Cirith Ungol: The Cleft of the Spider

[Dungeon Delver]

The Cleft of the Spider
Original art by the Brothers Hilderbrandt

"The whole city was falling back into a dark brooding shade, and silence. Yet still it was filled with watchfulness."
- The Stairs of Cirith Ungol, The Two Towers

Cirith Ungol is a place of creeping dread, a dead citadel in a haunted pass. Originally build by Gondor after the War of the Last Alliance as a guard against the forces of Mordor as a part of the defenses of Ithilien, the watch tower hides horrible secrets that fill men and orc alike with terror. The original fortress was abandoned by Gondor as it was forced to look within its own borders in TA 1640 and the ever-enterprising legions of orcs and goblins seized the fortress for their own purposes, turning it from a defensive guard to an offensive outpost. The cleft is high and difficult to reach, those the tower of Cirith Ungol is sparse in its amenities, a true frontier fortification. There is a garrison of orcs stationed there, ready to leap at the call of their masters, but that is not what make the pass so terrible.

Cirith Ungol means the Pass of the Spider. Within the immeasurable tunnels that delve in and out of the Ephel Dúath, sits a great spider, the last child of Ungoliant, Shelob. The uruks may be the ones to command the tower, but it is her that commands the pass, and she suffers no fools within her realm save by her leave, and that she does not give often. She is ancient and filled with a hungry malice. No creature that steps within her web-choked tunnels is safe. She is an all-knowing mistress and is always eager to for the hunt. It is perilous to enter the domain of the great arachnid monster, even if she should forget the meals she wraps within her dreadful, eldritch silks, none dare to interfere with Her Ladyship’s affairs. Shelob and Sauron have a somewhat symbiotic relationship, a mutually beneficial deal, but such a thing must never be mistaken for an alliance. Shelob is a child of the unlight and remembers the betrayal of her mother by the Morgoth Bauglir and nurses a thirst for revenge. She is patient and she is unkind. She is wise and she is hungry.

The Tower of Cirith Ungol stood against the eastern mountain face of the Ephel Dúath, looking down between the Ephel Dúath and the Morgai and on the plateau of Gorgoroth. The turret was supported by three great tiers with pointed bastions that stood on a shelf in the mountain-wall far below and looked north-east and south-east into Mordor. The lowest tier was encircled by a thirty feet high wall with overhanging battlements that enclosed a narrow-paved courtyard. The main gate on the south-eastern side of the wall opened to a road that ran along a southward bend and down to join the road that came over the Morgul Pass while a narrower path led down from Cirith Ungol by steep stairs to meet the road at the gate. In the gate were the Two Watchers, monstrous sculptures housing malevolently vigilant spirts. At the end of a passage was a great arched door that was the inner side of the Undergate, on its was a winding stairway that led to the upper levels of the tower. The top of the stairs was covered by a domed chamber leading out onto the flat roof of the third tier of the tower. On the western side of the roof stood the turret of the tower whose top rose high above the crest of the hills behind the tower, visible from below on the western side of the mountains. Another winding stairway inside the turret led up to the first and second story of the turret. In the ceiling of the passage a trapdoor led to the middle of the floor of a large round chamber at the top of the tower.

Outside, in the courtyard is a deep well fed by an artesian spring, a weapon storeroom, a guardroom, stables for the horses or goats or whatever manner of steed, and a training ground for new recruits. Within the fortress are myriad storerooms, kept under lock and key, and barracks for the rank and fill orcs with mess halls, smokehouses, granaries, and kitchens. Within the first tier are the remnants of a Gondorian bath house fed by hot springs. The hot springs have dried up, but the bath houses are still in use by the Uruk officers and honored guests of the fortress. The second tier holds barracks and quarters for the officers and higher up officials or those given special permission. At the very top of the second tier is an old chapel, built by the Gondorians to remind them why they were there, despoiled, desecrated, and ransacked by the orcs and replaced with crude figures (both literally and figuratively) of their masters as a sign of their devotion.

The day-to-day administrations and running of the fortress are handled by Shagrat an ancient and capable uruk, but it was one of the Nine, the one known only as Dawndeath, that held the nominal title of Lord of Cirith Ungol and took credit for the successes.

[A list of locales (with descriptions) within the Tower of Cirith Ungol and the Pass itself will be added as they are imagined/plotted]

Torech Ungol - Endless and myriad, the Tunnels of the Spider contains unspeakable and unknown horrors. It's not known how deep into the mountain they go or how many there are, all anyone knows is that they are covered in spider webs and a haunting fear. Occasionally troops of orcs are sent into the tunnels to retrieve the fallen items of their comrades or to give prisoners as gifts to their arachnid overlord
The High Stairs - Dangerous and steep, the High Stairs are the pass by which all trade or messages are sent from Cirith Ungol to Imlad Morgul, many lives have been lost due to slippery rocks or a well timed shove
The Training Grounds - where many of the uruks, goblins, and trolls are trained to be able to use a sword, spear, or axe; along the walls are the skulls of those that failed to impress their commander and were punished accordingly
The Bathhouses - built by the absconded Gondorians, the bathhouses are where many informal meetings take place between leaders, or where many plots are hatched by the lower ranking officers, enlisted are not allowed inside
The Cells - a prison cut into the lower levels, each cell has a hole cut into the wall that leads to Torech Ungol, many prisoners disappear with only a trace of cobweb
The Storerooms - the place where all the dry goods are kept, along with secret stores of alcohol, the guards can be bought for the right place, either to hide contraband or sell it
The Barracks - where all the enlisted orcs and snaga are forced to live, cramped, uncomfortable and virtually without privacy, they are packed in like sardines in a can
The Scriptorium - a little used place where orcish propaganda and religious texts are copied and disseminated, also the records of each commander is kept here
The Commander's Chambers - Shagrat's personal quarters, complete with its own storeroom, kitchen, latrine, and library

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[Dungeon Delver]

Web Development
Torech Ungol
(Private)

The clarion call came early, before even the glimmer of ruddy light bloomed in the ash laden sky. Aurbash awoke with a start, shaken out of a dream that might have been pleasant, had he remembered anything of it the instant he was forced back into the waking world. The Barracks were abuzz with activity, every orc and goblin were out of their beds, scrambling to get dressed and ready for roll call. It took Aurbash a moment realize what was going on. He sat dumbly in his bed, staring at his bunkmate as he pulled on ratty looking armor, twisted it about, then twisted it back. It was ill-fitting, too small, but it was all he had.

“What are you doing? Didn’t you hear the call? Get your ass out of bed and get ready for roll call!” his bunkmate’s voice was grating, like the endless, tuneless clinking of coins.

“Murgle fmrugh…” he said in response.

His bunkmate, short but broad of chest, stared at him the way a hungry man stares at the offer of a book. “What the ever-loving… Get you moron! The Sergeant will be here soon and I’m not getting punished because you’re in the middle of having a stroke.”

Aurbash finally made sense of what was happening, why the Barracks suddenly looked like a kicked ant hive. His eyes widened and he burst out of bed, moving with such speed and agility that one might think his ass was aflame. He slammed his head once, twice again the bed post as he tried to get dressed, nearly losing his balance at least once before he was properly dressed. His bunkmate was glaring at him with arms crossed over his broad chest. “You disappoint me,” was all he said, shaking his head. Aurbash thought about throwing something at him. He was several inches taller than his bunkmate and faster, but by the time he resolved to do something, his opponent was already out the door and Aurbash was left alone in a very suddenly quiet Barracks.

He rushed out, falling in line with the very last members of his unit. They filed out onto the training grounds and stood at attention. They stood as another clarion call sounded over the battlements, echoing harshly against the grey and black stones of the tower. They waited, stood, and waited some more. Not a single orc, Aurbash included, dared to move or speak. There was hardly even the sound of breath amongst the new unit. Aurbash did take the chance to look around. He expected to see a dozen units, the entire garrison of Cirith Ungol, but the Training Ground was empty save for the newest unit: his.

They’d transferred here from patrolling the Ered Lithui for the last nine months. Having a bed and a roof rather than a tent and a bedroll was a strange luxury for Aurbash, who only joined the army because his tribe forced him to join. He wasn’t brave, or foolhardy; he wasn’t strong, of body or mind; he wasn’t particularly good at following orders, despite being told what to do his entire life. There was nothing special about him, he was the perfect banal, mundane example of an orc. His eyes weren’t sharper than the rest, his ears were just as decent as any other orc, his sense of smell was deadened by years of living in norther Mordor where ash and smoke were ever present. It was exciting, going to Cirith Ungol. He’d never seen any of the fortresses of Mordor, not even the Morannon or the Dark Tower. He signed up at an auxiliary outpost and immediately sent to this unit, the Crow-Bashers they called themselves, and patrol. He didn’t hate the military life, but he didn’t love it either. He didn’t know how he felt about it, if he stopped long enough to actually think about it. He didn’t like to think about those kinds of things though, the more he thought about it, the more he realized he wasn’t suited for any sort of life, military or otherwise.

How long were they going to wait? Aurbash, still standing at attention along with the rest of his unit, was getting tired. The initial shock of the clarion had pushed him to get out of bed and into a uniform, but it was wearing off and the creeping fingers of exhaustion were taking a hold of his throat once more. Just as his eyelids started to get oversaturate with the lull of sleep, the Sergeant burst through the doors of the keep and shouted in a voice that could only be described as thunder and turkey. Aurbash was so startled by the sudden sound and movement he nearly yelped.

“Is this the sorry lot that Mordor sent us? Surely not? Surely, they meant to send us a unit of headless chickens! They would be more organized and orderly than this pathetic lot!” The Sergeant was in everyone’s face, his volume not decreasing a decibel as he moved from orc to orc. He was a huge uruk himself, brawny, hairy, with eyes as sickly yellow as the moon.

“The Crow-Bashers you call yourself? More like Crow-fredegar. I’ve served in the Black Host nearly my entire life and I have never, never seen such a pathetic group of lobster assholes in all my life! You call yourselves orcs? I’ve seen uglier looking dwarves!” He stopped to yell directly in Aurbash’s face. “Am I boring you, soldier?”

Aurbash’s face went slack, and his eyes started to bulge out of his head. “No, no, not at all sir. No.”

“No? Well then stand up!” without warning, Aurbash received a punch to the gut. Pain radiated out in skittering spirals. He nearly slumped over. ‘I said stand up!” another punch to the gut, this one harder. Aurbash did his best not to double over in pain. He coughed, then stood up as straight as he could. “There, was that so hard solider?”

He gulped. “No, no sir. I—"

“I don’t care, solider!” the Sergeant shouted back at him. “I don’t care what’s too hard for you, I don’t care if your feelings are hurt or if your bones are broken. This is Cirith Ungol! We don’t have soft beds and silk sheets like they do in the Morannon. We don’t have roast chicken and spiced wine. We’re the hard workers, the real laborers. If you want soft, go plead at the gates of the White City and maybe they’ll give you a bucket of slop before they chop off your head.”

He moved on, shouting at other members of the unit. Aurbash did his best to listen but ignore him. He saw movement above him, along the causeway. A shadowy figure, taller than the rest of the uruks at Cirith Ungol and dressed in better fitting armor. Commander Shagrat, he thought, it had to be the Commander. He watched dismissively as the Sergeant continued to berate and belittle the orcs that had arrived. Aurbash was filled with a desire to please his commanders, a feeling he’d never had before. He wanted so desperately to prove that he belonged here. He resolved to be awake before reveille every morning, to be the first in the training yard, to be the best swordsman he could be. He had no idea what was coming over him. Never in all his years had he cared about doing anything other than the minimum to get by. He wanted to be different, all of the sudden. He wanted to be praised. He could see it, the harder he worked the more like he was to get a commendation from Commander Shagrat himself, a letter of marque, a medal of distinction, maybe even a commission as an officer!

“Dismissed!” the Sergeant shouted. The unit broke and scattered in a dozen different directions. Aurbash suddenly was pulled back to reality, the vision of being given an officer’s sword melted fast.

“Not him,” came a booming baritone voice from above. “I want to talk to that one.” Aurbash’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest. Commander Shagrat! He wanted to speak to him! Commander Shagrat had already noticed him!

He was led up to the parapet where the Commander had a view of the training grounds and the outside slope of the mountains. He was watching something below as Aurbash approached.

“Aurbash, reporting as ordered, sir!”

The onyx skinned uruk looked up and looked him over, inspect him the way a butcher inspects the prized cow. “Aurbash, you said?” he asked without looked the orc in the face.

“Yes, yes sir.”

“And where exactly do you hail from, Aurbash?” he asked, still not looking the orc in the eye, rather still inspecting him.

“I, uh, I’m from the Ered Lithui, from the Marzgurum tribe, sir.”

“Hmmm,” came the Commander’s response. “I thought the tribes of the Marzgurum were larger. Are there no uruks among your people yet?”

“I...” Aurbash was taken aback. “I don’t know sir. I suppose there must be, somewhere.”

“Hmmm,” was all the Commander said again. He finished his inspection of Aurbash and looked back down the battlements, toward the pock marked mountainside. “You see those, Aurbash?” he pointed to the holes, yawning voids with inky black darkness dripping from them.

Aurbash moved to get a better look. “Aye, sir. I see them.”

“And you know what made them? Why this place is called Torech Ungol?”

“Ahhh, yes?” Aurbash said, hopeful.

“Hmmm,” Commander Shagrat’s favorite word. “Well, in that case, I have a special mission for you, Aurbash of the Marzgurum. Each month or so we make an offering to Her Ladyship to keep the peace. This month, I want you to deliver the offering and make the sacrifice. Do you think you’re up to that task?”

A way to impress the Commander! Aurbash had to suppress a smug grin at the thought of rising above his stupid bunkmate and his noxious attitude. “Yes sir!”

There was a ghost of a smile across the Commander’s face and a glint in his eyes. “Well then, report to the kitchens and meet at the gates in half an hour.”

[Dungeon Delver]

Web Development
Torech Ungol
(Private)

Aurbash ran to the kitchens faster than he’d run anywhere before. The Commander had given him a task! The Commander! Ha! He was really rising up in the world now! Aurbash was a very prideful orc, despite being a very slothful one, and probably gluttonous (what orc didn’t love their food though), and wrathful (but again what orc wasn’t), envious, sure, sure, greed, probably, lust, well yeah of course. Okay so he was an avowed followed of what the Gondorians would call all seven of the “deadly sins”, but didn’t that just mean he was virtuous? Anything the Tarks considered “sinful” was in truth virtuous, right? Whatever, morality and ethics weren’t Aurbash’s strong suit, and he didn’t really care that much about philosophy. He’d only read about it in some book left over from a Tark occupation. Well, read might be a stretch, Aurbash wasn’t big on reading, not when there weren’t pictures to go along with what he was reading. Whatever, whatever, it was all a moot point because he arrived at the kitchens, puffing like a bellows. He stopped to catch his breath in front of one of the head cooks who didn’t even bother looking up from whatever terrifying concoction they were brewing up and calling “lunch”.

“I need,” he said between gasps for air, “to get the meat for— sacrifice— spider.”

The cook didn’t stop what they were doing, but they looked up and looked down to Aurbash, still gasping for air after the dead sprint he’d made from the tower gates to the kitchens. “You’re here for the sacrifice?” they said at last, after seeming to bore holes in Aurbash’s face. The way they spoke was odd, they lingered on the last word of the sentence like it meant something more. He shrugged it off.

“Yes, yes, Commander Shagrat hisself said I am to be the one to deliver the offering to the alter, probably gonna have to perform some ritual, eh?”

The cook pulled the ladle from the pot and came out from behind the stove. They were a large orc with a broad chest and belly, matted black hair that ran in some sort of mohawk down their back like a horsetail. They looked at Aurbash dubiously. Aurbash, for his part, tried not to get offended by this clearly invasive gaze. The Commander had done the same thing, but the Commander could do whatever he wanted, he was the Commander. This wretch was just a cook, what right did they have to look him over like a lamb being prepped for slaughter? He felt his gorge rise in his throat, an acidic afterburn leaving telltale traces.

“Yes, I suppose you are the one, delivering the meat, for the sacrifice.” Again, they lingered on the last word of the sentence, some regional dialect or accent probably, where were they from? Did they all sound like that in Nurn? Southern orcs were so weird. But they weren’t an orc necessarily, were they? They were clearly and uruk, the size of the chest and shoulders indicated as much.

“I am,” he stated proudly, puffing out his less than impressive chest. “Commander Shagrat’s orders just came down. I’m to leave within the hour.” He coughed. “Do, ah, do you know what this sacrifice entails? Am I suppose to do something with the meat asides from puttinit on the altar?”

The cook smiled, a snarky, smug smile. An elitist, that one, Aurbash decided. Smug bastard who thought they knew everything. They held up a hand. “One moment, what was your name again?”

“My name is Aurbash, be well to remember that,” he said trying to sound like a future officer.

“Right, Aurbash. One moment, I’ll be right back with the meat and something to help you on your journey.” Before he could protest, the uruk disappeared, a whirl of off-white apron strings and a gust of foul wind. They returned momentarily with a great sack with a smell coming off it and a ruddy stain at the bottom of the bag: the sacrificial meats. But they had something else in their hands too, a bottle or something.

“This is for you, to help you on your journey. It’s an elixir we make here to help the lads on patrols. Makes you sharper and more alert. Makes you braver.” They proffered the bottle.

Aurbash took it, opened it, sniffed it, coughed at the strength of whatever was inside, and downed contents in a single gulp. It tasted like bloody fire with a side of waters of the Styx. He coughed for a good minute as the liquid burned through him. He could feel it in his throat and down into his stomach, churning and burning. He did feel more alert though, his reflexes felt faster too. He licked his thin lips. “Well, that was quite decent of you, I will remember that.”

“I am sure you will,” they said, handing the sack of meat over to Aurbash. “Good luck with the sacrifice.”

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

The orc was coming around the corner, moving as though there was an army behind him. Shagrat might have been impressed if it weren’t ultimately useless. Aurbash, or whatever his name was, arrived, dropped the sack on the ground and saluted clumsily. Shagrat stared at his eyes, they were jittering pinpricks. The kitchen staff had given him something, probably to keep him from screaming and running back up here when Her Ladyship arrived.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

The orc nodded vigorously, picked up the sack and shouldering the strap. “I am sir, I will not let you down.”

“Good. There’s a tunnel that will lead you to the sacrificial site from here. It’s the largest of the holes bored into the side of the mountain so you can’t miss it. Just follow that tunnel, don’t get sidetracked following one of the off shoots. You’ll get lost in there and like as not die of starvation before anyone finds you. Do not leave the path. Is that clear soldier?”

The orc saluted again. “I will not let you down sir. I will be back before you even know it.”

“Hmmm,” Shagrat responded, already bored with this conversation.

The gates opened behind him, and the orc was run-shambling across the way into the tunnels. Shagrat didn’t bother watching him go. Each new unit that arrived required there to be a sacrifice to the Spider, a peace offering, an understanding. Once a new unit has arrived and acclimated itself, he picked one of the lower rung buffoons, one of the ones no one would miss, and sent them to Her so that She could do with them as She pleased. This one was a particularly low rung. This unit was not very impressive, he’d already estimated that within a year most of them would be dead or reassigned to roles more befitting their status, only a handful would actually make decent fighters here. When he was first given command of this outpost, he felt bad about having to send fellow orcs to a gruesome end. Now though, after years and years of the same? He really didn’t care. They were the low rungs after all, might as well use them in a way that would benefit the entire fortress. Aurbash or whatever his name was, wasn’t going to be missed. In fact, his failure to return would likely seem like the most inevitable outcome. The idiot was probably already lost in the tunnels, even though Shagrat had given him good directions.

He sighed, from boredom and agitation rather than any semblance of sorrow for the nasty fate that awaited the orc. “Close the gates!” he shouted. “If I’m needed, I’ll be in my chambers. I better not be needed.”

[Dungeon Delver]

Web Development
Torech Ungol
(Private)

It did not take Aurbash long to get lost. While the Commander’s thought that he’d be lost within a few seconds of entering the stygian tunnels was not completely accurate, he was not far off. While orcs and uruks could see in the dark better than elves or men, they did not possess superior sense of direction. Or, at the very least, Aurbash did not have a superior sense of direction. The stone of the tunnel was smooth and worn, cold and clammy; it had been worn down by years and years and years of boots and claws and feet marching to and fro. Worse, all the tunnels looked alike, each section of tunnel looked nearly identical to the others. These tunnels were a labyrinth, and in the middle was something terrifying behind reckoning. There was something wicked, something monstrous, something indelibly malevolent that haunted these cold, harsh tunnels.

Of course Aurbash knew the stories. Rumors abounded all over Mordor about what lay in the heart of Cirith Ungol. It wasn’t really a secret, “ungol” meant spider after all. And not just spider in the common sense. It was the Pass of The Spider. Dozens of orcs, from the Dead Marshes down to the Sea of Núrnen claimed to have seen the great beast. They all described something vastly different though, stories varying so widely that one might claim the spider had ten legs instead of eight, one might claim the spider was speckled yellow and green while another might claim that the spider was a hundred feet across, leg tip to leg tip. None of the stories could be believed. Aurbash still loved to hear them though, campfire horror stories about the elder days of Middle-earth, before orcs were forced to be hold up in mountains or bogs, when they traveled openly and enforced their will upon the landscape. There were things much older, much nastier than orcs that cared little what side someone was on, to those things, everything that walked, slithered, or flew was naught but a meal waiting to be caught. Aurbash tried to comfort himself by remembering those stories, getting lost in these tunnels was starting to twist his stomach into a knot, growing tighter and tighter with each turn that ended up going nowhere.

“Damn these tunnels!” he swore under his breath. The sound of his voice echoed around him wetly, mocking him.

How long had he been in here now? He’d taken a turn, then another, then trying to double back but took a left instead of a right and ended up feeling like he was moving upside down. The only thing he could be sure of right now was he was going steadily downward, the pressure on his knees was growing more and more intense. He stopped finally, dropping the sack containing the offering with a moist PLONK. He breathed hard; his breath ragged. Despite being in shape (or at least the semblance of shape), Aurbash could feel his muscles and bones aching. He had not been running long enough to be so exhausted. There was no way. He kept gasping for breath, his mouth wide like a fish flopping about on the deck of a ship. He couldn’t catch his breath. He doubled over, hands on knees. It helped, but only slightly, the elusive full breath of air seemed to slip out of his gasp each time. He tried taking smaller breaths closer together, but that didn’t help either. He could feel the cold serpent of panic starting to coil around his chest.

“What— what the— what the hell is— going on?” He slumped to the ground, curling up tightly. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, gasping for breath, but he was sure it was at least a quarter of an hour. He coughed and spat phlegm. Finally, finally, his breath came back. The uruk could feel his heart nigh ready to burst from his chest. How could it be that he was so out of shape? How could these tunnels torture him so? He couldn’t see much around him, just vague lines and shapes, but all of that was blurred by darkly shining stars that passed over his vision.

Finally, he relaxed. His breath regained, Aurbash stood up and inhaled the cold, damp air. It stank. Even for an orc who was used to the military life (and thus orkish latrine duty), it stank. He coughed again, gagging. He hadn’t noticed the smell as he descended into the darkness of the Spider’s Cleft, but godless black nights was he aware of it now. It smelled like a befungaled corpse, rotting flesh, fecal matter grown moldy, and piss tea. He gagged again, this time something came up, searing the back of his throat with bile and bitter stomach acid. The remnants of the drink he’d been given now mingled with whatever putrid mess was on the floor of the tunnel.

Everything was silent for a time as Aurbash regained himself. Very silent. Like the smell, he had not realized how quiet these tunnels were until now and the very weight of that silence threatened to squash him. He covered his ears. The silence actually hurt. He couldn’t understand it. He shouted, wordlessly hollering anything to rid him of the dread heaviness that was spreading inside his brain.

Then something clattered.

It was not near, the echoes bounced endlessly back and forth before the sound actually reached him. But it shut him up all the same. There was a hungry spider in these tunnels. The hungry spider. What in blighted earth’s reason was he doing? He slapped himself hard across the face. His ears rang like a shrill bell, but it did the trick. He was back. He was focused. The silence was deafening, and the smell was noxious, but he was present once more. The altar had to be near here. He was not sure why he thought this other than the power of positive thinking (even orcs believed in things like that). He picked the sack with the sacrificial meat and began to run once more. The darkness was still close about him, grabbing at his exposed flesh with prickling barbs, but he ran on nonetheless. He envisioned what the Commander would say to him once he’d completed his task, the look of satisfaction would be priceless. The members of his squad too, the befuddled looks of envy and confusion would be worth their weight in rations.

He darted through passages and around corners, ducking under low hanging ceilings. He was getting closer. He could tell now. Cobwebs began to appear. Only a few here and there in corners and unreachable heights, but soon, the further into the heart of the pass he went, the more appeared, spreading across walls, over patches of the floor, and drooping down from the ceiling. He had to be nimble to miss them, deftly dodging the sticky substance as he continued on. The Spider made her home deep within the mountain, the web being the markings of her territory. If he had not been ordered, Aurbash would have quailed in fear and run in the opposite direction. The stench was worse as the number of webs increased; his eyes watered. He lost a boot when he stepped wrong, the boot was frozen in place by web, thin and sinister.

He didn’t turn around to look at it, instead he lopped forward, bounding in an awkward, mismatched gait. He had to finish this mission. He had to finish. When he was done he could sleep for as long as he needed, drink as much as he wanted, and be rid of this foul odor.

He didn’t notice when his boot suddenly vanished in a pool of midnight.

He entered a chamber then. He could only tell by the lightening of the foul stench that pervaded every nook and cranny. He stopped and took a deep, bone cracking breath.

Then something moved behind him, just beyond his peripheral vision. He swirled around and saw… nothing. There was nothing but darkness all around him. It was hiding something, that darkness. He could feel the presence of something else. The webs were so numerous and thick in this chamber that it was nearly impossible for Aurbash to move, especially with his eyes darting this way and that for signs of something hungry. He turned back to look at the entrance and squinted, focusing as hard as he could, trying to will his eyes to see something, anything. Unsatisfied, he turned around.

… and stared straight into the many eyes of Shelob.

“Oh -–”

-FIN-

[Dungeon Delver]

Penny Dreadful
The Bathhouses, many years post-War
(Open)

"I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel..."
- Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus

Every once in a black moon, Negru would go to the bathhouses. He loved the bathhouses but knew that if he frequented them too often, they would cease to be something special. It was late, very late, not a soul within miles. Negru also loved his privacy. Save for the sounds of dripping water, the building was silent, ghostly. The bathhouses, no matter the time of day, were always filled with steam. Shadows, oft cast by the smallest of creatures, creating strange kaleidoscopic effects, obscuring the stone boundaries of the rooms. The first time he came here, he nearly killed himself falling into a bath he didn’t see. Now though, he was an expert, he could walk the slick floors blindfolded. The only sound was the scrap of his bare feet and his slow breathing. There was a wind outside, blowing mournfully off the Ephel Dúath; some of the officers below Negru, a superstitious lot, believed if one listened closely to the wind, one could hear the voices of the dead prophesying. Naturally, Negru never went in for supernatural nonsense like that, but every once in a while, there was a whistle that sounded like someone he used to know…

He shook his head. Best not to think of her tonight. Dwelling on past mistakes could lead one down a path of hypothetical hypocrisy. He brushed the image of the woman out of his mind and continued into the bathhouse. His particular room was located far in the back, down a long dim passageway. He breathed in the steam and it filled his lungs with a clawing humidity. He coughed, the breathed deep again. He liked the feeling of humidity, having grown in up in a land so hot and dry it would suck the very moisture out of one’s bones. He closed his eyes and crossed through the threshold. The darkness was heavier in his room than outside, Negru could feel it weigh on his eyelids, forbidding him from opening his eyes.

He disrobed and entered the bath. It was fiery hot, uncommonly so tonight. His skin crawled and screamed, but the great orc continued on. It was painful, but that pain made him feel alive. He breathed deep and smiled. Soon, he was up to his waist and, feeling around, found the carven seat he was accustomed to, all without opening his eyes. Opening them and looking about the room would ruin the effect, being able to rely on other senses, being able to see things as he willed them in his mind, was the reason for his constant trips. He needed to allow his mind to wander, and one cannot wander with open eyes, true thoughtfulness was done in the complete darkness of one’s mind.

He lost track of time. He did not fall asleep, though he did feel the tendrils of exhaustion creep around his limbs from time to time. He came here to think.

It had been years. How many years? Half a dozen now at least. The entire fortress was silent, empty. Of course it would. He’d found the place a hulking ruin after the War. Bodies stank and seeped. There was no one left alive here. Negru was lord and master here now, no one came to tell him no, so one must assume that fate accepted him. He cleared the corpses out, freeing the place of the haunted caul that hung over it.

It must be asked then, why did he come here? What did the orc have to gain from lording over and empty castle? He could not say. The great scattering had caused a great deal of confusion. He assumed more of his fellows would have come here. Cirith Ungol should have been a hive of activity, but no one came. Not a single refugee. The spider was gone, at least Negru assumed she was from the lack of webbing all over the place. Found richer lands probably. He was happy about that, the rumors about her were rather ghastly, even amongst the orcs. He shuddered, splashing the water and breaking the stillness.

He sighed. He was stuck here. As much as he loved the idea of being the lord of the fortress, he knew there was no way to get out. Tarks likely patrolled the lower passes, waiting for anything to show its head. He very much liked his head and had no desire to fill it with darts and arrows. How long would he have to wait here? It was lonely here. He enjoyed the privacy, but eventually he knew it was going to drive him to madness. Orcs were a social species, despite some evidence to the contrary. They needed one another to survive. He had not seen another orc in… half a dozen now at least. In the darkest parts of his mind, Negru could imagine that he was the last orc anywhere. He never liked going that far down into his thoughts, such morbidities did not do his psyche any good. He would love an argument right now, a fight, a brawl, a flyting, anything. He smiled; eyes still closed. Of course, all sorts of insults and comebacks were stored in his mind, ready to use at the drop of a hat, but he knew they would stay there, moldering until he was drooling mess who threw himself off the highest tower.

He shuddered. Tonight’s thoughts were not good. Perhaps it was not a good night to be in the bathhouses. Still, he did not open his eyes.

Slowly, inexorably, weariness began to overtake him. He fought it, half despondently.

“Maybe, I should have gone with you after all,” he muttered, breaking the silence and breaking the tradition. He hated talking to ghosts, but tonight felt appropriate.

“I should have gone with you. You were right. Nothing here but death. I hope… I hope you’re…” he paused, swallowed a lump, “I hope you’re alive, wherever you ended up. I’ll kill myself if my foolishness cost you your life…”

The vow hung in the air, serious as the inky blackness around him. Perhaps… perhaps he should leave. It would be risky, of course, and the likelihood of his death was high. Did he prefer a certain slow suicide here alone, or the chance of freedom?

He could not decide, and sleep overcame him.

[Dungeon Delver]

Penny Dreadful
The Bathhouses, many years post-War
(Open)

When Negru awoke, the darkness and the silence still surrounded him, a suffocating blanket of which he had chosen to smother himself. The water was still hot, and steam continued to invade his lungs; the waters never seemed to cool in here, in the farthest reaches of the bathhouse. Maybe that was fortune, but good or ill the orc could not tell. It was too tempting. His dreams had been nothing but blackness; whispers of the past roared at him from all angles and he was lost in the sludge of it all.

He removed himself from the bathhouses and returned to the fortress proper. There was, of course, nothing for him to do out here, no more than there might have been something to do inside. He walked the walls, dutifully standing watch for, for anything. What more was there to do these days? He walked, paced, trudged, for several hours. His mind wandered to the bleakest portions of his psyche, plumbing new depth of self-hatred and despair. An orc alone is a pitiable thing, while not even the most liberal of mind would call them decent folk, to remove an orc from all trappings of society and culture, to shut them away into a box was horrific tragedy.

Negru slumped against the stone. The scrapping sensation did something bring him out of his head and back into the physical world. He stared at the stone, wondering just how hard he would have to scrap his hand against it to draw blood. The stone was an unremarkable grey, decently carved but functional rather than ornate. Had this been part of the original Tark foundation, or was it a later orcish addition? After hundreds of years was there really a distinction? He laughed until he broke into a soft sob. There was no one here to talk to, no one here to debate or argue. He pressed his hand against the stone, pushing all of his weight behind it. Bones cracked and groaned, his skin sent waves of pain into his mind, his tendons and ligaments protested as they were strained to within a fraction of rupturing. He did not stop. Suddenly, without warning, part of the stone gave way. It ripped itself away from its fellows and flung itself out into the abyss before plummeting with awe-inspiring speed. Moments later, there was a thud, barely remarkable even in the utter silence of the abandoned fortress. Negru caught himself before tumbling after the stone and watched as it fell, something akin to interesting sparking in his eyes.

He leaned over the edge, his bulk filling in the space where the stone had been. Bits and broken pieces skittered off and fell without ceremony or circumstance. Negru looked at the ground for a long time. His breathing slowed and his brain fogged. There was something exciting about watching the stone fall, something exhilarating. A wind blew up at him from below, a sweet-smelling wind. It whispered to him, called him. He swore it could hear her voice. What was it saying? He leaned further, trying to get closer to the wind, to hear what she was saying, desperation for a moment of companionship overriding any sense of self-preservation. He slipped.

He did not fall, however. At the very last possible moment, the moment right before an obliviated plunge, right as the body is filled with an infinite amount of energy and possibility, he pulled back. Negru swallowed hard and wiped a small residual tear from his eye. A voice chided him for being so careless, another chided him for pulling back. He had no idea which voice to listen to and which to ignore. He was so lonely. He could only talk to empty air so much, pretend shapes in the stones are people, and imagine a sense of happiness before the entire world cracked like an egg and his mind fell out of it.

He hadn’t eaten today. He hadn’t the day before either. Or had he? Negru couldn’t remember one day to the next, everything jumbled these days. He looked up. The tower loomed invitingly.

Negru began to climb the stairs.

The journey did not take him long; verily, his feet almost bounced as he walked up the long stairs and corridors. The highest point in Cirith Ungol, the place upon which he could watch the entire valley below him, where he could touch the reddening sky.

That sweet-smelling wind again. It reminded him of her.

He propped himself up on the edge of the walk, balancing precariously. How far down was it? How far up? If he jumped from this height, would he be more likely to float upward or plummet down? Perhaps he could soar on the wind, that sweet-smelling wind that housed her voice, and be borne away from this place, this walking tomb.

He need only take a step and find out…

[Dungeon Delver]

Penny Dreadful
Years Before the Events Previous
(Open)

But we'll get together then
You know we'll have a good time then
- “Cat’s in the Cradle,” Harry Chapin

Nobody waiting on you
You better run, son
Nobody waiting on you
You better run, son
Nobody waiting on you
You better run, son
- “Ship on Fire,” Zeal & Ardor

He supposed it wasn’t so bad. He expected the fortress to be a ruin, given the tales he heard about the last days of Cirith Ungol. It had become a place haunted by stories rather than reality, each version of the tale becoming more and more grandiose and impossible. One version Negru heard had the Âsh had fallen here, killed by one of his underlings. The reality was so much sadder. There were bodies strewn and scattered about, all in the throes of killing one another. The tower seemed relatively intact as well. The only real damage seemed to be the gateway. The two guardian statues looked smashed to bits. That was perfectly fine with him, the previous times he’d been here those things gave him the creeps. He couldn’t help but feel eyes on him, an alien intellect considering him, probing his most private thoughts. There was still a head intact (mostly) that he picked up from rubble. Gleefully, the young orc charged up the stairs to the wall and with an unnatural amount of pomp and circumstances for such an occasion, dropped it. The head shattered into a million pieces. The sound of cracking and smashing was so musical to his ears that he did a little dance. He was glad, in retrospect, no one was there to see it. Dancing orcs were, in some respects, more horrific and malevolent than their fighting.

He would not be alone long, of course. She would be here soon, along with the rest of his friends. He’d gone ahead, having been a scout before the Fall, and make sure the path was clear. The rest of them, a newly made clan, would be along shortly. The Sea of Nurnen was becoming untenable, thousands of orcs, goblins, trolls, and humans, and more almost everyday in a steady stream of refugee. Cirith Ungol, they decided, would be the best place to strike out to, most thought it was haunted even before the war and now, with all those stories, it made it even more undesirable. Which, naturally, made it perfect for Negru and his clan. They had no delusional illusions, they knew there would be no coming back from this, they’d lost the war and that was that. Going to Cirith Ungol was not an attempt to “keep the fire burning” or “wait in the shadow.” It was an attempt to start over. The prospect of becoming eternally wandering refugees appealed to exactly none of them and, inevitably, the Tarks were going to come for them.

Cirith Ungol was empty. It was ghostly, but it was unoccupied. Negru expected to be by himself in the fortress for a few weeks, perhaps a month or two. Without any connect with the outside world, he assumed it everything was continuing apace, that all was as it should have been. The larder and pantry of Cirith Ungol was a vast treasure trove. Perhaps in the days before the Fall, Negru and his fellows would have loved gold and silver plunder, booty and slaves. Now? Unspoilable hardtack would be the foundation of a new currency. Rows and rows, sacks upon sacks. Hardtack, dried and salted meats, pickled vegetables, died fungus. There was enough food here to sustain him for, well for a very long time. Add to this, the hoard of wealth would undoubtably be supplemented with vittles from his companions. A feast every night! Negru’s boundless imagination ran wild. He needed only to last those few weeks in isolation.

--- * --- * --- * --- * --- * --- * --- * --- * ---
2 Weeks Later

Negru continued his rounds. They served no practical purpose of course, but the routine helped keep him sharp. Nothing ever came here, nothing that he was looking for anyway. Birds made some appearances, mostly crows and vultures that picked at the corpses and squawked angrily at him, admonishing him for having buried the bodies and not having the grace to die himself and feed them. Occasionally he saw something else, the shadow of a big cat stalking the grey slabs of rock. He wondered what a big cat tasted like. He’d never eaten cat during his war days, never felt the urge or the desire. It was probably the loneliness speaking that made him consider such odd avenues of thought. Once, he thought he saw a great spider, something rickety and spindly, but it was only the once and it was probably a trick of the light. Aside from that, he’d never seen a hint of the pass’s namesake.

There was little to do here other than patrol and keep watch. He’d buried the bodies of the orcs on the second day and cleaned up the utter mess the place had been turned into during the battle. Piece by sanguine piece, Negru slowly began to piece together what had happened. He would have figured it out quicker if he’d set his mind to it, but the task of mass burial did not lend itself to much downtime thought. He would have burned the bodies, but he was afraid the size of the fire necessary would alert someone. Tark or Orc, he was not keen on making a show.

The third day was taken up by doing something far, far more tedious: inventory. The ledgers of Cirith Ungol, if there had ever been any, were missing. He had to create one. Negru was not a bean counter. The task was terrible. It was boring. It was mind-slayingly dull. There was no task on earth Negru would have not preferred over this. Dried beans, grains, meat, vegetables, fruits, alcohol. It was all counted and accounted for. His ledger was bad. He knew it was bad, but he lacked the wisdom and the will to make a better one.

Maybe she could help him with that when she arrived. It was the thought of her that kept him going. When she arrived, he would propose to her. It would feel sudden, but he’d had weeks, months, years to ponder it in his head. Yes, he would propose.

He’d taken up in the Commander’s Quarters. They were massive and spacious, Negru, having never been an officer, had no conception of a room so big for the purposes of housing a single person. This room could have easily fit half a squadron! And the bed! Oh he’d never slept on furs so comfortable. Where had these been imported from? The skins were a mix of black and white with splotches of grey and brown. The fur was thick and luxurious, probably from a massive cat, or several. He built a fire the first night. A small one, just for him. No one would ever see the smoke. He stared at it, willing hallucinatory images to dance out of the flames and across his lap. What was that dried fungus again? He kept the fire up each night, tradition of course.

The fifth day, he visited the legendary bathhouses for the first time. How the steam still pumped through the ancient stone walls was anyone’s guess. Negru was not an engineer and could only marvel.

He worked out in the training grounds, at least as well as anyone could in an empty fortress. He was decently skilled with the sword, but decided that now was the perfect time to take up spearcraft. He performed thrusts and parries and blocks, none of which he could tell were any good without a partner. It did, however, give him a workout. He was sweating when he decided to call it a day. He feasted on hardtack and pickles.

--- * --- * --- * --- * --- * --- * --- * --- * ---
2 More Weeks Later

Negru awoke with a start. He could not help the feeling of dread that came over him. He was covered in a caul of sweat and blanket that brought a temporary panic until he was able to pull it off and gasp for air. Something was wrong. He flew out of the commander’s chambers and down the stairs to the gate. He was barely dressed by the time he arrived.

There was nothing though.

Nothing.

Silence. Darkness.

The stars twinkled above, the clouds of Mordor parting just enough to catch a sliver of the world above him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He felt eyes on him, or if not eyes, intent. It was not the spider. He was not sure how he knew, but he did. It was a dangerous assumption to make, precarious on the edge of the world as he was.

He stood stock-still, wavering. There was something out there. He could almost hear it. He stood silent, hoping to catch a glimpse. He leaned over, put a hand to his ear, held his own breath. Whatever it was, it was just out of hearing range. What had it been? Whispering? The clink of armor? The scuttling of feet? The sound of wind and the flapping of flags? The growl of an animal? He could tell nothing. The longer he stood there, and he stood for several minutes believing that if he stood just a little bit longer he’d hear it, the more certain he was that whatever it had been was still there. As he stood there, silent and unmoving, was there a thing out there, listening for him?

When he went about his duties the next morning, following a few fitful hours of troubled dreams and muscle cramps, Negru felt sludgy. His each step was through a mire of mental muck. His reactions were slow, and his thoughts were bored. Even so, he could not shake the feeling that something was watching him.

He stood on the highest battlement and looked below. Hundreds of feet down he could see the world move (or not move) without a consideration for his existence. He cursed and the words drifted off meaninglessly.

Then…

A glint of steel. His hopes were instantly raised. His friends! His friends had come at last! She was here! She was here!

He watched with bated breath. Waited for them to come closer, waited to be able to hear the sounds of iron boots and atonal singing.

But something was wrong. The glint of the steel was too bright, too clean.

His hopes were instantly rotted and turned to stone. The feeling of ants crawling up his arms and legs replaced any sense of joy and elation.

Tarks.