. He cast glance along the road and saw shimmering milecastles in his head, dozens and dozens of them, all bearing the great lidless eye of his master. He could himself in control of more than few, an uruk lord in his own right. Middle-earth was vast, the Lord of the Dark would have need of many great and loyal servants to administrate his lands. Uada was going to make sure his name was on the lips of all the captains. He shielded his eyes from the sun, bringing an end to his short reverie. He snarled to himself. The sun was going to take some getting used to, especially the high noon sun. He muttered a curse his brood mother taught him and spat a thick, slippery glob of phlegm on the ground. The curse produced a sharp gasp and a whimper from the cage next to him. He guffawed as he looked at the ash covered woman staring at him with wide-eyed fright.

“What’s the matter missy? Heard something you like?”

She broke down into blubbery sobs and shrank back, her thin frame nearly melding with the iron bars behind her.

“None of that now,” he warned, his iridescent eyes boring holes into her. “The louder you are, the more quickly a few of my hungry compatriots take notice of you and decide you don’t need a limb or two. You've never tasted manflesh, but long pig is quite a delicacy. If you don't shut up, you'll find yourself without a tongue to scream with while they carve you up.”

A strangled, choking sound emanated from the woman, but at least her sobs died down. Her shoulders quivered with the effort. One of her eyes was completely closed, caked over with soot, blood, and grime. She must have lost the eye in the raid. Lucky her that’s all she lost, Uada thought. He’d killed at least a half dozen men before he was able to corral the rest of them. Others hadn’t been overly pleased with the lack of bloodshed. Some of the raiders had wanted complete slaughter. Fools like that couldn’t see passed their pricks. It’s not about the blood, it’s about the message. And they’d left a damn good message.

“There you go, you might survive long enough to be a slave yet.” He laughed and clanged an iron gauntlet against the bars. “What yourself and see you don’t cause too much trouble now.”

Renown: 20

[Winddancer]

GM Heads up: The gang has raided a couple of southern-most villages of Rohan. Just around where the N in Rohan is HERE. The trek will then go to the Great River where their hidden boats are and where they will sail down to where Nindalf meets North Ithilien, Mord has found a route through there that "seems" unpatrolled by Rangers. All travel takes place at night, cause, you know, orcs.. and easier to conceal and all that. And yes it is a long trek, Mord is ambitious and wants some blondes :P

[Lady of Shadow]

Naelia
Renown: 3

This was the second time that Naelia was participating in an Army mission, and right off the bat, she recognized one of the minions that was trying to claim her nuisance of a half-sister, Lathana, to himself! "Him again?! Well, this time, I have a few surprises in store for him! And if he thinks he can claim Lathana for himself, he has another thing coming!" Even though she didn't often care what happened to Lathana, there was the odd time she almost felt sorry for the girl. The only other time was when her trusty Orcish helper, Orngor, was continuously pulling Lathana's long blonde hair as a means to get her to co-operate, which is one of the reasons why Naelia kept her hair shorter. It was also long (mostly to hide the points of her ears, which is the only thing she had in common with her nuisance of a half-sister), but it stopped just past her shoulders, long enough to hide her Elven features, but short enough not to be grabbed onto much, since Naelia knew how to manoever properly to make an enemy let go, even if it meant chopping off an adversary's hand or arm in the process.

The "surprises" she had in store for Mord (for she thought that was what the other called him) was unlike last time, this time she had along her trusty whip (a really nasty looking one, and effective, since it once backfired on her when she was interrogating Lathana that left her permanently scarred, since she had a rather nasty looking scar on the left side of her face) as well as Drinch, who was circling above if things got out of control and Naelia (or any of the minions, really) needed a helping hand...

"Just a minute, scum, that blonde is an escaped prisoner. This is Lathana, who happens to be my half-sister on my mother's side. She was accused of betraying the Dark Lord in one of her failed escape attempts. It was none other than yours truly that interrogated her, like I'm about to do with you for mocking me the last time we met!" the minioness began, getting out her trusty whip...

Lathana

Though Lathana wasn't too fond of her half-sister finding out she escaped, she was glad that she was here to "rescue" her from the minion known as Mord, as Naelia called him, since obviously the two had crossed paths before.

Ever since she was first sent to live with her half-sister, Naelia, after their mother was killed for attempting to take Naelia away from the only life she ever knew, Lathana had tried to escape and go back to Northern Mirkwood (even though she had no more family there. Her mother was dead, and who knew what had happened to her father, since she only shared a mother with the minioness, but had a different father). The "betrayal" was just Lathana simply "deserting" Mordor's Army when getting close to the Black Gate in an attempt to get back home and leave Naelia and any other dark relative far behind her.

But escaping from the Dark Land wasn't as easy as it looked, since the fair haired Elf (which is why nobody thought that she was related to Naelia, since the only thing they had in common were their pointy ears, which Naelia hid under her shoulder-length curly black hair so that she appeared to be more human, even though she was more of a monster, or at least she was to Lathana, so she didn't know why she bothered intervening, but she guessed it was more of a score to settle with her captor than an actual rescue) had to disguise herself as a minion and sneak out behind Orngor, her half-sister's trusted Orcish helper (and one of the Orcs that brought her to the Black Pits in the first place) only to get recaptured when her current sanctuary got raided by the Enemy.

"Did Naelia learn of her escape and recapture, or was this just a coincidence in order to settle a score with a fellow minion that she's obviously dealt with before?" Lathana wondered, but she also wondered if this would be her last moments on Middle-earth (wherever she happened to be), since she was already missing an eye and in pretty bad shape, but hadn't she been killed before, only to be brought back to life to be tortured by her very own half-sister? Things weren't looking good for the fair haired Elf...

[Winddancer]

Borfang and Mord
Renown 7

Borfang did not flinch when the captive fell, he had seen that coming a mile away. He would have left the man to be dragged after the cart if it wasn't for using it as a means to move away from Mord and well what good was a dead slave? They needed as many as possible to stay alive. Again he wondered why he had come on this hairbrained trek so far from Mordor. While Mord's plan did indeed work and they had captured a lot of poor souls, he doubted Mord had given much thought to the trek back. If they were lucky they would make it back to the river without incident. If. Moron.

Grumbling something under his breath, Borfang increased his pace and made it to the unfortunate captive, reaching one huge meaty palm down and grabbing him by the shirt with his left hand. With his right he chopped through the rope binding the man to the cart. Without much care for anyone, he easily tossed the man into the full cart and left them to deal with making room for another.

"Hey where you goin-" Mord called after Borfang, before he was accosted by a very angry woman. Not that woman weren't mostly angry around him, but this one seemed especially peeved. Did he know her? To him most women were not really noteworthy and only useful for one thing. Two, if they could cook. If they were pretty it was a bonus, but not something that would stop him.

Mord eyed the angry woman before him, wracking his brain trying to figure out why this one was so hysterical, though came up short. "Hey now little lady, if you want her that bad, take her!" He guffawed loudly, though shifted slightly uneasily on his horse as he looked for Borfang. "Plenty of others where they came from!" He even managed to waggle his eyebrows at Naelia before nodding his head towards the other women.

Asmund

The pain of being dragged across the rough ground was almost more than he could bear. Sharp rocks bit into his clothes and ripped them open, the next rocks and stones tearing at his flesh, the slow speed they were moving at only making it worse. He did not even have the strength to cry out, merely grunting every time he hit a larger rock. He closed his eyes, yet even so he could feel the fuzziness encrouch his vision. 'Please, I don't want to die..' he begged silently to the Valar, though soon he slipped into unconciousness where he could at least not feel the pain anymore, or being tossed unceremoniously into the full cart.

[Lady of Shadow]

Naelia
Renown: 4

"I guess this Mord character isn't too bright! He doesn't even remember insulting me the last time we met!" After the pathetic excuse for a minion dropped her nuisance of a half-sister by her feet in an attempt to avoid a severe beating on his part, the minioness now had a new problem on her hands; what to do with her...

"Thanks for saving me," Lathana began, knowing she was about to get insulted one way or another, but she thought that she would try anyway.

"Quiet, she-Elf!" Naelia snapped, trying to figure out what to do next She couldn't take her back to the Black Pits, since they were quite a ways away from Mordor, and she could just imagine what kind of insult this Mord character would think up when she returned. No, like it or not, Lathana would have to stay with her until someone got the foolish idea of trying to rescue her, and then Naelia could take out her frustrations on them instead of this Mord character who was really starting to rub her the wrong way. Usually, minions just accepted her for what she was; female, but one of them, so they never questioned her, since most of them knew who her father was, and if word got back to him in the Dark Tower that Naelia was somehow mocked or mistreated the way some foolish Elves in Northern Mirkwood did... well, look out, since there would be a serious reprimand coming in their near future (if they survived at all, since the Elves that mockered her might have gotten away with it, since they took it out on her mother, who got the foolish idea to take her away from the only life she ever knew in the first place, but next time...)

"You should have accepted your fate in the Black Pits of Mordor when you attempted to "desert" the Black Guard..." the minioness began, "but now you're stuck with me, so march!" Naelia snapped her whip at Lathana, not caring that she had already lost an eye for her foolishness...

Lathana

Lathana should have known she would get some kind of reprimand from Naelia, since the woman may rescue her on occasion, but it was obvious that she didn't care what happened to her. She was just rescued from this Mord character because she was the one that wanted to make Lathana's life a living hell, so to speak. It would have been better off if the former Elven prisoner was never sent to Mordor in the first place...

"Couldn't they just track my father down?" Lathana wondered. "Why send me to live with the biggest monster there is?" even though that was hardly true, since Naelia wasn't that much bigger than Lathana, but she meant how she was treated by her very own half-sister, not having anything to do with her actual appearance.

Everytime Lathana stumbled, that dragon-like thing of Naelia's swooped down to make sure she stood in line. Even though she knew this latest "escape attempt" was her biggest mistake, she would have to put up with the minioness' abuse until rescue arrived, if it ever did, and then she would make sure to put as much distance between Naelia and herself as possible, because if they ever met again, there was nothing stopping the minioness for putting her out of her misery, and this time, it would be permanent. The only good thing about that is that she would finally be at peace...

[Meltithenniel]

Cadoc
Renown: 2

Cadoc scratched his ears and suppressed an urge to sigh in boredom. His jobs were often boring and meaningless, but they were never this boring and meaningless. He expected better from the group of men and Uruks - clients from Morder tended to be more pragmatic than this group, who clearly had other motives if they wanted to go so far up north for some mere slaves - but it seemed like his expectations were misplaced. He couldn’t do much to complain, however - he was assigned to the job by his company, and he didn’t have much right to refuse.

The work was easy, said a bearded trader many years ago. Easy money. A way to get out of poverty. You look like you’re having a hard time, aren’t you? The words were nothing but alluring to the (then much younger) Cadoc, who wanted nothing more than to escape his small mountain village of Dunlending refugees and the grueling, mind-numbingly unflinching poverty that came with it. And so Cadoc found himself following the bearded trader (long since dead due to an unfortunate case of accidentally swallowing some poison) out of his boring village (well, more like the dingy inn he was staying at, his ever-lowering funds fueling a sense of keen panic) and into a new life filled with adventure, riches, and more potato-dumpling soup than he could ever eat.

Or, so were the expectations.

The reality was much different. There wasn’t much potato-dumpling soup to go around, for one. Not to mention the work was boring, strenuous, and never paid well. Cadoc found himself bitterly cursing his past self at the end of his first job - shipping some illegal substances (he couldn’t care less what it was; it wasn’t like anyone told him, anyways) across the border into Mordor - for his lack of critical thinking skills and inability to look beyond empty promises. (There’s a life lesson to be made here - never make a decision in a state of panic.) But he remained; partly because a small part of him still believed in the bearded trader’s promises, but mostly because he (like a fool) signed up for a multi-year contract. Also, he was exempt from working in the winter, which meant he only really had to work for half of the year.

Cadoc slouched against the cart and idly passed his spear between his hands, deep in thought. His multi-year contract was finally coming to an end - if he were lucky and dallied a bit, he could stretch this current job (he wasn’t really sure still what the job was about, but again he wasn’t paid enough to care) until the end of the season to make it his last. And then - freedom.

He was offered, of course, an extension of his current contract, with a generous pay raise to boot. He knew that his company found him useful - he had many successful jobs under his belt, all on-time with hardly a word of complaint - but he knew better now than to stick around for any longer than he had to. True, if he ended his contract there was a very large chance that the company would come after him with a sword and a vial of poison, but that was a reasonable risk he was willing to take. It wasn’t like the company was very big, after all, and Cadoc was fairly confident in his proficiency in many weapons. Besides, they would find a new recruit soon enough and forget all about Cadoc. The company could hire only so many contract workers before salaries would eat into what profit margins (and thus gambling reserves) they had.

But where could he go? The village was out of the question - even if he returned, there is no guarantee that his brother would welcome another mouth to feed, especially when considering the family homestead was stretched thin as it was. (And if he were being truly honest with himself, the thought of returning to the homestead and confronting the ghost of his mother - who would no-doubt be disappointed in him, even as she lay dead in a mountain-cave, bones picked clean by a scavenging vulture - was too much to bear).

He could try to get a contract somewhere else - this time at an actual trading company, one that did actual trade with actual, not-illegal goods. Somewhere unlike his current group, a sleazy group of one-time criminals who had the audacity to name themselves the International Grey Stallion Trading Company, inc - Your Premier Source of High-Quality, Efficient Delivery. The headquarters in Tharbad - a modest two-story building, with a small mews in the rear for storage - were no less of a farce: a gaudily-decorated, colorful exterior revealed a single room, walls peeling from decades of neglect and containing nothing more than three chairs and a table. That is, if the higher-ups haven’t sold the furniture to fund their nights at the pub, silently snarked Cadoc. We’ll trade anything - For a Price!, the company’s slogan went. That was, thought Cadoc miserably, the only truthful part of the whole enterprise. The Trading Company was willing to sell anything, including dignity, at a cost; any legitimate trading company that at least had dignity would thus be an improvement. But something about tying himself to another company and another multi-year contract seemed deeply unsettling to the (now not-so-young) Dunlending, and so he never gave that option much thought.

Well, he thought, I’ll have plenty of time to think things through, especially at the rate this current job is going. The raid was quite successful, or so he guessed based on the number of captives miserably trudging along in equal parts fear and exhaustion. (Cadoc was a hired contract guardsman, which was a fancy way of saying he watched over the food supplies as the others went off doing whatever they did.) He didn’t really feel much pity for captives, who were a mix of different peoples, but probably Rohirrim from what Cadoc could tell. Serves you right - you Rohirrim did the same to my poor mother, which made me grow up in poverty, which made me desperate, which made me get this contract job, which made me be in this foul position, which made me… He kicked the leg of a prisoner in frustration, causing the prisoner to stumble and whimper in pain.

“Hurry up! We don’t have all day,” he grumbled, tugging at the hem of his faded-blue wool tunic and sweeping his long brown hair away from his gray eyes. He was pretty sure he didn’t have the authority to order around the slaves, but something about this current job put him on edge. Maybe it was because it was his (potentially) last job, or maybe because it was odd to see a group of what was clearly a Mordor-affiliated group this far up north. Something’s not adding up and it’s giving the creeps.

Cadoc pushed down the thought and picked up his spear. Work was work, and he wasn’t paid to think about the intricacies of what he was doing. Looking once more at the procession of people, he clambered onto the back of the cart and settled down, resting his spear on his shoulders. Now, what would I do if I were not here…

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by something that was unceremoniously thrown into the cart. Something sharp and bony knocked into Cadoc’s knees, causing him to wince in pain. He looked at whatever dared to interrupt his thoughts and came face to face with a body. A corpse? Very likely, as the scratch marks and caked blood covering the body offered little hope of survival. He crouched down and placed his hands against the man’s pulse - and widened his eyes at the soft thump of a weak, but constant, pulse.

“Hey you, wake up,” snapped Cadoc, hitting the man’s arms with the butt of his spear. “You’re taking up too much space.” He nudged the body with his foot. “Wake up or I’ll leave you here for dead.”

[The Good Hunter]

True to form, there was arguing near the front of the caravan. Uada couldn’t make out what was being said but it was over the treatment and possession of one of the captives. He rolled his eyes. Couldn’t this foolishness be settled in camp? Arguing like a couple of wet hens was not going to get them anywhere. A countdown began in the back of the uruk’s head until swords were drawn, and the infighting began in earnest. It was predictable and upsetting. There were some stereotypes that couldn’t be shaken because they were all too true. At least it wasn’t orcs arguing with each other, that would have been a shire cherry in the oatmeal. It was the humans. Humans. He snorted derisively. They were useless wretched little creatures, like squirrels, but their meat wasn’t as tasty.

As if on cue, his stomach growled. When was the last time they’d eaten? It was some point before the raid. He was hungry. He had a deep hankering for some mutton chops or perhaps a roasted horse leg. They’d managed to get some of that in the raid too, right? If they’d overlooked actual supplies in favor of a bunch of stinking, sweating bodies he was going to sorely disappointed and reassess whether he thought the raid had been successful or not. They were a long way from home and had travelled light to get to that village with as much haste as they could. The beady eyed man running the mission, Borg or Mordred or something, had his heart set on a blonde slave girl. Uada didn’t understand the human obsession with hair color. Maybe it was because he’d never had any, but he thought it was a useless aesthetic, a flaw (one of many) in the design of the other races.

“I bloody hope it was worth it,” he muttered under his breath. His feet were starting to hurt too. Running on iron shod feet was hellish and painful. He had a high pain tolerance, but even his threshold could be reached. He felt the blood beginning to boil in his arms, the itch to catch and break something. Violence being primary nature, it was hard sometimes to stop and remind himself of the goals he’d set in place and what was at stake if he screwed it all up and ate one of his fellow raiders. Borg could have his blondes, hell he could have all of them for all he cared, he wanted something, or someone, to eat and a place to rest his feet. He looked over at the one with the missing eye again, looked at her hands. Those were nice hands. The fingers were unbroken and straight. The only thing the wench last was an eye. And she didn’t need eyes to do what he needed her to do.

Uada licked his lips. The idiots up front would argue, bicker, and fight over a single worthless prisoner while he swooped in and stole the cream of the crop. The others that huddled around the one-eyed girl looked healthy as well. They were bruised and battered and coughing but they didn’t look like they were going to keel over and rot there in the cages. Good, good. He glanced around suspiciously, conspiratorially. He hadn’t gotten an accurate number of his fellow raiders and there seemed to be more appearing out of the grass as more and more time went on. More raiders meant more loot to be shared. Uada meant to take as much as he could. It was his right after all. Morg might have been the one to come up with the plan, but it was Uada and the other uruks that had made sure the plan was a success. He could take all the stupid blondes. Uada wanted this cageful. Almost unconsciously he tapped the hilt of his sword that swung on his hip, a habit he picked up when working around too many humans. One never knew when they’d fly off the handle and start killing (or trying to kill anyway). The feel of the steel and leather hilt was comforting. It grounded him. Connected with his weapon, Uada felt like he could take on everyone here if need be. It was a steadying talisman that helped him sharpen his focus and his resolve.

He looked over the prisoners in the cage again. They were mostly more or less blonde which he didn’t like, but none of the ones in this cage had the shiny golden hair that Bord and Morfang were so fond of. This must have been the half-breed cage. Lucky him. There was one man, now that Uada was cataloging and paying them close enough mind, that did look sick. He was slumped against the bars and was shivering like he was cold. A closer inspection revealed a red stain near his shoulder. It wasn’t from a blade wound. Had one of the uruks decided it was high time for lunch and took a bit out of him? That one was as good as dead, but the rest he could work with.

“Listen to me very carefully girl,” he half snarled, half whispered. “I have a proposal for you.”

--- * --- * --- * ---

Her eye hurt. Even though it was gone, she could still feel the throbbing, pulsating pain. She didn’t touch the wound though. If she touched it then her eye would really be gone and there would be nothing she could do. She wanted to pretend as long as she could. It was just a bad dream. All of this was just some bad dream that she needed to find her way out of. She believed it. She had to. What other option did she have? Live in a world where her village had been taken and destroyed? A world where she’d been forced to fight a monstrous, spectral thing that belonged in hell rather than the green earth, where she’d been hit so hard by the monster that her eye had been dislodged and cut off? Who would want to live in a world like that? Persephone was no slave. She could not be, would not be. She let the pain ebb and flow the tides of a river, doing her level best to ignore it. The more she ignored it, the more she could reassure herself she would wake up in her bed, she could go see her betrothed and tell him all about the terrible dream.

She took a deep breath. Her entire body hurt. She tried to hold the breath in, but her lungs were weak and feeble from the smoke. She’d inhaled too much. That’s why she’d lost the fight. She was too busy coughing to be able to attack the nightmare. Her shoulder hurt. She’d fallen on it, heard a crunch. She could still move her arm, bless the fields, but each time she did she felt like she was touching a bolt of lightning. She wiggled her fingers. Each of them seemed to work, more or less. That was good. If she could use her hands…

The cage was so full of people, moaning people all coughing and hacking. She could feel the iron of the bar digging into her back. The pain was just enough to elicit a tear from her eye. She still had that eye. She still did.

He was looking at her. The monster out of her deepest, darkest nightmares. The monster that had stolen her eye, her fiancé, and her life. He was brutish and ugly with squinty black eyes. He was taller than the orcs her father used to tell stories about. She thought they were only a few feet tall, and only caused trouble if you didn’t leave out the right kind of treat on the right holidays. Her father’s stories had been wrong, so very, very wrong. He wouldn’t stop looking at her. Each moment he looked at her, each moment she was dragged away from her home, was a moment that her soul slipped away from her body.

He would not stop looking at her. She wanted to scream but her lungs burned, her stomach roiled. The way he looked at her. There was nothing good or hopeful in that look. It filled her with fear and revulsion. Others had looked at her in a similar when they forced her into the cage at spearpoint. Men. While all the stories about goblins and orcs and piskies and been wrong, the stories about men had not. She knew just how cruel they could be. Whatever the orcs were, at least they weren’t men.

Then it spoke to her. It sounded the earth was ripping apart and the fires of the mountains were coming forth. It made her itch all over, the sound of scratchy wool or a hairshirt.

“What do you want?” her own voice was thick and raw from smoke. It was phlegmy and unintimidating.

He smiled. Something that ugly shouldn’t smile. “You.”

She couldn’t stop the bile from burning up through her stomach and throat. She barely managed not to project it all over the rest of the cage. He just laughed.

“I thought you’d agree too. Do as I say, and I will ensure your survival. Don’t and I will pop out your other eye.”

Renown: 21

[Winddancer]

Borfang and Mord
Renown 8

Mord let out a sigh of relief as the angry woman backed off with her prize. Straightning in his seat, he let out a cough, his nose lifting as if he had been the victor. Still he gave the horse a kick and made it go faster until he had caught up with Borfang who had just chucked a body into a cart. "Good thinking my friend, we can use it to feed the or-"

"He is not dead." Borfang's voice grumbled so softly Mord almost didn't hear what he had said.

"Well he looks close enough to me, shame really. Could have gotten a good coin for him if he was able to work." Mord sniffed with disdain and peered ahead, seeing the first signs of the skies growing lighter. Would soon be time to halt for the day so that the orcs could take shelter from the sun. Biggest downside to working with them he had found. Thank Melkor for Uruks, however they were far more difficult to work with than orcs. At least they were still making good progress, the wagons definitely helping in ensuring that they kept a decent pace. The last thing he wanted was to get caught halfway to the river.

"Pick up the pace!" He screamed to the caravan, oblivious to the fact that he should probably try and be quiet. "Sun will be up soon!"

Asmund

The blissful darkness cradled him like a mother with a babe. He did not want to leave, wanted to stay here in the dark where there was no pain, no terror.
But nothing lasts. A sharp pain penetrated his refuge, sending a blinding light along with it. While he only let out a small groan splayed as he was in the cart, in his refuge he was screaming in agony. Another sharp pain made him cry out, this time his vision beginning to lighten as the edges blurred with a fuzzy greyness.

"No.." he mumbled, groaning once more in pain.

[Pele Alarion]

Ceri

None of the expert skills at using her small stature and agility of a eight-year old child had helped Ceri to escape being captured. She was small, and it usually helped her evade consequences of all the mischief she happened to cause in her village. "That little urchin of the gal" she was called by the villagers, mostly left to her own means since she had lost her parents.

She had done her best to avoid the nasty men and orcs that had attacked the village, but her usual hiding places were not all wrapped in fire and smoke, and she had been forced out into the open, and into the arms of the captors. She growled, bit and kicked, much like a cornered animal, and yet it had not helped, and she received a hard slap across her face along with an end of rope tightly wrapped around her wrists.

Loaded in the cart, like a piece of lugged among so many others, Ceri found herself on the way to... wherever it was they were heading. Nowhere good, she knew. Her cheek still burned some from the slap, and she curled herself into as small a ball as she could, trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. Kneeling on the floor of the cart, she hid her dirtied face so as to avoid looking at any of the ugly orc-creatures - and just as ugly people - and gently blew the disheveled muddy hair out of her eyes.

She had found her way out of most troubles; perhaps there was a way out of this one too? Her grey eyes peeked around as she looked for anything made of iron sharp enough that could be used to wear off and break the tight ropes that were biting into the tender skin of her wrists.

More than anything Ceri tried to pick up courage not to cry from being overwhelmed by so much confusion, fear and danger, as she tried to ignore all the loud yelling voices, and the groans, even those of the man tossed in the cart not that far from her.

[Ercassie]

’Elspeth’

The relentless rock of their ride was of little comfort, a little like a ham-fisted orc enforcing a cradle to some perilous lullaby, and even more like being repeatedly jostled from behind by tiresome children lost in some fool horseplay. It helped some, to decide it was the latter. Even though she was not fooled enough to dare turn and chastise these figments of imagination. Even utter exhaustion was not enough to envelop this harvest of misfortune. There was no space to stretch out a single limb, and to turn was only to find the same scenery. Clumps of bloodied, matted hair and lowered looks in every direction, shaking hands rising only to stifle any hint of cough, perhaps to rub at a tear-weary eye. The stale sweat of the close-packed quarters was beginning to invite nausea. The rocking really was not helping in that regard. The roads were not good here, if they were even on a road. She was mired in the midst of their human stew and could not glance much beyond the occasional glimpse of dark, twisted monuments they never seemed to leave behind, no matter how long the horrific pilgrimage went on. Their captors. Their keepers, it would seem. For they were clearly disinclined to see anyone spared from their sport.

She hadn’t quite been privy to exactly what had happened. Suffice to say that what had looked a welcoming and unlocked stable had proven far from it’s promise of a warm, safe night spent free from cares. The most dire threat she had expected to be woke to was a red-faced farmer who, let’s face it, she could have broke down in tears in front of. That usually worked. And tears had come, of course. They had torn down her cheeks like talons of a bird of prey, her skin now swollen from the endless flood which rendered it as hard-baked paper. The merest stroke of an eyelash now was as a scythe, seeking to raise up new welts of woe. Whoever, whatever, she had run outside and into, from the threat of flames and a throat that couldn't catch breath, it was not what she had expected, nor any means of what she knew to manage.

A calloused fist had seized her by the hair, and herded her this way, that way, through smoke, through screams. It was as much as she could do to hold tight onto the swaddled bundle in her arms. Likely she had that to thank for having been hitched up into the gut-lurching cart. After all, she’d purposely made it up to look like a baby. People were less keen to steal a baby of you. People did not glance with interest at a lone woman with what looked like a baby. Men looked the other way, as though to merely acknowledge or meet her glance would commit them to duty of caring for both. Women looked on after she had passed them by, not meeting her face, and conceived their own tales of what she was and where she had come from. Dark of hair, she stood out in these lands. Though it seemed that might serve her well now, where the word ‘blonde’ had been hissed more than once by the wolves snapping at their heels. Standing out … She had been but passing through the ill-fated village. There was no surprise though, that this was what came of it. Ever a thing that first seemed easy became fraught with complications in her experience. And the easiest of ways she’d found to cope with that was to suddenly disappear, and never come back. Ironic, that was now likely to be her fate.

There were words more often now, punctuating the chorus of cries and sniffles; some snarled in crass threats meant to intimidate, and others smooth as a snake’s coiling caress. Their speakers were becoming more distinct now, as was the intrigue of pawing hands, of eager eyes. Had they come far enough away from their crime scene to crow and cheer with less a care ? The sky promised to spread like the pale white of a slow-cracked egg overhead, and the lambent yolk of the daystar would inevitably show at it’s centre. At some point. So far, it was clearly too ashamed to raise light upon the piteous sight of them. She did not mind. All the better to shrink still in the gloom and be little examined for as long as it was possible.

The cart limped on, and steadfastly she clamped her tiny swaddled bundle close against her chest. The soft blanket smelt of smoke, or maybe that was her, and everything else anyway. It was hard to tell. Regardless, it was all she had in all the world, and it wasn’t much. So it was a shock to realise that she probably now had possession of more goods than anyone else in their sorry assembly. It was rather more of a sobering shock, to realise these fiends no doubt believed that both she and her 'baby’/goods, were the property of Mordor now, regardless.

[Meltithenniel]

Cadoc
Renown: 4


Cadoc just barely managed to keep himself from scowling at the hooded man (Mord, if he remembered correctly), who was busy screeching at the caravan of people to hurry up from his position on top of a horse. “Easy enough for you to say,” Cadoc grumbled, eying the horse with envy. “You’re on a horse. I wonder how much walking you did,” he continued, ignoring the fact that he himself was riding on a wagon, “and yet you keep yelling at the rest of us to walk. For shame!” Cadoc already had a low opinion of the man - why the man was obsessed with blondes when redheads were right there was an eternal mystery to Cadoc - which seemed to be vindicated with every step Mord took, regardless of what the man actually did. As for the rest of the members, Cadoc could not have cared less; but that was most likely because he spent the hot sunny afternoons when the caravan stopped for the Uruks away from everyone, napping away in a tree; and thus knew the names of no-one except for Mord and his well-built companion Borfang.

Borfang - that was a name Cadoc could never forget, belonging to a man who always seemed to loom in the corner of his mind. Perhaps it was because Borfang was, theoretically, the only one who could reign in the annoying Mord (not that it helped any, with how much Mord kept drooling over blondes) and thus earned Cadoc’s respect. Or maybe it was the fact that every time he walked by, Cadoc had the overwhelming urge to think incredibly foolish thoughts, like wonder if the man’s hair was truly as silky as it looked.

Such thoughts, sadly, were not limited to the waking world. Cadoc saw the man, once, in a dream. A strange dream, where everything was blindingly white save a blood-drenched Borfang, who was walking towards a sitting Cadoc (himself also covered in blood) sporting a smile that was sharp and strangely beautiful. Cadoc instinctively reached out towards the man, grasping at air, a feeling of desperation and adrenaline bubbling within him - he was close, just a hand’s-width away (from what, he did not know) - only to be cruelly woken up with a sharp thud as he tumbled out of a tree and into the gravelly river-bank below. (Needless to say, the fall was very painful, and to make matters worse left a jagged scar along his leg - a permanent reminder of the dream.) Cadoc couldn’t look at Borfang for the rest of the day - which meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, as the two had to have a single conversation despite all of Cadoc’s half-hearted (at best) efforts.

Alas, mooning over your superior (Cadoc was many things - a Dunlending, a coward, a cog in the grueling wheel of fate - but in denial he was not) was never a good workplace strategy, so Cadoc resigned himself to only leering at pretty redheads instead. (From a distance, of course. He wasn’t Mord, after all. Annoying mouse, sitting on his high horse with Borfang, thinking he’s better than all of us…)

Shaking his head, Cadoc pulled himself back into the present, which currently took the form of a groaning man. Cadoc barely made out a weak “no” coming from the corpse (who had, with that one word, successfully talked back more than Cadoc ever had in his life) over the creaking of the wheels and rattling of chains.

Great, thought Cadoc. The corpse talks back too. Just what I needed. Cadoc felt the beginnings of a headache starting to bloom. Technically speaking, of course, the injured man was not a corpse - as he just moaned out a quiet “no” and was very much alive, although how long that would be was still up for debate - but Cadoc elected to ignore that part of his brain in favor of taking out his anger on the miserable souls around him.

Why yes, carry on, his brain supplied, it’s not like violence will change the fact you’re still stuck here, anyways, just like the rest of them. Cadoc once again ignored his inner monologue, instead choosing to crouch down to the man’s level.

“Listen here, you can get up or I’ll throw you out. You’re taking up too much space and I don’t got all day.” He licked his parched lips, vaguely wondering when the next break would be. “And I’m not paid enough to babysit you. Just to babysit the food supply. Giving me all this work, being paid a pittance… Give all the food to poor Cadoc, he’s the poor fellow we hired…. Bet that’s all Mord’s doing too. That’s why you’re here, so I can throw you to the Uruks as food once you’re dead. Which means you’ll be my burden, more work for no pay. Rats, all of them,” ranted Cadoc, words coming out in a mumbled, furious whisper. “I’ll tell them what I truly think, one of these days!” (Had Cadoc said even a quarter of that to even the lowliest Uruk, he would have probably been either killed, or swiftly promoted to join the ranks of pillaging and destroying. Either option would, however, require the ability to speak one’s mind - a work in progress for Cadoc - and so he was doomed to guard over the food supply and nap in trees.)

All they do is give me more food to watch over… like this corpse, food for the Uruks… unless he’s alive, which means he’s no longer food… and thus no longer my problem… and I’ll have less things to guard…and less work…

Cadoc was suddenly struck with brilliant (and wholly questionable) logic. “That’s it! I know how I’ll show them,” he snickered, oblivious to his surroundings and talking entirely to himself. “You want to send more work my way? No way. I’ve had enough. Not gonna happen on my watch.” He smiled, eyes sharp and gleaming.

He poked at the man’s stomach. “Look here,” he started in a gravelly whisper, “I need you to live, got it? Better for the both of us if you do. So don’t give me an answer like “no” and hurry up and stand already. Unless,” he paused, looking at the man’s bloodied body, “you want me to patch you up a bit, so you don’t immediately die on me, or something.”

[Lady of Shadow]

Naelia
Renown: 5

The sun was not something Naelia had to worry about, since she wasn't an Orc, but her trusted Orcish helper, Orngor, had to. Not that he was participating in this little venture, but he advised the minioness on where Mordor's forces were planning on going next. It seemed they were headed to some villages in Rohan, and as Lathana recognized the lands of the Horsemasters (not that she travelled there much, but she thought this another opportunity to try and escape, but she would have to distract Naelia first):

"Where are we going?" she asked, not expecting much of an answer.

"I didn't ask you to speak, She-Elf," the minioness began, "but if you're planning another escape attempt when we pass through friendlier territory, you can forget it! You saw Drinch flying overhead, so if you attempt to try anything, he will alert Orngor, who is waiting close-by elsewhere, and you won't survive the attempt! You might find yourself the next prisoner to be thrown into a cage!" Naelia snapped, enjoying the look of horror on Lathana's face when she told her this.

On their journey north, the minioness noticed there was another prisoner that lost an eye, but unlike Lathana's (who's eye was totally gone, although parts of the socket were caked over with mud and soot and the like), this woman's eye was still hanging profusedly from it's socket. Naelia just shook her head at the attempt of some of the Free Peoples to try and escape their fate, instead of surrendering to it. Perhaps Mord mistook Lathana for this prisoner (probably because she was fair haired and also missing an eye) and that's who he really wanted? Not that it mattered now, but sometimes the minioness wished she wouldn't have intervened (though it was only so she herself could make Lathana's life more miserable than it already was), since she knew that it was only a matter of time before her nuisance of a half-sister tried escaping again, so she hoped her little speech put those useless thoughts right out of her head (but somehow, she doubted it, so she would have to keep a close eye on her. Luckily, she was able to take Drinch along, and she still had her trusty whip...)

Lathana

Lathana did see the other blonde that was almost missing an eye and was thinking along the same lines as her darker half-sister (that Mord might have mistaken her for this particular prisoner), but regardless of Naelia's little speech, her thoughts of escape and tracking down her real father continued to occupy the former Elven prisoner's mind.

She concluded that the reason he never looked for her was because he probably thought she was killed along with her mother (and Naelia's apparently). Although Lathana was determined to survive this little venture, every time the minioness shot her down (by whipping her to move faster or by a little speech that she just gave her), Lathana's hopes of survival continued to diminish: "What if this time, I don't survive this? I don't think I'll be brought back to life this time, since I'm pretty sure Naelia and her cohorts are getting pretty tired of my antics by this time."

The fair haired Elf (that was looking more like a drowned rat, since she had some bald spots due to Orngor pulling it on occasion to get her to co-operate while still imprisoned in the Black Pits, as well as being as caked with mud as her missing eye, or rather, it's socket) heard from this Mord character that the procession (or whatever you call a procession of very mean spirited individuals bent on world domination) was heading towards some villages in Rohan (or somewhere similar), so perhaps she can make her escape attempt there (maybe even the Horsemasters or Rohirrim or whatever Rohan's army was called, could even help her, but her hopes of escape were pretty low at this point, especially after the minioness' latest speech...)

[Winddancer]

Borfang and Mord
Renown 9

The sun slowly lightened the sky, making it easier to see their surroundings. Rolling fields of wild yellow grass could be seen all around them. And more importantly (to Mord at least), no sign of being pursued. However the lightening of the sky only lasted for around an hour, then it seemed as if it had changed its mind and was setting again. Dark heavy clouds rippled from beyond the horizon, as if Mordor had unleashed its evil and it was crawling across the dawning sky. For a few long moments, the sun tried to burn the clouds away, lighting the clouds on fire in a spectaular show of colours. Not that many saw, cared or paid attention. Except for Borfang who stared in wonder at the many hues of red.

"Storm coming!"

Mord's shrieky voice penetrated his mind like someone had hammered a nail into his skull and he winced in pain and scowled. Turning his gaze from the fading sunrise, to the heavy storm clouds that were rapidly devouring the light, his scowl deepened. While he was far from the brightest of the bunch, he did know that being out in the open like this when there was lightning, was a bad idea. The only shelter he could recall seeing was a couple of miles from here, though the question was now, could they make it there without getting hit.

"The caves.." he growled just loud enough that Mord would hear, his annoying companion smiling with relief.

"Oh yes!" As before, he bellowed out across the caravan, making Borfang wince as he picked up speed. "Shelter not far from here, pick up the pace!"

He had only just pierced the air with his screech as the first distant roll of thunder clapped, as if punctuating his yell. Even the wind played along as it picked up in speed, flapping hair and cloaks around and thankfully drowning out most of Mord's other orders as he rode down the line to get everyone to go faster.

Asmund

Under any other circumstance, Asmund would have recoiled away from the orc in the wagon who was leaning over him. However even if there was somewhere to go, he had no strength to move. A shaking hand moved to his shoulder, the pain from the brush of his fingers enough to make him want to throw up. A wave of dizziness followed, making it difficult for him to understand what the orc was saying, the only thing penetrating his fevered mind was that if he died he would be eaten.

Another wave of nausea rolled painfully through him, gripping at his guts and flinging them around. His mouth filled with saliva, yet he managed to swallow it, the bile burning at the back of his throat. His face had slowly gone a deathly pale, now tinged with a sickly green. He tried to move, to shift into a sitting position so that if he did throw up he could do it out of the cart, but each time he shifted, the pain from his shoulder made him cry out in pain, his stomach rebelling with each move.

The poke to his stomach came at the most inopportune moment and this time he did not manage to hold it back. He threw up in a gutwrenching heave, his body contracting painfully to expel the contents of his stomach. Stars danced in his vision as the contraction pulled on his shoulder, the pain only making his stomach contract again. A few drops of rain hit his pale sweaty face as he lost conciousness once more.

[The Good Hunter]

Uada had been lost in thought. It was not common for an uruk to daydream, in fact it was quite uncommon; uruks were not meant to have much imagination because imagination led to creativity, and creativity led to rebellious ideas. Uada, however, was not a common uruk. He enjoyed a good daydream, a good escape from the mundane horror of everyday life in an army of idiots all scrambling over one another for a rotten scrap of meat. He was part of that pile too, he knew, clutching at same rotten meat as everyone else. He was just better at it than all these others. He could see a little kingdom carved out of this fattened land, a kingdom that owed allegiance to him, not some human nitwit in an ivory tower. He could imagine these fertile fields lined with human slaves tilling and harvesting food to feed his army. He could imagine himself on a throne made of Tark shields, being attended to by this little blonde girl and a dozen other pretty little maidens. It was a good enough daydream to drown out all the chatter around him, all the crying, all the arguments. Mechanizing and manipulating, that was what it was going to take to get this cage full of meat all to himself. He was confident enough, none of the humans or the other orcs looked clever enough to do more than stick the humans with the pointy end of their spears.

“Storm coming!”

He grinned, looking up at the sky. Black clouds tore at the horizon like a nasty scar. The lightning was pink and blue, backlighting the clouds as if it was tear in the universe itself. Thunder, too, rumbled and echoed, bellowing like an angry aurochs. Uada did always love a good storm. This one was magnificent too. It wasn’t like the storms of Mordor, all tinted red and angry, rain nearly boiling as it came down and choked with ash. This was a thing of beauty, a picturesque rolling torrent of doom. Life was better out here on the plains of Rohan. Rage was so much purer out here, so much more vibrant. Mordor was malignant, like a cancer. Nothing had any life, even the storms. Out here though! He laughed, a good belly laugh. It was harsh and cacophonous, a croaking howl. It was glorious. And it was exactly what he needed. This storm was not going to pass quickly, and it was not going to go gently as it did. Even as he looked on, the clouds grew darker and darker and built on themselves until all the light began diminish, strangled by the tempest.

“You heard him,” he pointed at the captives pushing on the cart. They all looked exhausted; their limbs shook with weariness and they were streaked with ash, sweat, and blood. There was a hint defiance in them, the tiniest ember of a spark that wanted to resist. He grabbed one by the nape of his neck, a man that might have been a carpenter before all this began and threw him to the ground. “Get to the caves, or I’ll nail you to a cross out here and you can experience the storm the way your gods intended!” The man’s face went from defiant to broken. He landed hard on the ground and crumpled. A blast of thunder roared overhead, the wind began to pick up too, scattering leaves and dead grass in a dramatic display. “What say you, boy? Want to risk it?”

The man could not say anything, he tried to curl into the fetal position, hiding his face from Uada. The uruk pulled him back to his feet, yanking him up hard enough he nearly broke the man’s neck. He heard a snap and chuckled. “I didn’t think so. Now, all of you, toward those caves!” He pointed back at the gaping black maw a few miles off. “Pray you get there before the storm hits, otherwise it’s liable to get ugly for you all.”

--- * --- * --- * ---

She had been watching the clouds build long before her captors shouted about it. Either they weren’t observant, or there was some game about waiting until the last minute to find cover. Either was possible, it made her sick. There was some vague hope in her, that the storm would carry them all away and she could die in relative peace. Perhaps it was more a death wish masquerading as hope. Persephone didn’t know what she wanted. Of all the possibilities laid before her, none were going to lead to anything good. She remembered the storms of her youth, she and her older brother would make up stories about the battles going on inside the clouds, the forces of shadow against the forces of light. They would dramatically retell each bolt of lightning and each clap of thunder as if it were a cataclysmic struggle. Now, she was not sure there was ever a force of light. How could there be? And where was her brother? Was he in the village when it was attacked? She didn’t see him amongst the prisoners in her cage, she didn’t recognize anyone in here. How was that possible? How as it possible in a village of barely a hundred people? They all looked alien to her, faces streaked with grime and filth. She wiped at the tears, wincing when she wiped at the eye that had been ruined. The pain was shocking, she had to stifle a cry. That big orc scared her. There was something off about him, he looked like he’d just as soon kill her as look at her, and he did love looking at her. Every time he would look her way it felt like cockroaches crawling all over her. He wanted her for something, and it did not take much imagination to know what he wanted.

The storm looked like it was going to offer her some hope, a way out, an avenue of escape. Hope was a poisonous thing that way. As she watched it build, she could imagine escaping the confusion. Running and running and running. She didn’t even know where she would run; it didn’t matter. All that mattered was escaping these monsters. Yet, as the cage was turned toward a set of cave mouths etched into the rocks, that hope was strangled, or maybe it was hope that did the strangling. She bit down on her tongue, forcing herself to think on something else.

There was still a chance. There was still a chance. There was still a chance.

Something jabbed her in the side, a sharp pain radiated across her abdomen. Instinctively she yelped and pulled away. The man next to her, a tired old man with balding white hair shushed her harshly, his eyes as wide as the moon. He put a finger to his thin lips then pointed down. He had something in his hand. Her vision was blurry though. Something white, maybe? Pointed? Persephone squinted her good eye, trying to clear it up. It was a bone, the green fields knew where he’d gotten it, sharpened to a point. How had he snuck that passed the orcs? He nodded as if that was supposed to mean something. She looked at him, confused. His face changed from hopeful to annoyed in a flash. He snarled and muttered something under his breath she didn’t catch. He grabbed her hand and pushed the piece of bone into her hand. It was warm and moist. Every fiber in her body told her to drop the disgusting thing but she held on. She stared at the man who’d given it to her, pleading with her eyes for him to take it back and leave her be. He did not, though. Once he’d given her the shiv, he turned away from her, curling into as tight a ball as he could.

She looked at it for a moment, considering. Her eyes darted back up, searching for the orc, but he was in front of the cage now, barking and cursing at those unfortunate enough to have to pull the cart along. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her heart was nearly beating out of her chest. She slid the bone into her bodice. It felt slimy next to her skin, but it was a better feeling than that orc’s hand on her. Small sacrifices.

Renown: 22

[Romeran]

Baldir

The ropes around Baldir's wrists chafed, his lips were cracked and the lump in the back of his throat refused to swallow. None of them hurt as badly as the knife cut down his left arm. Baldir was only eleven, but when the raiders came to his farm and smoked out his family, he had picked up a hunting knife before running outside. The attackers herded them like wolves into their companions. The men that fought back were cut down on front of him. Baldir's courage wavered. A gruff hand came up behind him and grabbed him by the nape of the neck, the reek of the Uruk permeated Baldir's nose and he held back a gag. Tears came to Baldir's eyes and he desperately wished to call out for his mother or his father, but he neither saw nor heard them. Grim determination overcame him and he lashed out with the knife at his attacker.

"We've got a live one boys!" the beast exclaimed, narrowly dodging Baldir's strike. It drew blood but no more than a paper cut. The Uruk responded swiftly, backhanding Baldir across the temple dazing the boy to his knees. He crouched down and snatched at Baldir's wrists roughly, compressing until the child released his grip on the knife "I'll take that from you boy." The uruk grinned, or at least what looked as much like a grin as could be made, and darkness came over Baldir as he collapsed, face-first into the mud.

He awoke later, bound and tied to a cart. He was not inside the cart, having been determined as strong enough and unwounded enough to push the cart. The whips of his new masters stung and tears rolled freely down his cheeks as he pushed forward. Baldir tried to make sense of their captors, there seemed to be some men and orcs and each as dangerous looking as the last.

"Storm's coming!" Baldir heard and for a brief moment his heart leaped for his mouth was parched and he had not been able to swallow for most of the night, dark and cold though it had been. On his farm the rains were a double-edged sword, during planting season it was a plague delaying turning the soil and planting, but during the hot summer months it was a blessing. The feelings Baldir had on this storm, however, were unlike any before. Where were they taking him? What was his life going to be now? A slave? Baldir choked up and let out a whimper at the thought... a nearby Uruk (Uada), who appeared to be in charge of his cart, roughly threw the town carpenter to the ground and threatened him, Baldir tried not to listen but the vision of his father's friend nailed to a cross wouldn't leave him, even with his eyes closed. Baldir let out another whimper and followed the group to the cave.

[Meltithenniel]

Cadoc
Renown - 6

”Storm’s Coming!

Cadoc swore under his breath and hurried to pull out his cloak (or rather, his sad excuse of a cloak; the wool had clearly seen better days, and it was fraying along the edges). He wished the cart would move faster towards this supposed shelter - although a part of him doubted its existence. Or whether or not he would be allowed inside.

“Of course there would be a storm,” he grumbled, “can’t catch a break, can I.” In the back of his mind, he wondered if the storm was punishment for his earlier thoughts of feeding water to the prisoner, and act which could be interpreted as a half-hearted betray-

No! It’s completely within the bounds of my work, I’m only making sure I’m not being overworked. That’s not my fault. Anyone in his position would do the same thing, he reasoned. There was a limit to being treated no better than a dog. But still, the gnawing feeling remained in the back of his head. Or maybe it’s just the wind that’s giving me a headache… He shivered, bringing his cloak closer to himself. As soon as I get my paycheck, I’ll get a new cloak… perhaps made out of oil-cloth, like those worn by fishermen in Dol Amroth..

Cadoc recoiled in disgust as something wet splattered all over his shoes. He looked down and saw bile mixed with rainwater seep through the cart. Cadoc tamped down his own desire to vomit, slamming his hand against the cart wall. A splinter sliced through his palm; a slow drip of blood trickled down from the wound, mixing with the bile below.

“Who did this?” Cadoc snapped in irritation. “Why can’t you all sit quietly and make my job easier for once?” He groaned, rubbing his bloodied palm against his face. Through his fingers, he glared at the people in the cart. He pointed a finger towards a woman with a swaddled baby (Elspeth) accusingly. “Did your baby do it? Make sure it keeps its grimy hands to itself.”

Cadocglanced outside the cart, towards the black caves appearing ever closer. He suppressed a shiver and gripped his cloak tighter. What am I doing, getting scared? It’s not like I’m the one about to get sold... He didn’t like admitting it to himself, but Cadoc was first and foremost a coward. It was a miracle he survived this long, really - it is quite incredible what desperation can do to utterly destroy a man’s soul.

Cadoc crouched down towards the man and scrunched his nose at the vile smell. So that’s where the vomit comes from… Had Cadoc not despised children, he would have felt sorry for yelling at the woman.

“Look, we’re almost at the caves. Wake up, won’t you?” Cadoc noticed that the person’s face was turning an alarming shade of pale-green, like the color of spoiled meat. Cadoc widened his eyes in panic and let out a frustrated huff.

Great, he’s about to die. So much for that plan… In a last ditch effort, Cadoc reached for his water-flask (which was, of course, filled with hard alcohol - one had to pass the time some way or another). He opened the unconscious man’s mouth and liberally poured. Blood, alcohol, and some stray raindrops of the ever-approaching storm mixed in the man’s mouth. Cadoc snapped the man’s mouth shut, and hoped his workload didn’t increase. The caves couldn’t come soon enough.

[The Good Hunter]

Being brave was overrated. All Persephone wanted to do right now was curl into a ball so tightly that maybe she could disappear in some crack in the world. This was all just a nightmare. She was going to wake up and find she sleep through breakfast and lunch and that was going to be the worst of it. Her head throbbed, a pulsating reminder that there was nothing she could do here. She was trapped, unable to move, unable to escape, unable to cry. The bone shiv felt alien and uncomfortable next to her skin, it rubbed against her like a blister as the cage rocked back and forth. The rains were coming. She stared blankly out the roof of the cage at the purple and black clouds, a bruise against a darkening sky. It was ugly and horrible. Had storms always looked like this? Vaguely, somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered seeing storms as a little girl, huddling against her father’s broad, comforting chest when the lighting flashed across the sky and the thunder threatened to crack their roof open. Her father wasn’t here anymore, he hadn’t been here in a very long time. She was alone now, alone facing a far, far worse storm than she could have ever imagined.

She was very close to just shutting down, just staring blankly out at the world and retreat so far into herself that nothing and no one would ever be able find her. She could be with her family again. Her father, her mother, her two younger siblings, maybe even her next-door neighbors and their son, what was his name again? Baldir? Why shouldn’t she close off and let go? Supposedly, according to all the gleeman’s stories, elves could just let go and die if they wanted. In that moment, Persephone envied them. That was exactly what she wanted to do. A sob caught in her dry throat, coming out of as a sickly, weak cough instead. How long had it been since she’d had any water? Any food? It felt like both a thousand years and only just a moment since the orcs and men had descended on them, fires blazing. She was starting to lose bits and pieces of the events now. She couldn’t remember getting caught, just orcs, so many orcs, smoke and foul breath and tight ropes. She didn’t remember how she ended up in this cage either, she merely appeared there and that was that.

Someone began sobbing next to her, bringing her screaming back to reality. She sighed, deep and heavy. If she had any tears left, she would have burst into fights of crying again. But those tears were all gone, wasted watering the dry fields outside her village. She took her eyes off the oncoming storm, away from the behemoth swimming across the wounded sky. Who was sobbing? Who still had enough hope left to cry? She squinted, her head still pounding. He was across from her, a vast, fathomless gulf of a few feet. He was the only one making any sort of sound. She thought she recognized him. Was he the neighbors’ son? The throbbing pain in her temples made it hard to see clearly or to focus too long. Yes. Yes. It was…

“Baldir? Is that you?”

[Lady of Shadow]

Naelia
Renown: 6

"Storm's Coming!" someone shouted.

"Perfect!" Naelia thought to herself, hoping that Lathana didn't get any ideas that this was a good time to try and escape. Knowing Mord, he would try to capture as many blondes as possible before heading back to the Dark Land to turn Lathana back into a slave. "Serves her right for constantly trying to escape!" the minioness thought to herself, though she did admire the girl's determination to get back to friendlier lands. Most of the prisoners she dealt with were quite easy to break, but Lathana was beginning to test the minioness' patience. If she didn't start co-operating soon, she might just have to put her out of her misery. "And this time, she's going to stay dead!" Naelia thought to herself, getting out her whip when her nuisance of a half-sister tried to go in another direction.

"Stay in line with the procession, She-Elf!" the minioness cooed, almost sounding as wicked as one of the Nazgul (but not quite, she liked to use this tone of voice to get potential prisoners to co-operate).

Up above, Drinch began circling around the minioness and the only surviving family member she had on her mother's side as a kind of warning to Lathana... co-operate or I'll peck your other eye out!

Lathana

Lathana was contemplating running in the other direction when someone shouted the warning. But what kind of storm was it? the former Elven prisoner wondered. A storm of more nasty cruel minions like Naelia or an actual storm?

The Elven half-sister of one of the nastiest minions she'll ever know looked up to see that it was an actual storm, but she wouldn't be surprised if the Dark Lord himself conjured it up (since she knew that Naelia had no such powers, she was just a cruel follower) to put the prisoners' in a more foul mood then they already were.

When someone shouted the warning, Lathana took this as an opportunity to try and escape, but was stopped when Naelia snapped her nasty looking whip in the Elven prisoner's direction and warned her to stay in line with the procession. "How much longer is this torture going to last?" Lathana thought to herself, "And why wasn't I allowed to stay in Northern Mirkwood instead of sending me to live with the biggest monster I'll ever know?"

Just as she was thinking these thoughts, that small winged beastie of Naelia's that she liked to use in interrogations swooped down upon them, as if to warn her not to try anything. If she had a rock and threw it at him, how would her cruel half-sister react if she was actually lucky enough to put him out of commission, so to speak? Lathana wasn't sure she wanted to find out, and put the thought right out of her head. "Better not make my situation any worse than it already is, or else that creature might take out my other eye, which is almost just as bad as dying again, since I won't be able to see what Naelia might do to me."

[Romeran]

Daethir
Renown: 2

The unrelenting series of inane duties seemed never to end. This was hardly worth his time let alone his particular skill set. He was beginning to think that the duties were simply being assigned to him precisely because he would hate them and that they truly served no real purpose other than to punish him. Like digging holes and filling them back in again only not quite so obvious. He had to give his commanders credit for that, they certainly knew how to torture him. 'Monitoring' this rabble as they went on an absurd plan to capture slaves seemed entirely pointless, what exactly was he supposed to be monitoring?

So far they seemed normal enough, well as normal as a band of orcs, slavers and servants of Mordor get. The two men that seemed roughly to be in charge were a typical sort, not very interesting if you asked Daethir. There was what appeared to be an elf or at least elf-kin (Naelia) and, if he had heard correctly a captured an elven half-sister of hers. How curious, he thought. He hadn't initially expected the minioness to be an elf but she had specifically said 'half-sister on my mother's side' to that fool Mord. So that was interesting, at least, he made a conscious decision to monitor the two elf-kin sisters.

The weather was turning, Daethir could sense it in the change in humidity before the call had been made out. He grimaced, Daethir never liked the rain much, at least they would be making for shelter. What Daethir found particularly irritating about his current position is that he had absolutely no authority to order anyone around. This was particularly irritating for Daethir who was so used to the privileges his previous diplomatic officer rank granted him. He decided to take it out on a young boy (Baldir) who was practically crying at the impressively gruesome threat by Uada. Daethir kicked the child with the bottom of his muddy boot in the back as he walked up to him "You heard what he said, get to the caves" he reiterated. The boy let out a whimper.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Baldir

Miserable was an insufficient description of Baldir's current state. He wanted to be anywhere but here. Even the worst day at the schoolhouse had been better than this. He almost missed learning how to read. Baldir would read every book that was ever written, he promised, if that's what it took to get out of this horrible situation. His eyes were raw from the tears but his throat was dry from lack of water. A cruel foot struck him from behind and he fell into the mud as the grim-faced and hooded man shoved him to the ground. Baldir whimpered again and crawled a few feet forward before standing up, trying to avoid a reprisal kick while he was knocked down, he knew that these men and orcs would laugh at such abuse.

The caves were not too far, but Baldir had actually hoped it would start raining before they would get there, at least he might have tasted rain water to wet his parched mouth. But there was no such luck, Baldir was beginning to think there would never be luck again, never be hope again. They had shoved him in one of the cages now that they were in the cave. They probably thought, with nothing for them to push or pull, that one of the captured slaves might make a run for it now that they were sitting around. Baldir supposed that they were right, if given the chance, he might have tried.

Visions of his parents came to Baldir as he closed his eyes. At first happy ones, he saw his parents smiling and he remembered planting with his father. But each time he tried to remember something happy he just saw them being cut down, everyone being killed or taken. The visions haunted him. He cried. Tears that had not come before flowed freely now that he was not toiling on the road to distract himself. Baldir was so thirsty he wished he could catch his tears.

A familiar voice called his name, he thought he was day-dreaming, he wanted to be dreaming, playing with his friends. But the voice was not happy, it was desperate, quiet, pained, like him. It was Persephone he realized. "Persephone? yes.." he said weakly between sobs "it's me..."

[Aranadhel]

Nimruzîr

The Black Numenorean of Umbar looked on unimpressed at the sky that had opened itself to shower the earth with its water. Water. He managed a wry smile. He'd missed the sight and sound of the Sea. Being on land and seeing the forests and mountains from afar for awhile now had somewhat made him uneasy on the inside.

He turned around to look at his allies and their captives, his eyes flashing angrily at the obstinate looking Elves, one of them at least looked like the Firstborn, if he'd remember the stories told from his mentor six decades earlier. Until now he kept asking himself what sort of punishment he'd gotten himself into, being commanded to accompany these mismatched grotesque beings to raid the people of what was known to him as the land of the golden haired Men.

As a Ranger of Umbar, he pride himself with knowing every inch of the coastline but here everything felt alien. Even being based in Mordor gave him the chills yet he endured for the sake of his family back home. He blocked out the grumblings and the noises behind him as he raised his hood and stood guard.

[Lady of Shadow]

Naelia
Renown: 7

As Naelia was getting her nuisance of a half-sister in line, she noticed another minion, someone she failed to notice before. By the looks of him, he looked like another Black Numenorean, possibly from Umbar, since he didn't seem to be very comfortable with his given situation.

"Finally, another Black Numenorean like myself!" the minioness thought to herself, though in reality, she was only part Black Numenorean, since she was the product of one and a Mirkwood Elf, her late mother. Since the only Elven feature that could be seen (if she allowed it, which she didn't, which is why she wore her curly black hair long, to hide this feature) was the points of her ears, she often kept this part of her heritage hidden, so that nobody would know that she wasn't a true Black Numenorean (luckily she looked more human than Elven, so this wasn't much of a problem). Minutes after the minioness was born (though where she was actually born was still up for debate, since her late mother often got into trouble with the Dark Powers, due to her ongoing curiosity) her father covered the tops of her ears with a cloth of fabric ripped from a discarded rag that was nearby (since there was no way he would have used cloth from her late mother's Elven clothes).

The minioness left the newcomer to his own thoughts for the moment when Drinch swooped down when Lathana tried to go in a different direction when Naelia was distracted.

"Don't you get any of those crazy escape attempt ideas in that head of yours, She-Elf!" the minioness snapped, since even a single distraction would cause her nuisance of a half-sister to try once again to get free.

With the approaching storm (which may have been conjured up by Sauron himself in a effort to keep the prisoners' mood hopeless instead of hopeful, but Naelia was just speculating on whether the oncoming bad weather was natural or conjured up by some of the big bosses higher up), it seemed that Mord and some of the others were heading for shelter until the bad weather (wherever it originated from) passed, but she would still have to keep a close eye on Lathana...

Lathana

When her cruel half-sister was distracted when she noticed another minion of similar heritage that she didn't notice before, Lathana did try to go in another direction in an attempt to get to friendlier lands once again, if it weren't for that confounded creature of Naelia's that would swoop down every time the former Elven prisoner would even so much as stumble. "It looks like my hopes of survival are pretty dire at this point." she thought to herself, but the oncoming storm wasn't helping matters much.

It seemed she was being led to some sort of shelter until the storm passed. "I wonder if this confounded creature of Naelia's will come too?" Lathana thought to herself, but since Drinch was keeping close to both her and Naelia, there was a good chance that he would. If only the newcomer would have been a Ranger that was one of the "Faithful" instead of another minion from another land (probably Umbar by the looks of him), the battered former prisoner would be able to become hopeful once again. With more and more minions and those loyal to the Dark Lord arriving by the minute, there was a good chance that Lathana wouldn't see friendlier lands for quite some time (if ever)...

[The Good Hunter]

Just when he thought there was no one of any level of intelligence on this mission, the uruk heard a voice he recognized. No. No, that couldn’t be right. He’d been killed or something, punished for losing his legion’s standard. The last word Uada had heard was he’d been executed. He tried to strain his ears over the sound of the rumbling thunder and the moans and groans of the slaves. That voice, the accent, it was unmistakable. That would teach him to listen to rumors. He grinned, a deep, sinister and sanguine gash in the middle of his face, one of the slaves that groaned and wailed. He slammed the side of the cage with a fist, sending a clanging reverb through the rest of the iron bars. There was a collective gasp and whimper from the people inside. “Be quiet you lot of mewling wagtails! The next little piggy to make a sound loses their tongue!” he hissed.

How had he missed Daethir among the members of the raiding band? A better question, perhaps, was what in the blazing hells was the man doing here in the first place? The Viper’s Tongue on a raiding mission? Uada snorted, maybe this was worse than execution. Having to spend time amongst the nasty unwashed would have been tantamount to a living death for men like him. Uada didn’t blame him, the moment he could get out of the infantry and into a position more suited his talents, he was never looking back. He cast his eyes on the slaves again, these miserable bunch of drowning rats were going to serve him quite well in getting that position. A slave greased the palms of promotion better than gold and rare wine. Clean them up, break their spirits, and this lot would make a decent bargaining chip. He caught her eye again. They would all make good bargaining chips but her. She was staying with him.

They were almost to the cave now. Just in time too, the rains started falling. It was cool, almost cold as it began to pour down his face. The winds began to pick up too, howling like a horde of wraiths coming down from the sky to participate in the Wild Hunt. Overhead, a blue streak of lightning tore across the sky, blinding him for half a second before spots shining blackness filled his vision. The accompanying boom seemed to come from all around him, the ground itself felt as though it came unmoored from the foundations of the world. For a single heartrending moment, Uada felt as though he might lose his grip and fall into the sky. When the moment passed, his anger flared up. No one had seen his moment of panic, but that did not make him any less wrothful for allowing it to happen. He grabbed the nearest slave through the bar around his neck, some scrawny pimple faced boy looking out with a blank, waxlike face, and slammed him against the bar. Had he said anything? It didn’t matter. “I told you what would happen!” he roared, his voice twisting into an atavistic snarl. The boy was stunned, his eyes looked glazed over, like whatever spirit was inside him was dead and rotting. Uada forced his chin back, spread his mouth open with two thick fingers, grabbed the boy’s tongue, and pulled. He pulled and pulled until the boy’s life came roaring back to him. They struggled for a moment, but the boy’s strength was nothing compared the to uruk’s. The tongue was a bloody stump, it wriggled in Uada’s hand. It made him feel better.

--- * --- * --- * ---

Persephone didn’t know if it was relief or horror that washed over her. Those two had become oddly similar in the last few days. It was Baldir. It was. She should feel better, and for a moment, she did, but soon the feeling of helplessness returned in full force. Did no one escape? Did no one get out to get the word out? Green fields and hills, there was nothing anyone could do now was there? She wanted to cry. She wanted to cry but her single, remaining eye refused. At least, at least she wasn’t alone. It was a selfish thought, the most selfish thought she’d ever had. She wasn’t alone in her suffering, there were others around her just as miserable and terrified. Did that make her feel any better? She didn’t want an answer to that question. It made her sick to her stomach that such a thought could even exist in her head. She bit her lip, hard. She bit down until blood began to flow and her mouth was filled with the taste of copper. She didn’t stop though, she kept on biting down until she could almost feel the shredding of the muscle. She happened to look up at just the wrong moment, just at the moment that he looked at her. She released her hold on her lip and felt the urge to run at him and beat him. He was the cause of all this. He was the one to blame. He was the one she wanted to hurt. Whatever guilt she felt running through her was scorched away, set aflame and released. There was nothing left but anger. Anger and the need for revenge. It didn’t matter how she got it or what happened after, as long as she got it. She drew in a shaky breath and stared back at him, matching his gaze moment by moment until he looked away, his attention broken by the flash of lightning overhead. She barely recognized that it had happened. She was so busy staring at the orc that nothing around her existed. She watched him stumble and flinch at the sound of the thunder. Darkly, she grinned.

The moment of triumph, however; was very short lived. Immediately he grabbed a boy’s head, some boy she didn’t recognize, not Baldir, and ripped out his tongue in a single, horrifyingly prolonged moment. She tried to force herself to move, tried to force herself to come to the boy’s aid and attack the giant brute with her bone shiv. But the more she tried to will herself forward, the more she found herself rooted to the spot. Persephone couldn’t move. She, like all the others in the cage, had to watch as it happens, helpless and blind baby rabbits. Horror and revulsion hit her in waves. She retched, but there was nothing in her stomach but acid. She coughed and grabbed the nearest thing she could, it just happened to be Baldir’s hand. She squeezed. She squeezed as tightly as her remaining strength allowed. She forced her eyes open, looking at the poor boy. “We will make it out of this Baldir. I don’t know how, but I promise you, I promise you, we will get out of here. We have to, we have to.”

Renown: 28

[Winddancer]

Borfang and Mord
Renown 10

The wind was merciless out here on the open grassy fields. It ripped at cloaks, pulled on hair and made moving forward all the harder as it seemed as if the wind was trying to prevent them from getting to safety. Whether or not the storm was in collusion with Sauron himself could not be determined, the speed with which definitely had several wondering of it's origin. But if nothing else, it drowned out the annoying voice of Mord. Rolling his shoulders in, the giant of a man leaned forward as he effortlessly strode against the wind, eyes turned towards the ground so as to not get the rain in his eyes.

A small smile played on Borfang's lips as lightning broke the sky in two, a tremendous clash of thunder so loud it hurt his ears and startled Mord's horse. With a panicked whinny, the horse reared in fright and unceremoniously dumped the detestable man in a large puddle. Borfang did not halt, pretending not to have seen as Mord cried out in alarm and cowered away from the horse to avoid being trampled and instead lead the convoy towards the caves himself. As much as he had relished the sight, he knew that horse was now doomed and would likely serve as dinner tonight.

Thankfully it was closer than he had recalled and soon the huge boulders and rock formations appeared in the rainy gloom, the lightning striking as if to dare them not to go near. But Borfang was not supersitious and pulling on one of the terrified horses that pulled a cart, he directed it towards the caves.

One such cave was huge enough that every single person, cart and horse could get inside. It was not suitable for living in long term, the wide open mouth of the cave letting in the wind and the rain. However it provided safety from the lightning, one which struck a tree and lit it on fire as if signalling to them all that it was not to be trifled with.

Asmund

Had the orc just poured water down his throat, Asmund would have died drowing on a liquid he couldn't swallow. However the homebrewed alcohol that was enough to knock a regular man out with it's strength, burned so hotly in his throat that he coughed in reflex. However with his mouth being shut by the orc, the liquid shot out his nose, the alcohol burning it's way through his nostrils and rudely bringing him back to conciousness. With his weakening strength he managed to roll to his uninjured side, hacking and coughing the rest of the liquid out of his lungs.

As the cart entered the cave, providing some shelter from the elements, Asmunds struggling cough reverberated through the space with an eerie echo that made most of the horses even more uneasy and making it harder for those handling them to calm them down again.

"Shut that one up before the horses trample us all!"

[Romeran]

Daethir
Renown: 12

The longer he spent among the rabble that constituted this raiding party the more he realized that the order he had been sent here on was indeed simply digging a hole and filling it back in again. On the one hand, Daethir was angry as this was a gross waste of his time and he begrudged the commander for using him this way even though it may have suited his official rank perfectly well. But on the other hand, realizing that one’s mission is fairly irrelevant frees one to engage in more entertaining activities.

During the raid itself, Daethir had stayed out of the fighting, if you could call slaughtering farmers and villagers a fight, not because he felt that it would be a challenge but rather that he did not dignify it with his blade. The attackers had plenty advantage without him and they wouldn’t notice his absence. Instead he had stood aside in the shadows simply observing. In their furor and bloodlust none of them had noticed his lack of participation, as he had expected.

The cave that they found themselves in was surprisingly large and they managed to gather up the prisoners and cage them within the cave. Daethir had offered some minimal assistance in corralling the prisoners whenever those who outranked him looked his way. Daethir would have to go out of his way to irritate the de-factor leaders of this ‘band’ before any of them would actively complain about him to his commander so he decided that he might as well relax.

In what seemed to be a classic display of violence, Uada removed the tongue of a captured farm boy. Daethir grinned evilly. Daethir hadn’t remembered this particular orc’s name until someone else had mentioned it during the raid but he had seemed familiar and once he heard the name he was sure that he had encountered this orc before, although Daethir still found it challenging to tell many of them apart. “As vicious as ever” he said in a complementary tone to the orc. Daethir was sitting idly in a rock nearby shadowed in darkness, his cowl was pulled up over his head as was his wont. The lightning strike had disturbed many of the members of the cavern but Daethir had learned long ago to withhold any emotion and even his own reactions were muted to most environmental factors.

As some of the prisoners looked over to see where the voice in the darkness had come from, Daethir had conveniently removed his dagger and was sharpening it menacingly with a whetstone. He had not taken part in the fighting and the edge was already razor sharp, but he did it to remind the prisoners that they would get no sympathy from their captors.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Baldir

The crack of the lightning struck and Baldir found himself frozen in paralysis at the sudden sound. The boom of the thunder which followed echoed in the cave. The shaking of the ground was so violent that Baldir thought the very cave itself would fall in killing them all but it did not. Baldir sat there paralyzed with fear but glad at least that he had Persephone at least. Baldir wondered whether it was fair that he was glad to have someone that he still knew even if it meant that she had to share his fate.

Eventually he decided that it wasn’t something that was worth worrying about. It was hardly as if it was in his power to do anything about it and so he decided that he would simply be glad not to be alone.

Either the lighting had startled the orc or it was simply an unnecessary show of power but the same orc which had earlier terrified Baldir with his threats of crucification grabbed the boy who had sat next to Baldir moments ago and pulled his tongue completely from his mouth. Baldir let out a silent scream, his body having not the energy to make a sound, a fact which may likely have saved his life. He wished that the cave had actually fallen on them and killed them all. A voice from the darkness and a wicked man sharpening a blade drove home the point that none present were going to stop the orc from inflicting whatever acts of violence it saw fit on the prisoners.

When Persephone spoke and promised that they would escape, Baldir looked over at her weakly. Eyes that would have welled up in tears if they had still the water to do so looked at her painfully. “I hope so…” he said weakly but he did not believe it.

[Pele Alarion]

Ceri

Being small had worked well for Ceri before, and she had often managed to sneak into places and snatch some food almost unnoticed, and she wondered whether it would be good for her now as well. Just a small kid among a cartload of all sorts of people who mostly towered over her and threatened to squish her every time the cart hit a rock or a hole in the road. She could not see anything but backs - or bound hands - around her, and she seemed to be too insignificant for any of the captors to take note of her. Paying no heed to all the shouting and groaning around her, Ceri kept on working the ropes around her wrists on some steel part of the cart, her fingers had determined it to be the head of a screw or nail, or something like that. She kept her movements slow and small so as not to draw attention.

As if all the trouble was not enough, she discerned the shouts about approaching storm, and sooner rather than later it was upon them. The bodies of the other people around her served as some protection from the gusts of wind and some rain, but still the girl shivered. When they had reached the cave, it provided for some roof as well, and she found herself protected from rain coming down straight on her head. Echoing thunder caused her to cower even more in fear, and she found herself pressing up against an unknown woman next to her even more than she had before. Not daring to look up, she sat shivering, and then resumed her weak attempts at trying to cut the rope.