Dhâd Bûrz - The Black Pits of Mordor

[Winddancer]

Deep in the subterranean holds of Barad-dur, in the land of Mordor where the Shadows lie, there is a place of horror unspoken. It is of such dread that no mortal would contemplate existence within the sinkhole of evil that is the Black Pit. Better to face death than allow oneself to be dragged off to that wretched hole.

The labyrinthine tunnels twist through the dark rock, host to a multitude of narrow, foreboding cells and maliciously constructed torture chambers. Ancient iron doors and myriad portcullises’ divide and subdivide these treacherous dungeons. So maze-like is this interior design that few can claim to know all the secrets of the Black Pit nor indeed what they may host. The Dark Lord has many servants of a fell nature. These may be mockeries of those who dwell in the lands beyond Mordor, or other beings, more fell yet, demons from the bowels of the earth, or shadow creatures unimaginable and unknown beyond these rents in the world. To know them is to know choking fears of nightmarish malignity made manifest!

Here the souls of the incarcerated may be broken, corrupted, moulded forcibly or coerced into blathering insanities belying only fragmentations of the torment they have suffered. If these poor misbegotten prisoners have secrets within, they will no doubt be rendered up in screams and panicked gasps to the insidious whispers of the Shadow. The unknown of such terror may seem infinite, yet here in the Black Pits there is an eternity to explore it.

Rules:

- No GIFS! No large pictures, stick to pictures of your own characters.
- All canon characters are FREE to use by anyone, even if someone else is already using the one you would like to RP. Just consider them in different timelines then)
- Don't join an ongoing rp without prior permission
- Anyone may RP a minion of Sauron (race befitting that of Sauron's minions) working on a prisoner. The prisoner can be someone else or your own npc.
- There will be some godmoding that will need to take place for the rp to work. Just NEVER godmode their reactions/feelings/what they say and the like. If ever in doubt, talk it through with your partner first or feel free to ask me

Content Warning for this entire thread: violence, gore, torture, mental anguish etc.

Excerpt from Naith
Photo from Crowns and Chains

[The Elf Imperishable]

"In you go!" Orc del Orco yelled as he kicked the bag containing Roosbah the Squealer down to the entrance of Dagh Burz, "hope ya enjoy the worst days of your life, ya no-good rat!" With that, del Orco went on his way, leaving the entrance of the Black Pits to continue his business.

The person within the bag was not so fortunate. Roosbah the Squealer struggled against the ropes within the bag, as he desperately uttered muffled yelps.

"Mrrmphh, mrrrmmmmph!" Roosbah yelled through the gag on his mouth. His legs wiggled like a restless caterpillar, and so the orc continued his struggle to escape his doomed fate...

[Oro]

Clang. Clang. Clang. Chains rattled above, the hot wind rustling through with enough force to lift them and slam them back into each other. The prisoner at the bottom of the pit curled into a ball attempting to keep the hot air from drying his lips and eyes. How long he had been in the pit, he didn’t know. How long the tortures had gone on, He still had no idea.

It had started with the shaving of his hair and beard, what was considered a minor inconvenience to most races but to a dwarf was one of the worst emotional attacks that could be done to one of Durin’s Folk. Then they had begun the physical torture. His limbs ached and the skin on his back was torn and bloody. They poured their vile liquor into his limbs and over his parched lips and the burning sensation only enraged the fires of his pain. But he was stubborn, and hardy. And he had yet to break.

Now looking up as another piece of moldy bread and pouch of vile liquor dropped into his cell, he quickly ripped them up from the floor and devoured them both. He knew to remain strong he had to keep eating and drinking, even if it meant that it burned and upset his stomach. He would survive. He was Gror Copperhelm, ForgeMaster of the Stiffbeard Clans in the mountains to the east, and he would survive.

[Moriel]

with Gror Copperhelm

Clang. Clang. Clang. The sound of rattling chains was nothing new to Swiltang, but he never grew tired of the sound. Although the Black Pits were carved out deep below Barad-dûr, hacked into the rock by nameless denizens of ages past, there were places within Dhad Bûrz where the acrid, ashy, superheated air that swirled around Orodruin, was sucked down ancient holes and passages and into the corridors and chambers where hapless prisoners languished, the chap their lips and, of course, rattle their chains. It had been quite some time since Swiltang had descended into the pits to personally torment a captive; the orc sword master was generally busy with other things, more important than a bit of recreational torture- but everyone needed a hobby. And so it was that when he had heard of a Dwarven prisoner who was causing his current designee a certain amount of difficulty, that Swiltang decided to step in.

The air of Dead Bûrz was even staler than that above ground, somehow dank and parching at once, and the lean, twisted orc breathed it in deeply as he descended. Swiltang was uncommonly tall for an orc, and the hand of fate that had deformed his spine caused one shoulder to slightly precede the other, and tugged the right side of his discolored face into a permanent sneer, showing several pointed teeth. The darkness closed in around Swiltang’s red eyes: the torches in this section had gone out. An orange flicker and a scuffling sound announced the presence of a snaga from a side passage. With a casual flick of the arm, Swiltang punched the little orc in the face and caught its torch as it fell. Ignoring the puny whinges that followed, he continued on his downward path.

As he drew closer to his destination, the clanging of chains grew louder. Of course, this prisoner was in one of those areas. Swiltang’s lip curled up yet further. A torch burned feebly in a bracket above the pit, marking the presence of a living victim inside. The twisted orc approached the edge of the pit and, holding his own torch aloft, looked down at the captive below. Yes… the dwarf (Gror Copperhelm) had been through some fair amount of torment already, including the scavenging of his hair and beard, though this had been done crudely, leaving ragged tufts here and there, as well as cuts on the flesh. Clearly the feeding snaga had just been by, for the dwarf was stuffing down his meagre ration of what passed for food and drink here. Swiltang cleared his throat before dropping down lightly into the pit, bypassing the handholds in its side entirely. He landed in a crouch and straightened, observing the dwarf, chained to the opposite wall. On the orc’s side of the pit, out of reach of the captive, stood a selection of… equipment. Swiltang paced over to observe it, his harsh voice anachronistically soft.

“Well, well, master dwarf, you do seem to be in a predicament. Tell me, what brings you to this place?”

[Oro]

Pleasant Conversations with Swiltang

A figure dropped down into the pit, and without even looking up Gror knew that a new opponent had been chosen to face him, for that is what this was: War. In the torture game, the prisoner only held a few cards but he still held them. Gror had been trained for this, as a Stiffbeard who lived on the edges of Mordor, the dwarf had seen his fare share of orcish patrols, and this was not the first time he had been captured. But this was the first time he had been brought to the Black Pits themselves and that meant he had to be on his guard. Another burst of super hot air flashed past him into the grates in his cell. Gror stood near the wall, his chains slack around him. Swallowing the last of the black liquor, he gripped the empty sack in his hand and grimaced, feeling the burning liquor shred down his aching throat.

“Well, well, master dwarf, you do seem to be in a predicament. Tell me, what brings you to this place?”

Gror kept his eyes down, not looking at his new opponent. The voice was soft, but violent in nature. The controlled voice of an expert. Unlike your regular orc or goblin, this would be challenging. The typical snaga was violent and unfocused, unable to apply pressure in the right places. Sure they had plenty of pressure but they did not know the right fulcrum or leverage to apply it with. This was a dangerous predicament indeed. A slight smirk crossed Gror’s face.

Reaching up and tossing his hair aside, his hair like ribbons of fiery copper matted to the sides and back of his head, his bald patches shimmering with sweat. He reached up to where the patches of his beard and then looked at the new presence (Swiltang) standing before him. His right hand instinctively reaching up with the liquor pouch to wipe a streak of blood from his forehead before it flowed into his eyes.

”I’m hear to make a deal.”. The dwarf truthfully proclaimed, his people were always in need of ensuring that their “allies” in Mordor did not feel threatened by their mining in the depths of the Ered Lithui. The dwarves from the Far East had begun mining in the mountains surrounding Mordor, with permission from the Dark Lord himself many years ago. The dwarves were not evil, but they had made alliances with evil. They had agreed to deliver raw metal and some specific forged creations to the Dark Lord, in return they were granted the right to the Ashen mountains that surrounded the shadowed lands.

”I was captured in lands that we had agreed were safe territory for me and my people. Three of my brothers, killed breaking an alliance of many years.”. This was partially true, Gror and his crew had been sent to see the strength of the orcish horde. They needed to know the current numbers and so the ForgeMaster turned Spy had been captured to make friends with these people and learn their numbers as a captor and hopefully eventually trusted prisoner. His story of being a mining surveyor would hold up, he had basic knowledge of land surveying and his equipment was that of a miner.

”I demand to be released and that the bodies of my companions be relinquished to our homeland.”.

[Moriel]

with Gror Copperhelm

Fascinating. Swiltang thought as the dwarf unfolded his story. It certainly wasn’t the usual tripe he had to listen to about how the prisoner was just lost, oh please sir let me go and I’ll never come this way again, my family had enormous wealth, my king will kill you all, my father will hear about this- blah, blah, blah. It so happened that Swiltang knew of the arrangement these dwarves had for their mining activities, so there was at least some truth to Gror’s story. Captured in lands that were safe territory for him and his people? True, the dwarves had been foolish to make an agreement with the Dark Lord in the first place, thinking that they might possibly come out ahead in it, but they were even more outstandingly foolish in thinking that any of the lands of Mordor were safe to them.

“Fascinating,” Swiltang’s voice echoed his thought, though with a sardonic edge, “that seek you demand anything, in your position. He reached up to manipulate the large blackened buckle that fastened the baldric around his torso, and swung it around to take hold of the sword in its scabbard that habitually rode across his back. It was no crude orc-blade, but a find weapon of folded steel, its blade longer than a man’s arm and tapering outward from the hilt before hooking to a lethal point. Its weight and length garnered a two-handed hilt, but Swiltang was a swordmaster, and long ages of experience made it light and nimble in his hands. It was, however, generally not the correct tool for this type of undertaking, and so he laid it carefully aside.

Turning away from the table of implements, Swiltang took a few measured strides to the wall near where he had entered the pit, where was fixed a crank. Though this crank ran a set of ropes, and these up to a pulley fixed into the dark rock above, and down from the pulley they ran to the chains which ran through metal loops at the top of the opposite side of the pit, and these chains thence ran to the manacles that clad the wrists and ankles of the dwarf. Swiltang turned the crank easily, and by dint of the pulley and the surprising strength of his twisted body, the chains clattered up, their slack evaporating like any drop of water that found its way to this place, tightening against Gror and pulling him back until his back hit the wall, stretching his arms above his head, and limiting the movement of his feet to inches. He was by no means suspended, but quite effectively restrained against the wall. Swiltang thrust home the hefty iron pin that locked the crank in place, and strode back to the table. His prey displayed, his movements and manner became more brisk.

“Tell me,” the orc said again, lifting a set of long, viciously sharp needles from the table and holding them up, examining them in the pulsing light of the torch, “Exactly what did your brothers do to get themselves killed?”

[Oro]

Pleasant conversations with Swiltang - Gror Copperhelm

Lifting his eyes to examine the captor before him, Gror finally got a good look at Swiltang. The orc was massive, very tall for an orc, and was built like a warrior. He was no brute, but wore his corded muscles like a veteran of many combats. The orc reached up and drew his blade from over his shoulder. Gror peered at it, not the blade of a snaga but one of folded steel. Was this made by his people perhaps? He could not quite tell due to the dimness of the light and the angle of the blade. For the briefest of moments, Gror feared for his life but quickly his fears were alleviated by the way the orc was holding it. No warrior meaning to strike held the blade like that. The minion of the dark lord slowly moved his way across the pit and laid his blade carefully to the side.

Gror kept a careful eye on Swiltang as he turned away and walked over to the wall. The grip he had on the chains was wrenched from his hands as Swiltang turned a crank on the other side of the room. Gror felt his arms pull tight and his body bulled up against the wall. He carefully pulled on each, checking the strength of the pulley system, but if anything orcs were efficient at war and torture. His muscles flexed as he tugged lightly at the chains.

Convinced that the chains were sufficiently tight, Gror stopped his tug as Swiltang threw a pin into the crank, which effectively locked him into place. With Grog tightened against the wall, Swiltang seemed to pick up his pace, lifting up a sharp pair of needles and appearing to be inspecting them, as he spoke “Tell me. Exactly what did your brothers do to get themselves killed?”

Looking down again, a single lock of hair falling in front of his face, Gror sullenly spoke, “My brothers, committed the heinous act of traveling through protected territory.” The dwarf kept his eyes down, as he continued softly “We had been informed that a crack in the ground had potential ore within, we had brought mining supplies and basic traveling gear with us when a mounted ban of orcs attacked.” At this, Gror’s voice grew angry, not yelling but spitting each word, “they slaughtered my brothers even though we had lowered our weapons.”

He looked up now, his face red and flushed, his teeth bare to the orc, “traitors, the lot of them. Our treaty was agreed to by the Barad-dur’s Mouth. He gave us his word.” Shaking his head, “Fools we were to believe the Mouth of The Deciever.”

(OOC: Barad-Dur’s Mouth being the Mouth of Sauron, although I doubt that was his title “The Abhorred’s Mouth” according to Aragorn he does not permit the name Sauron to be spoke. So I am just gonna guess the orcs would call him “The Eye” or “Barad-Dur“ (the head office lol). Didn’t know if the higher ups in Mordor called him Tar-Marion or Zigûr?)

[Moriel]

with Gror Copperhelm

Tsk tsk tsk. The chiding hiss rasped between Swiltang’s teeth as he listened to Gror’s story, like a schoolmaster disappointed in his pupil’s recitation. He continued to examine the needles as he spoke. “You know my Master is called the Deceiver by some Men who were too foolish to join him, and yet you expected faithfulness from his Mouth?” The lean orc turned back to his prisoner and shrugged expressively, displaying needles in each hand. “Seems to me your brothers got themselves into this mess.” For a moment, Swiltang considered Gror. Abruptly, he replaced the needs on the table, set two clawed fingers into his mouth, and let slip with a shrill, shattering whistle. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said to the dwarf, with a leap attaining the handholds carved into the side of the pit. By the time Swiltang had swung his body over the top, a pair of panting snagas had appeared. The orc rapped out a few smart commands, though quietly enough that even had Gror been able to understand the Black Speech of Mordor, he would not have been able to hear. The snagas scuttled away and Swiltang vaulted over the edge of the pit, landing lightly as before at its bottom.

Striding back over to the table, he took up the needles again, inserting a handful of them into a tough leather pouch that hung off his hip, and strode with purpose to his captive’s side. He considered the dwarf again, this time from close range, choosing a likely starting place. Taking hold of the ragged wrist-edge of Gror’s right sleeve, Swiltang ripped away the remaining fabric, revealing the dwarf’s bare arm. He grasped the center of the forearm, girthy and muscular as might be expected of a dwarf, less to hold it still than to assist with the process that was about to begin. Gror might be able to wriggle, but he could not pull away. And wriggling, he would quickly discover, was a bad idea. Using the pressure of his grasping hand, Swiltang raised a fold of skin on the inside of the dwarf’s forearm, dead center. With his other hand, he withdrew one of the needles, long as a man’s hand, and pressed its point against the base of the fold of skin. It penetrated, drawing a bead of blood, and began to slide beneath the skin. This was an apparatus with which Swiltang had much practice, and with this came precision. The slim metal rod slipped beneath the skin, but above the muscle, parting the fibrous strands between them, slowly, until, reaching the curve of the far side of the arm, the point tugged ever so slightly and emerged from the skin of the opposite side. It would hurt, but the technique and location would make it bearable for one of fortitude, as he expected this dwarf to be.

“I should like you to tell me,” Swiltang said mildly, for all the world as though he were asking Gror about the weather, as he drew another needle and began to repeat the process, just below the first, “to tell me what you are really doing in the Black Land.”

[Baphởmet]

The Kitchens of Dhâd Bûrz

The screams were almost louder than the music. There was a strange counterpoint between the two sounds; one a beautiful, melodic, lilting ballad, the other was the wonderful drone of a violin. The sounds bounced off each other, echoing and reverberating, one growing while the other waned, then in reverse. Independent of each other, the two resonances formed a melody. A melody that perhaps only he could here and appreciate. He could see the soundwaves as they danced their invisible waltz. The screams were shrill, they reverberated madly, frantically, but the violin filled the spaces in between the notes: the rich backdrop upon which the screams painted their horror and pain.

“It doesn’t matter how much you scream down here,” Frost said, still inspecting his knives. “No one will be disturbing us this evening.” He turned to the figure, bound in thick, heavy rope. “But that is not an admonishment to stop your screaming. It’s creating a wonderful music.”

Frost turned back to the counter and traced the edge of the boning knife. The surface was smooth, it shined in the torch light, capturing the glint and throwing into the prisoner’s eyes. They shrieked whimpered. “Many people believe that we compose music because it can express feelings and emotions we could not otherwise convey. What do you think? What sort of music are you creating right now? What emotions are you processing through your screams? Who are you composing for?”

The Númenorean tapped the knife against his prisoner’s flesh, smiling viciously as they jumped. “Now, now. If you can’t sit still I’m going to have to cut off your legs early. Don’t be rude now. I have plans for this evening and they’re all on a schedule.” He traced the knife over his prisoner’s cheek, cutting a long, but shallow incision from just beneath their eye socket to the corner of their mouth.

The prisoner began screaming again, wild shrieks of pain and terror. Frost inhaled the sound and sighed with delight. “Perfect.”

Back at the counter, he rewrapped his knives and looked over his equipment. It had been a very long time since he had been able to use the facilities here. He had practiced his craft the night before, finding some snaga that no one would miss to act has his supplies. The oven had needed cleaning but it was still functional, the osso buco he made was not bad.

He brought most of his ingredients from home, imported from places like Umbar, deep within Khand, or by the Sea of Rhûn. The cornerstone of this night, the meat that he would carve and shape and cook with his friends, that was acquired in Gondor. The man had been a mere thief until he decided he wanted to break into a textile storage container in the White City. Frost, having reasons to want to keep that particular place hidden, had journeyed there and captured the wretch himself. It was not until he was crossing back into Mordor that the idea of a dinner party entered his head.

He hadn’t had one in ages, and then, like lightning out of the clear sky, the inspiration struck him. He would send an invite to a few friends and colleagues, people he knew would appreciate the artistry that went into his cooking and would not be squeamish about the particular source of the protein.

“You are going to make a fine meal,” he said aloud. “You were utterly useless in life, a piece of offal tossed down the latrine. But in death, you will be a piece of art that will be remembered for years and years to come. I should thank you. The rending of your flesh tonight will serve to create and strength bonds that I could never have done on my own. My friends and I will slice into you and from take from you what you never had the foresight to use. We will indeed be sucking the marrow out of life tonight.”

Frost casually sauntered back to the table on which his victim lay and looked him over. The man was middle aged, not fat but not lean. He was of average height with dark brown hair and tanned white skin. He whimpered, begged, cried. Frost closed his eyes and smiled as if the sounds were the sweetest lullaby. He then brought the paring knife and sliced the skin off the man’s left pinky. The flesh came off after his expert carving in a single pull. He screamed in agony. Frost examined the skin, licked his lips and swallowed it.

“Always make sure to sample your meat,” he laughed as the man screamed.

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

The Kitchens of Dhâd Bûrz

Zarâm felt extremely honoured to have received an invitation from Frost to join him for a dinner party at Dhâd Bûrz. She had never been what one would refer to as a "lowly orc" but to have received recognition from the Númenorean meant that she was clearly doing something right within the ranks of Mordor.

As Zarâm entered the kitchens she heard the most delightful sound of intense screaming intermingled with Frost's calm, almost melodic, voice. She saw a man, tressed up on the table. He was screaming his head off and there were already a few drops of blood here and there, but nothing fatal yet. It seemed that she had gotten here just in time for the flaying, which needed to be a delicate process. It was always delightful to keep the meat alive as long as possible before cooking, or preparing in any fashion. Freshly screamed just seemed to taste better. She swore the sheer terror did something to tenderize the meat.

"Is that our dinner?" she asked, gesturing to the snivelling man on the table. "He sounds delightful and I hope he tastes as well as he looks."

She looked around the room, wondering if any others would be joining the festivities. "Will anyone else be joining this dinner party?" she inquired of the host.

Whether or not there would be two of them, or more, she was looking forward to experiencing a delightful meal that was well-sourced and hopefully interesting conversation and scheming.

[Moriel]

to The Kitchens

Oh dear, Sombelenë had sighed, rather bitterly, to herself upon being presented with a crinkly little missive earlier that day. Both because of its condition –borne hence by a none-to-careful messenger- and its contents. A request, to attend upon an occasion in the bowels of Dhad Bûrz. That place known in the common tongue as the Black Pits was a dank, close, foul sort of place- fouler than the rest of Mordor, if it could be believed. While some delighted to work there, Sombelenë but deigned to work there. She had other occupations, and the majority of here time was spent in the cloister of rooms under her command and dwelling in Minas Morgul or, when necessary, in her chamber at the small fortress nestled in the Ash Mountains. Controlled, organized spaces, of parchment and information and the harsh action of the quill, rather than the blade. Her hand was not unfamiliar with the latter however, nor was her mind unfamiliar with the more sophisticated tactics that were sometimes employed in the pits- though not by that Easterling dolt Khaulzîm, who was not nearly as clever as he thought he was. On this occasion, however, her presence was not being requested to employ those skills, but rather the enjoy the fruits of another’s: a dinner party, in the kitchens of the Black Pits, hosted by the enigmatic Númenorean Frost. He was no one of particular note, but neither was he a complete obscurity, and Sombelenë was familiar with him in a general sort of way. The most surprising thing about him, to date, was that he had had the audacity to invite the personal secretary of the Witch-king to dinner.

So it was that she had arrived at Dhad Bûrz, the ashy-red sky roiling overhead as she passed between its gates and past the massive trolls guarding the entrance. If ever a servant of Darkness looked out of place here, it was Sombelenë. For one thing, she was very clean, this Avar- probably cleaner than any other individual in the Black Land ever bothered to be; clean, and very pale, as an umber moon. Once upon a time, her skin had been tanned from the out-of-doors, but it had been many long years since such pursuits had occupied Sombelenë. She was old. Very old, quite old enough that her earliest memories stood behind a kind of haze, which she was not terribly interested in penetrating- that was the past, and far enough in the past so as to be of little concern. In addition to her cleanliness, Sombelenë’s choice of garments was hardly appropriate to the setting. She was wrapped in a gown of latticed gold, which clung like a second skin to her lean torso and arms and, just as the armseyes were cut freely enough to allow a full range of motion to her arms, the skirt flared just enough at the hips to allow her a full stride beneath it. This fell straight down to the ground, just disguising the shape of the legs beneath it. The gown’s collar extended above her clavicle to cling to the column of her neck, and her sharply pointed ears were visible below the intricate mass of shining-gold braids that hung from her head. Her beauty was a dream, a song; more mystic than woman, but the dark glittered in her feline yellow eyes.

Sombelenë passed through the narrow ways of the pits in silence, hands clasped behind her back. Once or twice, and orc appeared around a corner or down the corridor in her path, but made haste to scuttle out of the way or disappear into the darkness of a wall and make themselves as invisible as possible. The whispers of witch followed her around every corner of this place upon her every infrequent visit, and she did not stop to make pleasantries with anyone. There would be enough of that in the hours to come, if she was not mistaken. As she descended, the echo of screams reached her hearing, and she tilted her head, pausing to divine its source. Yes, the wailing was indeed coming from her destination. Promising. Sombelenë resumed her course, and in due time arrived at the entrance to the kitchens. She passed through it in silence, not that her sun-slippered footfals could have been heard over the screaming anyway. She observed the female or (Zarâm) who had arrived before her, and then her eyes fell upon their host, and at a pause in the noise, she spoke.

“Frost,” his name was music as it fell from her lips, her tongue but lightly touching upon its second letter, “I hope you are going to do something about that,” she tipped her chin in the direction of the bound man, “Or it will be quite difficult to enjoy this dinner.” The corners of her lips curled up. There were many was to silence a man while still allowing him to experience every morsel of torment.

[Baphởmet]

The Kitchens of Dhâd Bûrz

Frost wiped a tiny smear of blood from the corner of his lip and smiled contentedly. He cast a glance at the man on the table and sneered. He bent low, close to the man’s face. “You brought this on yourself you know. You just couldn’t help yourself. Worry not, for tonight you will be in the presence of greatness. You’ve been a sniveling, wretched thing all your life, a snail making its way through the garden unaware of world around it. You are about to see that world. You are going to see the greatest the Dark has to offer tonight. Does that make you feel better?” He jammed the paring knife into the man’s shoulder when he didn’t acknowledge him. “I said that does that make you feel better!?” He screamed, his face a mere inch from the thief’s face. He nodded vigorously, whimpering through the gag. He tried to speak, a mumbling whisper, garbled by the gag and several broken teeth. Frost stabbed again, twisting the knife as he pulled it out. “I didn’t give you leave to speak. Don’t be rude. My guests well be arriving -–”

As if by design, Zarâm walked through the doors at the very moment. Frost looked up from his quarry and smiled widely. “My dear Zarâm! Perfectly punctual as usual!” He stuck the knife on the table, causing the thief to jump. “Indeed! This is our dinner and our entertainment!” He took her hand and kissed it with a flourish. “I’m honored that you accepted my invitation for tonight. When this, specimen, fell into my purview you were the first person I thought of. I hope your brought your appetite and your sense of fun with you. I hope this evening will be an exciting one for the both of us.”

Frost led the orc to the table where his knives were displayed and waved his hand over them. “What do you think? Do we have all the tools you think we’ll need? The main course this evening will be lung au vin, curtesy of our friend on the table, with a selection of wild mushroom from Rhûn and lardons and later, ortolan drowned in blood and cognac.”

Frost felt the air change in the room. Where there had simply been screams of pain before, now the man on the table began screaming in utter terror. They were the screams of a man who has seen his worst nightmares come to life. He desperately yanked on his bonds, only making them tighter as his body wracked with sobs and horrified moans.

“And that would be our other guest,” he winked at Zarâm. It had been a gamble to invite her, the personal secretary of the Witch-King himself, but Frost had been feeling bold lately. His ambitious had awoken these past few months and he had something he wanted to ask of her. He had sent weeks trying to think of a way to approach her when it dawn on him to request she come to him. She was a gifted torturer if tales were true, though never of the kind that would bring her here to the Black Pits, and an ostentatious display of cruelty and artistry was what he hoped to soften her up with.

“Lady Sombelenë,” he bowed low, swinging his arms out in a wide arc. “You have done us a great honor by appearing tonight.” He stood, a dark glint in his eyes the whisper of a smile on his lips. “As to the screams,” his gaze shifted lazily to the man bound on the table, “If they are not the dulcet tones they are to you that they are to my friend then I would be happy to change the music of the evening.”

Without pausing for a response from either the Elven woman in the doorway or Zarâm by the kitchen counter, Frost grabbed the paring knife in a deft, fluid movement and ripped the gag off the man’s mouth. With his free hand, he forced the panicking man’s mouth open and grabbed his tongue. Coldly and efficiently, Frost pulled the tongue out as far as he could pull it and drew the paring knife over the tendons that helped keep it attached to his mouth. He dropped the knife, and repositioned himself above the man. He yanked hard on the man’s tongue, pulling until he could hear the sound of muscles tearing and the ligaments fraying. The sound bounced off the walls. The man was screaming until suddenly his mouth was so full of blood that there was nothing but a gurgle. Frost pulled one more time, tearing the tongue completely out. He placed the severed tongue on the counter and picked up the knife. He wiped his brow and smiled salaciously. “Shall we begin?”

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

The Kitchens of Dhâd Bûrz

As she entered the kitchens, Zarâm observed Frost stab the man in the shoulder and give the knife a sharp twist. It seemed that the man in question needed to learn some manners about how to behave at the dinner table, or more accurately, on the dinner table.

"I am honoured to accept it," Zarâm replied as Frost kissed her hand after greeting her. "After all, we have been through several adventures together, yet I can't recall having a meal together, unless you call a pub fight interspersed with some drinks a meal."

She followed Frost over to where the tressed man lay on the dinner table and he asked if she thought they had enough supplies to create their dinner. "Your knife collection is very impressive," she said, "and the food selection sounds delicious." She eyed the man on the table, and judging from his clothing, what little there currently was, determined that he was a Gondorian. "In what way did this man offend you that you reward him by making him our dinner?" Only the greatest of offences resulted in the honour of becoming dinner.

Before Frost could answer, the tone of the man's muffled screams changed from ones of pain to that of utter terror. Zarâm too felt a slight change in the air and turned to face the entryway where she observed the entrance of the third guest of the evening. Zarâm's eyes narrowed briefly in surprise at seeing the personal secretary of the Witch-King enter the Dhâd Bûrz Kitchens. She had never expected to be in the presence of such an esteemed individual.

Frost moved forward and bowed as he greeted her by name and Lady Sombelenë commented on how something needed to be done about the dulcet tones of the man. Zarâm bit her lip in thought, wondering how someone could not enjoy the cries of terror. it had been far too long since she had been in the presence of someone this terrified. She was quite enjoying it and didn't look forward to it ending so soon.

Then to her great surprise Frost quickly grabbed a knife, removed the man's gag, and sliced out his tongue! The screams instantly turned to a gurgle as the man's mouth filled with blood. For a brief second Zarâm stood still in her tracks, then her sense's quickly returned to her as she scolded Frost, "If you're going to cut out his tongue, at least turn his head so he doesn't drown in his own blood!" She grabbed a bowl from the counter, marched towards the table and placing the bowl on the table jerked the man's head to the side, allowing the blood to flow out of his mouth and into the bowl instead of down into his throat. "Drowned meat isn't anywhere near as tasty as flayed alive."

She turned, her hands still slightly bloody and said to Lady Sombelenë, "It is an honour to meet you." And to Frost she added, "I hope you're planning to use that tongue for something delicious. It'll be of much more use as a tasty morsel than it ever was to this vile piece of vermin." She kept her hand firmly on the man's head, preventing it from moving and disrupting the flow of blood. "And now that I've kept you from killing our dinner, yes, I am ready to begin."

[Moriel]

The Kitchens

So unsubtle. Sombelenë watched their host rip the tongue from his victim. His technique was fair, she would give Frost that, and this was by far the most common tactic when it came to shutting up someone you didn’t want to be able to talk- apart from simply cutting their throat. And yet, not the most effective: as evidenced by the man’s continued gurgles and moan, he could still produce sounds, simply not form words in the conventional fashion. He was likely to continue to be most tiresome were this not remedied. She watched the orc then (Zarâm), who had the sense to turn the man’s head and allow the blood to drain away. Drowning was a terrible way to die, but not usually the method of choice to be found in these pits, and certainly not the sort of entertainment she was expecting of Frost tonight. The orc greeted her then and Sombelenë did not reply directly, merely commenting as she glided across the room towards the man, “If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing properly.” She took up a position at the unfortunate man’s side, across from Zarâm and Frost, so that the tongueless man’s face was away from her, dripping grotesquely into the bowl. One long white hand lifted, and Sombelenë stroked the man’s filthy, sweaty hair, as though he were a lost child. “Calm yourself,” she crooned, “it could all be so much worse.” Her hand drifted down, caressing the side of his neck and she hummed softly, some long lost melody of comfort. The tips of Sombelenë’s sensitive fingers searched out the hollow that traced the side of the man’s neck, until yes- the bundle of fibers presented itself, seeming to quiver, as if they anticipated what was to come. The noises the man had been making have become confused at this treatment, as slowly as he tried to discern what was happening, Sombelenë’s hand formed into a fist, the knuckle of her index finger protruding further than the others. Briefly this circled the spot she had pinpointed and then, with a lightning, whiplike movement of her arm, the fist coiled and snapped forward, striking the spot with a precision born of ages. Abruptly the noises ceased, like a spigot switched suddenly off, leaving not even a tickle of water. The force of the blow had caused a light splatter of blood to arise from the man, striking Sombelenë across the face. “He shan’t be bothering us any more.” The Avar wiped the largest droplet of blood from beneath her eye with the tip of one finger. “But worry not. He can still feel everything. I too am ready to begin with whatever it is you have planned for us this evening, Frost.” Sombelenë licked the blood from her fingertip with pleasure, turning glittering gold eyes upon the orc (Zarâm). “You, I do not know your name.”

[Baphởmet]

The Kitchens of Dhâd Bûrz

“It’s really a simple matter,” Frost said as he watched Zarâm turn the prisoner over and collect the blood in a bowl, “of disrespect. This little pest tired to break into a warehouse I own in the White City and steal something I meant for Taethowen. Luckily, I had a warding rune inscribed on the door so I knew exactly when it happened and exactly where he went.”

He patted the man’s face in gesture of mock concern. “You learned that that was a bad idea, didn’t you?” He slapped him hard across the face. “I don’t like it when people take things I mean to give a gifts. And speaking of gifts!” He picked the tongue up and brought it to the counter. Placing on a stone cutting board, Frost selected the meat knife and began slicing the outer layer of skin off the meat.

“Zarâm, I would be honored if you would sous-chef for me. There’s some garlic over there,” Frost pointed with the knife the arrangement of veggies, spices, and herbs, “if you would be so kind as to smash some cloves for me and place them in the pan with some oil and lemon juice while I slice the tongue I would be most appreciative.”

He smiled, a devilish twinkle in his eye. He sliced a sliver off the tongue and raised it to his lips. The meat was tough, but had a wonderfully tangy flavor. “This one talked a lot, you can tell by how little fat there is here. Would either of you like a sample?”

Frost ran the knife over the muscle twice more producing two more prosciutto thin slivers. He watched then, as Sombelenë strode across the floor and with a few quick, almost intimate moves, found the man’s vocal chords and paralyzed them with viper like precision. He was both impressed and a little let down. Yes, the man would still feel everything that was about to happen to him, but now Frost would have no way of really gauging how much the man regretted his decision to steal from him. He had removed the tongue in such a brutal fashion because he still wanted to hear some of the music the man could make. Ah well, best make our own music tonight.

“I gathered you both here for special purposes. Zarâm, you’ve become one of my closest associates in Mordor since I returned. You helped rescue me from the Rohan prison and you’ve always been down for a good brawl. I wanted you to rise with me in an endeavor I’m hoping can elevate our status here in the Black Lands. And you, Lady Sombelenë, I invited you here tonight, to my sanctuary, tell you a story. A story that I hope will catch your interest. A story about books, dead men, and the keys to a kingdom rotting in the ice.”

The Númenórean dipped his hands in a bowl of water and wiped his hands dry on a towel. On the other side of the kitchen stood a massive cabinet with dark, rowan wood doors. Frost swung the doors open to reveal a massive collection of bottles of liquor and wine, enough to rival any of the pubs and taverns in Middle-Earth. He pulled out several, examined them, frowned and put them back. Finally, he found the bottle he was looking for. Black liquid slushed in the half empty bottle.

“This is a special wine. It’s the first bottle I ever bought once I became the head of the White Raven Guild in Umbar. It’s a special wine from the lands of the Easterlings, some say the grapes were grown in the very glade the Elves first awoke.” He pulled out three perfectly spherical wine glasses and brought everything to the counter. He pulled the cork from the bottle and poured a small measure of the wine into each glass. He gave one to Zarâm and the other to Sombelenë.

“May the Ice be cold, and the Iron be cruel,” he said with purpose, looking intently at the Avar secretary of the Witch-King, “and to new ventures and friendships.”

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

The Kitchens

Zarâm nodded in understanding as Frost explained the man's theft. One simply did not cross the Númenórean, especially if involved Taethowen. "A just punishment for a hideous crime. And a delightful dinner for us," she replied.

After Sombelenë entered the room and she had greeted the new guest, Frost asked her to sous-chef and he gestured over to where the veggies, spices, and herbs lay on the counter. As she made her way over to mash the cloves and sauté them with oil and lemon juice, Frost began to slice the recently ripped out tongue. After sapling it, he offered a sample, to which Zarâm replied with a resounding, "Yes." And after tasting it, agreed that it was a very tasty morsel.

Zarâm then watched with great interest as Sombelenë found the man's vocal chords and promptly paralyzed them. She was honestly quite disappointed in the sudden quiet of the room, even though the removal of the man's tongue had already reduced his cries. Yes, he could still feel, but it would be so much harder to judge the man's reactions now. Dinners were supposed to be kept alive and in terror and pain for as long as possible. But now, it would be much harder to judge the scale of the man's pain, which meant he might fall unconscious far to early. But, if that were to happen, Zarâm had ways to revive him. As Sombelenë licked a drop of blood from her finger, she turned towards Zarâm and inquired as to her name, "I am called Zarâm, your Ladyship," she she quickly bobbed her head. She had heard rumours about the Witchking's secretary and knew this woman was not one to cross, but was uncertain of the proper titles and respect she was to be given. Hopefully she hadn't messed things up too badly.

Once the cloves were well-mashed and satuéing beautifully in the lemon juice and oil, and the pleasing aroma began to waft about the kitchens, Frost began to explain his reasoning for inviting the two of them to this special dinner party. "I must say the prospect sounds intriguing," Zarâm replied. Anything to raise their statuses in the Black Land was bound to be an adventure that she would willingly partake in. It had been far too long since the exciting escapade in Rohan and she was itching for something beyond the Black Market and hoppit darts.

Frost proceeded to bring out a bottle of wine from the storage. Zarâm smacked her lips eagerly upon the discovery of the wine's origins. She had never tasted such a rare drink before as Irmie, for obvious reasons, did not carry such delicies to her knowledge. Once all three glasses were poured, he raised a toast.

"May the Ice be cold, and the Iron be cruel,” she repeated, and took a sip of the wine. "Now, what is this endeavour you speak of?"

[Moriel]

The Kitchens

“Zarâm.” Sombelenë turned the name over with her tongue. It was rare to find an orc with manners, as this one seemed to have, and rare to find a female orc hanging about the Dhâd Bûrz at all. Interesting. The aromas of the kitchen began to change as Zarâm carried out Frost’s instructions with the pungent garlic, so that the odors of fear-sweat and blood were soon overwhelmed by those of alium fried in oil, and the faint tang of citrus. Such was the nature of scent that, still standing close to the man upon the table, Sombelenë still caught a coppery sanguine undercurrent. All in all, most pleasing. As he worked, Frost spoke, and here her attention caught. A story to tell her, had he? From what little she knew of the man, he seemed more intelligent than to ply her with fairy-stories and think he would live to waste her time. Books. Dead men. The keys to a kingdom rotting in ice. Golden eyes tracked the back of Frost’s neck as he moved to the wine cabinet. Sombelenë accepted the delicate glass, her fingernails clinking lightly against it. She gripped it from below with the pads of her fingers and raised it to eye level to examine the contents: strange, black wine, viscous looking, and served in a small enough measure to belie its potency.

"May the Ice be cold, and the Iron be cruel." Sombelenë lowered her glass, just enough to lock eyes with Frost over its rim. Her face betrayed no surprise, but the barest narrowing of the eyes indicated her understanding. Zarâm parroted the words, but nothing of the meaning, and Sombelenë held the Númenorean’s gaze until the orc had finished, then herself repeated the phrase: “May the Ice be cold, and the Iron be cruel.” Allowing the spell to break by interspersing the far rim of her glass between herself and Frost, Sombelenë drank. The wine flowed over her tongue and coated every surface of her mouth, and the smallest of sighs escaped her. It was a flavor both foreign and familiar, and those who had speculated on the origins of its fruits had not been mistaken. What it must have cost the man she could not have guessed, but was determined to find out.

“Yes, Nixë (Frost, Q),” the Avar supported Zaram’s question, “Do tell us.”

[Baphởmet]

The Kitchens of Dhâd Bûrz

The wine was good. It was sweet, but dry with an aftertaste that reminded the Númenórean of salt water. He watched the avar’s reaction to his words over the rim of the glass. Her reaction was barely there, the tiniest narrowing of the eyes, but Frost saw it. His smile was slow and wicked, the name Nixë was not one he had been called in a very, very long time, the woman that had called him that had likely passed on over the seas by now. He drained glass in a quick draft and set the glass down hard on the table. The wine was very strong, he could feel the ethereal, incorporeal fingers crawling up his spine.

“I promise the both of you beautiful ladies that you shall have the full tale of why I brought you here but first, I think we could all do with a bit of poetry.” He swung his gaze slowly but meaningfully to the man tied up on the table. Without haste, Frost made his way to the table and looked over the pitiful excuse of a man. He was quiet for a few moments, considering his next motions and words carefully.

“Are you a devotee of poetry?” He asked the man, knowing he could not respond. Frost looked up to his two guests and continued speaking to the man. “I believe my guests have at least a passing acquaintance with it. Lady Sombelenë has probably gotten to know more than a few poets in her many long nights. Tell me, my dear fool, have you ever heard of the Black Bard? Likely not. He wasn’t as widely read as he deserved. He was very popular in Mordor and Umbar, he used to have a theatre in Umbar too, he would put on the most salacious and sanguineous plays. His sonnets are things beauty, transcendent sentences writ with blood and ash.”

He turned back to the man and began to loose the bindings on his legs. “He was once quoted as saying ‘There is no truth without pain, no beauty without blood’ Tell me, do you think that’s true?” Frost slammed a fist into the man’s kneecap, cracking the bones there. He grabbed the corresponding foot and began to pull upward while pressing the knee down. He did this all without breaking a sweat and without breaking his concentration. “I believe he was telling the truth. I have caused so much pain in my years, and I have seen so much truth. I have seen what lies behind the eyes of dead men and pulled the, back from beyond the spheres of the word.” The bones began to crack on the pressure, the man on the table, voiceless, roared with pain, his nostrils flaring out and his eyes rolled back into his head. “I have looked upon absolute pain, and therefore, by the logic of the Black Bard, I have looked into eyes of truth itself. What do you think about the second part?” He pressed harder and harder until there was a loud, earthy, sonorous CRACK and the leg suddenly bent forward. There was a tearing sound as Frost twisted the limb around and pulled the man’s twisted foot toward his thigh. He paused and looked at the man, the corner of his lip pulling into a smile. “There. I think you’ve seen something. I think you’ve seen a spark of truth within yourself.”

He turned back to his guests and stretched his hands out wide. “I believe our guest of honor is learning more about himself than he ever knew was possible. He is transcending from a mere thief into a sentient work of art. Would either of you two beautifully black souls like to help him on his journey? What kinds of pain can we inflict upon him?” He looked from Zarâm to Sombelenë with an expression of invitation.

Frost turned back to the man and brushed the tear from his eye. “You once used your legs to run from me, but they did not help you. Your body betrayed you and give you up to me. I, we, are going to transform you. Your legs will now keep you grounded and in place. You will no longer be fleeting but eternal.”

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

The Kitchens

As they were talking, and the smell of the garlic continued to waft about the room, Sombelenë greeted Frost with a name Zarâm was unfamiliar with, Frost slowly loosened the rope binding the man's legs as he quoted the Black Bard. She wouldn't say she was overly familiar with his art, but the little she had heard, she greatly appreciated.

And then, Frost broke the man's kneecap and in a fluid movement pulled the leg up, while keeping the knee in place until more bones loudly broke and the man's leg bent in quite an unnatural position, his leg being quite near his hip. Zarâm wished Sombelenë hadn't been so quick to paralyze the man's vocal chords as she knew dulcet tones would have been very pleasant to listen to. As it was, it was clear that he was silently roaring in well-deserved pain. She chuckled darkly as a grinning Frost brushed a tear from the man's face while asking herself and Sombelenë what sort of pain they should inflict.

Zarâm glared at the man, pondering her options. Considering the amount of pain he was clearly in from the assault on his leg, whatever the next step was, it should be done quickly, and while it ought to be painful, it shouldn't be as painful as the current leg situation as they didn't want him going unconscious yet. But off course, between the three in the room, they could probably come up with some ingenious ways to keep the man conscious if necessary.

She ran a sharp fingernail along the side of the man's cheek, grinning with pleasure when he flinched under her tender mercies. "Perhaps we should teach him a lesson about keeping his fingers where they belong." She wandered over to the counter where some meat tenderizers were kept hanging against the wall. She picked one up, swung it lightly in her hand, and determining that it was of the right weight, went back to where the trussed up man lay in a cold sweat. She loosened the rope around his right arm just enough to pull his hand away from his body and place it flat on the table and held it in place with her left hand. Before too much longer, he would be in so much delirious pain, the rope would become useless. Raising the meat tenderizer in her right hand, she brought it down hard, but calculated, on the man's pinky finger, smashing the first joint. "This will teach you not to go swiping things that don't belong to you." The man tried to curl his fingers into a ball, but Zarâm kept a tight grip on his hand, pressing down firmly so as not to let it go anywhere. She repeated the motion on the second joint and his knuckle. The finger was now a flat, mushy mess, but hardly any blood as Zarâm was trying to avoid breaking the skin as much as possible. Too much blood too quickly and the fun would be over.

Zarâm continued to repeat the process for each of the fingers and thumb on the right hand. By the time she was finished, it was obvious that the hand would never again be used for pilfering anything. More tears, of pain or fear, Zarâm was uncertain, were streaming down the man's face. "Now then, it doesn't do to waste a good drink," she said, leaning over and licking the tears off his cheeks. The man's face clean, Zarâm stood back up and once again ran her finger along the man's cheek, this time continuing down his neck until her finger caught on the edge of his tunic. "Hmm, how much longer will you be wearing clothes I wonder," she murmured, glancing up at the other two cooks in the kitchen.

[Moriel]

The Kitchens

She continued to sip the wine, watching Frost as he spoke to the man on the table. His description of the Black Bard and his works was quite eloquent, and a bit of psychological torture… the man was not without skill, Sombelenë observed, circling the rim of her glass with one finger. Torments of the mind were her own particular specialty. Skilled though she was in bodily torture, the Avar had spent eons perfecting the subtle infiltration and manipulation of recalcitrant psyches. His strength was not without merit either. Her golden head tilted to one side as she watched Frost bend the man’s leg the opposite was it was accustomed to, having first destroyed its knee to ease the process. From her position behind him, she had an excellent view of the musculature of his arms and back as he worked, straining against the muscle, bone, and sinew which strove to retain their shape. It was futile, and the resounding crack that rang through the room as the leg surrendered sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. His feat of might accomplished, Frost offered his guests the opportunity to partake.

Sombelenë gestured languidly with her free hand, indicating her willingness to wait, even as Zarâm stepped forward to take a turn at the table. The orc woman took a more direct tack, admonishing their prisoner like a schoolmarm with a naughty pupil. Rather than a switch on the back of his legs, however, or a ruler on his palm, her tool of choice was a meat tenderizer, applied to the fingers of his right hand. Methodically Zarâm destroyed each finger, and Sombelenë nodded her approval. Good technique, limiting the breakage of skin. And poetic, given the crime that had landed the man here. The licking of his tears was a bit of an excess, but Sombelenë had known very few subtle orcs in her life. Draining her glass, the Avar sauntered over to the station at which her companions had previously worked with their aromatics, and deposited her glass upon its surface. From a drawer she retrieved a length of twine, which would conventionally be used to truss a bird, or tie a roast.

“Now, this is supposed to be a dinner, is it not?” Sombelenë’s musical voice asked, its owner crossing to the table where the wretched man lay. Her hand dropped to her thigh, and from an unnoticeable slit in her gown she drew a slim knife, its hilt patterned precisely the same as the cloth. Flicking Zarâm’s hand away from the man’s tunic with the blade, Sombelenë began, deliberately, to cut the tunic away. “Don’t you think,” she suggested, as the slow zzzip of sharp knife through fabric descended down his arm, “It might be time to acquire some meat?” The man’s torso and nearest arm laid bare, Sombelenë laid down her knife beside him. Taking up the twine, she looped it twice around his upper arm, tucked into the armpit as closely as possible to the shoulder. With both hands moving in opposite directions, she pulled the twine cruelly tight, before knotting it swiftly. Again she lifted the knife.

Tendrils of blood rose and spilled down the upper arm as she split its skin in one clean line from shoulder to elbow on the inside. As she worked down each side of the cut, sliding her knife between skin and muscle, the arm oozed but did not spurt, the tourniquet performing its duty effectively. Lovingly Sombelenë peeled back the skin, exposing the glistening muscle beneath. It was a fine, well-kept looking muscle, and she paused a moment to admire it before proceeding. As before she softly hummed as she worked. Long, pale, delicate fingers worked their way beneath the bellies of the muscle, with soft tearing sounds as they separated flaccid, sticky muscle from bone. She raised the biceps slightly, creating a small space beneath them in which she inserted her knife. The blade facing toward his shoulder, she slid it up, past the muscle, along the two large tendons that affixed their proximal ends, and to the point of joining between sinew and bone. Here the blade met resistance, and the Avar answered with a flick of her wrist. With a satisfying pop- pop! the tendons separating, springing back from the tension which had held them, and releasing muscle from shoulder. Grasping both heads of the muscle firmly in her hand, Sombelenë raised it high, exposing the distal tending, still clinging to bone below. With another swift flick of the blade, this too was defeated, and the butchered meat lay free in her hand. The Avar turned, and held it, dripping, out to Frost.

“Fresh.”

[Baphởmet]

Frost
The Kitchens of Dhâd Bûrz

Frost watched in quiet anticipation as Zarâm smashed each joint of the man’s fingers. A slow smile crept into his lips, a low chuckle escaped him, the sound echoed dully in the cold air of the subterranean kitchens. He rubbed his hands together in appreciation and stepped up beside the orc. “Very nice, well executed. It does lack a bit of the subtly one gains with experience but it seems quite effective. The licking of the tears was an interesting touch,” he chuckled, “can’t say I’ve ever though of doing that before. If you would allow me the honor, I would love to teach you some of the finer points of torture and information extraction.”

He ushered Zarâm aside as the regally garbed Avar took her position next to the bound man. Frost’s smile curled again and he tilted his head to the side to get a better look. The deftness of the woman’s hands, the grace of her simplest movements, the depravity with which she undertook the almost mundane act, these were the work of a master craftsman. Frost prided himself at being good at causing pain and inflicting misery. What he witnessed from Sombelenë was nothing sort of artistry. He had heard that the elven torturers here were legendary. With regard to the secretary of the Witch-King, those stories were not overwrought.

Frost resisted clapping as she pulled away the bloody prize. He accepted the flesh with a gracious bow. “My lady.” He spared a glance at the man that could have been mistaken for pity, had it not been followed up with a deep, sonorous laugh that filled the space with malice and contempt. “I think I know just the way to prepare this.”

With rapacious speed, the Númenórean took the meat to the skillet. The meat sizzled and the blood boiled with a angry hiss. “It’s like music isn’t it?” he asked either of his guests. He grabbed a container of oil and poured a dollop into the pan, again the pan sizzled and bubbled. The aroma was fresh and nutty, with the vague coppery scent of blood. Frost inhaled deeply and sighed with wicked contentment. “This needs some…” he trailed off as he looked over the stone surface, his deep blue eyes searching for… “there you are,” he scooped up the extra chopped garlic clove Zarâm and prepared before and tossed it in. The smell of garlic cooking was divine (or perhaps it would be more accurate to say it was infernal given where they were). Frost licked his thumb, remnants of the man’s blood, mixed with the bite of the garlic stuck to his finger. “Not bad,” he mumbled absently. The flesh, as fresh and thinly sliced as it was, did not take long to cook. Within a moment, he flipped the meat. There was just enough pink for his liking. Once it was finished, he stabbed at the meat with a fork then sliced it into four equal portions. He artfully placed each piece on a slab of wood. With great aplomb he presented the morsel first to Sombelenë then to Zarâm. He downed his own in a single bite. The meat melted in his mouth, the instant it touched his tongue. The savory juices practically exploded. He closed his eyes and blocked out everything in the room for a moment, letting the experience wash over him.

“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten you,” he said when he swallowed and opened his eyes. “The Black Bard once said that we eat of ourselves, we touch the divine within us. Do you think,” he moved to the side of the table again and stared at the mangled man with a crooked glance, “that you have anything divine in you?” As soon as he finished, Frost shoved the piece of flesh, torn from the man not minutes before, into his mouth and held his fast, covering his mouth and nose until he was forced to swallow. “See? Do you feel more like a god? Shall we commit deicide this night?”

[Baphởmet]

Îzlin
Somewhere Dark and Alone

Tears stung as they fell from her dry eyes. They cut rivulets in her dirty, pain wracked features. They disappeared amidst the gouges in her cheek, moistening the dried blood enough to make her look as though she was weeping blood. She might as well have been. She had no more tears left. She had been left here, alone in the dark for so long. How long had it been? How many days had passed since she saw another person? She would even rejoice to see her torturer now, vile and monstrous though he may be.

She swallowed. Pain flooded and overloaded her senses. Her throat constricted and convulsed. She coughed; deep, wet, hacking coughs. She moaned and whimpered piteously. But there was no one to hear her. This place was so deep and black. No light had ever touched this place. No light ever could. Not even the light of her angel.

“O Mighty Watcher, thou art all and art in thee,” she rasped. The prayer of invocation was a familiar one to these walls by now, she had prayed and prayed and prayed but no answer could come. Her angel was unable to save her, unable to breach a place so dark and full of death.

“O Mighty Sentinel, thou art the conscious one,” she whispered, her voice like the rattling of bones. She could not help herself. She must pray. He would find a way, he would find a way to breach the gates of this hellish place and rescue her, he would grip her tight and raise her from perdition. He would.

She was chained to a table. She remembered when they brought her in. They strapped her to the table with chains and leather and tied her excessively tight. She could not move. She had tried when they left her there. That had been, how long had it been?

They asked her questions, questions she didn’t understand. “What was she doing there?” “What did she know?” “Where was she going with that?”

Had she brought something with her? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps she had. It felt like ages ago. When they didn’t like her answers, they would cut her, or they would burn her. And they did not like a lot of her answers.

The big one had said to leave her here, to let her stew before they came back for another session of questions and answers.

But he didn’t come back. None of them had. She had been alone down here, so far from the light for so long. Her lips were dry and cracked, they split open when she tried to scream and she nearly choked on her own blood.

They were never coming back. They’d forgotten her.

Everyone had forgotten her.

Not her angel though, her angel was powerful. He would not forget her. He would find a way inside. That’s why she continued to pray.

“Conquering lion headed one! By the name of Legion dost thou arrive. Thou art the prophet in the desert, thou hast bled for the fallen idols from beyond, prevailing strength hath made thee great.” She called out helplessly in the darkness.

They would never get the answers they sought. Never.

She would hold the secrets of the grove as long as she held breath. She knew the secret of the grove and none of these orcs were going to prying it from her.

A strange sound emitted from her then, a sound likely not heard this far in the depths of the Pits. She laughed. She laughed and laughed and cackled and giggled until finally her voice gave and she slept.

When she awoke, the darkness greeted her. She was not alone in this darkness though. She could feel something crawling over her. She heard the chittering and hissing of something alive. She felt the slow, ponderous steps of tiny creature as it moved from her chest to her neck and finally began crawling across her cheek. She shifted and bit down on the thing that fell into her mouth. It crunched. The taste was foul and gooey, but she knew she was alive thanks to it.

“I am I,” she shouted to the void. The sound echoed on and on endlessly until the only sound she could hear was the sound of her breath, ragged and uneven.

“Please… find me…” Îzlin said the ensorcelled darkness. “Find me and I will tell you all my secrets, all the secrets of the grove and where to find it and what the fruits can do. I know. I know. I know. I know. I know them all. I have seen the light of the first stars. I gave of myself to my angel and he lifted me to the heavens…” she broke into giggles.

“I’ll never tell,” the Easterling said in a singsong voice. “I’ll never tell what happens when you take of the fruit of the grove. Travel so far, so far, so far and yet still so far away. I’ll never tell...”

(OOC: Select lyrics taken from "Reign ov Shemsu-Hor" by Behemoth)

[Galadrihell]

Sil is searching

i am a whisper, a breath in the dark
cut loose from all bonds, and yet they seek to bind me,
the dragging chains, the inexorable command;
the Halls of Lamentation
not again

again

again

houseless and unformed, i am cold in the dark
naked in the void
without a warm body

Bring me a heartbeat
some kind vessel
a shelter, beloved, a shell
come find me
come hide me
inside

[Baphởmet]

Îzlin
Somewhere Dark and Alone

Was someone there? Îzlin tried to strain against her earthly, tactile bonds.

“The seers once spoke of the angel
I used to dream in the grove
Now as I pray, I can sense you
And I know you’re here

Here in these pits, they call me softly
Somewhere inside, hiding
Somehow I know they're always with me
They, the unseen legion

Angel of darkness, lion and shadow
Grant to me your glory
Angel of legion, hide no longer
Eldritch and strange angel
You’re with me even now

All around me

You frighten me…”

Would her angel hear her here?

(OOC:Lyrics adapted from "Angel of Music" by Andrew Lloyd Webber)

[Galadrihell]

I am here
I’ll stay with you, and
you’ll never be lonely again;

I’ll eat up all the memories
too sharp for tasting
I’ll drink the tears away
and drain the hollows from your body
I’ll sip the sting from every grief
pour oblivion like honey,
thick and slow and liquid-sweet
drown your mortal sorrows in my ancient song

I am your angel
Come to me, Angel
Let me in

[Baphởmet]

Îzlin
Somewhere Dark, with her angel

Are you there angel? It’s my Îzlin
Do you remember me?
The whisper of your shadow
The starshine of your night?

Will you break my chains and sunder my bonds?
Will you free me from all morality?

Thou that flowest, thou that goest
Open up your black diamond eyes, and we rejoice as all creation dies

Angel

Oh Angel

Free me and I will be yours
Your vessel, your sword, your oblivion flavored nightmare

Rescue me from darkness
And spread the darkness forth

I can hear you calling
I can hear you calling me

Look through my eyes
see through my eyes

One could lose a lifetime, praying in isolation

[Galadrihell]

Silendra doesn’t need to be asked twice. The Pits are always her prime hunting ground after her latest body has been destroyed; it is full of wretched souls who pray for release. What Silendra offers is less that than... well, eviction, although upon rare occasions, she’s allowed a sufficiently obliging Host along with her for the ride.

This girl doesn’t look anything like that. Whilst her soul might still be intact and salvageable, her mind is a mess. No doubt someone with loving kindness, patience and care could restore her to some semblance of her former self. She could walk out of here, a while being again, ready to serve once more...

but Silendra’s not that person, and she intends to walk out of here on those long, lovely legs herself.

She’s only a breath, a thought and a whisper. Punishment in the Halls of Lamentation can be anything from an excruciating instant to years. She’s long gone beyond any hope of finally answering the call to Mandos. There is only this: the endless, hopeless cycle of necromancy, sliding on one tired body after another, animating another form with the scraps of unquiet spirit that once called itself by another name.

But having a body is infinitely, incredibly better than not. Her month yammering in the void under the gaze of the Lidless Eye has been a sharp reminder.

Gentle as a knife, Silendra sinks into Îzlin’s mind and opens her salt-sticky eyes.

[Galadrihell]

Silendra was more accustomed to waking up under tables than on them.

Her eyes snapped open in the dark. For a moment there was nothing but blackness; then, as her pupils adjusted, she made out the craggy ceiling above her, a roughened surface of stone that had absorbed a few lifetimes of screams. Pain was the next thing she registered: hot, bright and welcome, from the dull hum in her muscles to a few, sharper agonies. Silendra relaxed into the sensation, shielding Îzlin’s soul from it and allowing the girl’s mind to sink into a deep velvet oblivion whilst Sil tested her own new limits. There was nothing like pain to remind yourself you were once again alive.

She flexed her arms and wriggled her toes, experimentally.

Crud-buckets. She was strapped to the table.

“Oh, of course,” Silendra croaked with her stolen voice, ill-used and hoarse from all the screaming Îzlin had been doing. How inconvenient. Something was tickling her chin. Had the wretched child been eating beetles?

Silendra turned her head to the side and spat debris from her lips. “Helloooooo,” she ventured, stretching her voice to its limits as she shouted in the direction of what she believed to be the door. “I do believe I’m quite ready to confess now...”

[Baphởmet]

Trygmagystus
Checking on Îzlin

“You made me quite a bit o' coin tonight girlie,” a harsh voice like the scrapping of metal on metal said out of the darkness. A pair of cold, greenish yellow eyes appeared out of the shadows, the silhouette of a goblin soon followed. Clawed hands pawed at the leather strains and iron chains that kept the girl secured to the wooden table, lingering far too ,ong in some places. “I was the only one that thought you'd last longer than two weeks down here. Everyone else thought you’d cask in a few days. Not me, I knew you was stronger.” His breath was hot and acidic. “But everyone breaks sooner or later. Tha's the beauty of this place… no one lasts forever.” The chains fell away from the table and corded, muscular arms ripped the girl from the table.

She fell in a clump on the floor. Trygmagystus chuckled through jagged, knife like teeth and licked his lips. The goblin hooked an arm under hers and yanked her up to a hunched over position, nearly pulling shoulder out of joint. He half dragged the bony, starved, half-mad girl to the door, tossing her carelessly through the door frame. He locked the iron doors behind him, looping the keys back onto his belt. The stench of the globlin's breath was close to her ear, a malignant cloud of buzzing, ragged breath.

“So you're ready to tell us about the grove, eh? Good, boss is really excited to know what you found out.”

[Galadrihell]

Silendra remained limp as a boned fish - although fortunately, not as slimy, and possessing considerably more bones - as the goblin on duty dragged her new body out of the door, not without some effort. Silendra noted with satisfaction that whilst her new vessel could certainly do with some feeding, and absolutely required quite a lot of drinking, there was still some weight behind this frame that promised solid muscle once the work was done.

“Grove? What in Melkor’s bad name do you want with a grove?” she mumbled, cross-referencing Îzlin’s tattered memories and coming up with nothing. “And she was stronger than you think - in a way. She would never have told you anything: mostly because you idiot bumblefoots reduced her mind to mush and left the gates wide open for the likes of Me,” Silendra added, in perfectly articulate Black Speech.

“Well? Let go of me, ditherer. I’ll speak to “The Boss” myself now I’m home. There are some of my clothes in the main torturer’s chamber - from my last dalliance with the Warden. Bring them down: or not, I’ve walked through this place naked plenty of times.”

It made for less laundry, as staining was inevitable in the Pits.

[Baphởmet]

The Last Feast

(Private)

Day 2:
Things have been strange in the Pits recently. I am not complaining of course, I enjoy my work down here; it’s just that things have been increasingly strange. I document this now because I feel compelled to detail what has been happening in the off chance that something comes of it. Two days ago, I was given a human to work on. I was given the singular directive: “Work them”. There were no secrets or information I was directed to uncover, no confession I was asked to extract. Just “Work them”. So that’s what I did. We are rarely not given a directive in the Pits. There is always a purpose to the viscera and screams and blood. Every now and then, though, something slips through, and we are allowed to indulge our inner artist. I strapped the human to the rack and began to stretch them. The rack is my favorite device. Whether I have a purpose or not, the rack gives me the freedom and leniency to work on a canvas like no other. I can always count on the screams to tell me how efficiently I am doing my work, how artfully I am creating. But this human was different. They didn’t scream. Not once. They didn’t make a sound.

Normally I am met with a plethora of pleading, cursing, and bargaining, but this one was different. Their eyes were dead and cold, dull and lifeless. I stretched them out for nearly an hour, stretching and pulling as slowly as I could to maximize the amount of pain my subject felt. Yet, there was nothing. They didn’t even look at me, their head simply lulled to the side and stared off into nothing. I was frustrated at first. How dare this pathetic worm deny me the pleasure of artistry! How dare they withhold from me that which I so deservedly crave. I stretched them again, tightening the bonds faster, hoping to provoke some kind of reaction. The human started out shorter than me, barely over five feet tall, but by the end of the day’s session, they were nearly a foot taller than me.

The first day ended with my frustration. I could not understand why this human, this thing barely more sentient than the maggots that crawl over them, has so vexed me, denied me, stifled me. I nearly gave into my rage and tore them apart. I cannot begin to express now how good that would have felt. But I knew, even then, I would still receive no reaction, not even a grunt of pain or a whimper. I would have proved my impotence with such a thoughtless act.

Despite the lack of sentient reactions, I was still able to perform masterful work on the second day. The pops, snaps, scrapes all sent gooseflesh over my arms. Even as I write and remember those delicious tearing sounds, I am reminded of something: we are naught but meat. Everything that walks, crawls, slithers, and flies. We are naught but flesh to be torn and rent. This canvas of meat that I have been given is more than something to be sculpted and shaped. This hunk of meat is meant to teach me. And so I shall. I will learn everything I can from this body.

The second day ended with the loss of the subject’s right forearm. It popped twice, then the bone began to rip free of the flesh, eager to be free of the pain I was inflicting. I tore the bone out through the hole it made, leaving the bones in the hand and the bones in the upper arm. The arm sagged and oozed. It was beautiful. The meat glistened and shined. I finally reached a breakthrough. I would have wept if I were capable of such an emotional act. I picked the bone clean and removed all traces of its previous owner. It now sits on my workstation, next to my collection of knives, hooks, and spikes. I am not sure what I will be doing with it but I can feel it calling to me. This bone calls to me more than the living corpse that is still strung to the rack does. It sings to me songs of annihilation, of ripping and tearing and pulling. It also sings songs of completion and addition. This bone I will use to cut into the canvas tomorrow and the doors of knowledge will be open to me. If we are all but flesh, then we are all able to be changed and formed. If I cannot form something from this canvas, this sad cutlet, then I must find one that can be formed, even if that canvas is my own. The bone calls to me. The meat calls to me.

[Baphởmet]

The Last Feast

(Private)

Day 5:
For two days, I was left to my own devises. I was given no prisoner or directives. I occupied my time working the quiver slab of flesh I had been given previously. There was naught to do with the creature though, as they would neither scream, cry out, or beg for mercy. The spirit and vitality were gone, fled to a place where it would be safe from my work. But the flesh remained. The flesh remained. The more I worked with my knives, carving of chunks, slicing through joints, tendons, and ligaments, flaying the skin, the more I became grateful for the peace and quiet. To truly perform the artistry I was born to create, I needed the silence to work in. There was nothing I could do about the shrieks and cries from the other cells, from the other torturers, but at least the tiny bit of the world I controlled was silent. The more silent the butcher shop, the better one can hear the rending and tearing of flesh. Ever torturer enjoys the sound, no matter what they might say, they crave that ripping sound. It is an aphrodisiac. It is a symphonic masterpiece each time. The push and pull, the body itself resisting even if the flesh refuses to react. The hopelessness in the limbs as the first tear is made, when it goes limp. Flesh has no resolve, it only wishes to be transformed and transposed. There are those that work in marble, in clay, wax, or wood. They are pale imitators of the true art form.

I am transcending. I can feel myself change with every cut I make, with every incision, with every twist of the knife.

That first day after I took the bone out of my subjects arm, I spent hours and hours doing whatever I could to produce a reaction. I knew it would be useless, but I wanted to see just how far I could go before there was a sign of life in the meat. But there never was. Despite all I did. I took all the bones from the right arm, leaving the flesh sagging like a wet cloth. The next day, yesterday, I rearranged the bones, listening to them calling, given form to their ideas and their desires. I took the bones from the right leg then, leaving the quivering, eager flesh behind. To see what it would look like, I replaced the bones from the arm into the leg, and from the leg into the arm. The result was amusing. The creature looked like something one might find in the dark end of the carnival. I wanted to go further, I removed the entire left arm and left leg, bones, meat and all. I sewed the leg into the shoulder joint, the leg stuck out sideways and couldn’t bend. The shoulder could barely take the strain. I then sewed the arm into the hip joint. It was not as willing, but meat is meat and I control the flesh. I worked my will upon the limb and it finally bowed to my vision. The limb wrapped around the other leg, I even posed the fingers so that they held onto the knee.

I stood back and admired my work. It was monstrous, evil, and divine. I took the meat off the rack and affixed it to a cross, using the meat’s own intestines to secure it. I could have wept at this, this terribly wonderful creation. I knew it would be but the first of many.

The more I looked though, the more the bones of the meat called it me. It wanted more. Its transubstantiation as not yet complete. Its palingenesis was only partially complete. The reflection of the divine would need more than a single puny slab of long pig. I took the flesh from the cross and laid it out on my butcher table.

I opened the body. It yielded to my touch the way the flowers open for the sun. It recognized it’s messiah, it’s savior and redeemer. I removed the ribs, making clean, precise breaks so that the cage remained intact. The ribs whispered to me a secret which I will never divulge, never write down. They spoke to me of power and strength beyond my comprehension. I turned the knife on myself, sliced my own flesh the placed the ribs inside me. They shifted and snapped and formed within me. I could feel them grow and expand inside me. I could feel myself and my consciousness expanding. I was more than I was before. I had truly begun to ascend. There was no pain, there was only terrible beauty.

This, I was given a new subject, a new slab of flesh. Again I was given no directive. This strangely blue-eyed orc will help me complete the sculpture, my prima donna.

[Winddancer]

Rules updated! Taking effect from this post onwards.

[Ercassie]

Of Keket Halsad
aka ‘The Other Brother’

A cluster of coals bristled in the twisted brazier. They gave light enough, which was to say very little light at all. This was not a place where light thrived. This was where a little effort went a long way, and a little time lasted for what seemed like ever. This was one of countless holes that wore the darkness like a shroud. But this one was his. It belonged to him, to do as he should please. As too was the twitching, pulpy shape that hung from countless hooks, descending to the centre of the room.

His own personal abattoir. The Umbarian had flensed away some parts of the thing in their entirety. A severed ear shell still littered the floor, despoiled by the gnawing of rats that the prisoner had been forced to observe, helpless to protest. Well, protest it had .. tried. There had been sounds made, and of likely complaint, but it was hard to decipher their meaning. The mandible had been carefully excised after all, and the floor of the mouth muscles torn away. Now the tongue thrashed and floundered, like a hangman fretting in it’s noose, drooling gore, but else denied the means to conjure intelligent speech.


And the Umbarian was yet barely begun with his exploration. Contemptuous of the old traditional restraints and anchors, such as sheer stone slabs, or wooden posts, the macabre chandelier of meathooks had been a choice means to sustain an endless agony. The cruel barbs secured their prize in place, testing the strength and endurance of every tissue which could fray and fissure, like wet paper prised slowly apart. A few hooks had worked free by shredding their original holdpoints, but there was more than enough expanse of skin and tendons to compensate with small adjustments. Each convulsing jerk of pain sent the misshapen mass into a new frenzy of motion. Sometimes the committed conductor would seize the merest tug upon one of his victim’s limbs, to set in motion another anarchic dance.

Still the thing refused to die, and the Umbarian was quite astounded at the extents of survival. Quite what the unfortunate was clinging on for, he could not quite comprehend, as certainly it would never escape the four-walled tomb. So each day he tried something new and, he felt, refreshing.

One blood-pooled eye now wept it’s jellied juices. One cheek had been worked properly free of flesh, to see just how long some foul infection festered there, sinew sagging like well-used fly-paper. Ribs broke through the bare chest like shark’s fins and each finger and toe had been resected, one joint at a time. These malformed, osseous marbles now held pride of place in a crude collection, all gathered in a carven wooden box.


Still there came no end to his compulsions; to the poking, prodding, playing. Shadows of the broken, twisted animation threw out warped and monstrous shapes across the cracked stone floor, each seizure of anguish birthing the next. The Umbarian would lie in calm repose beneath his trophy, a jarring grin cut into his countenance, as he watched his dread designs exceed his every expectation. Revelling in the kaleidoscope of cruelty above and about him.

A sheer gallery of stolen suited-armour, after all, beringed the dismal chamber, munching upon muffled moans; the incarcerated knights now welded inside of their own dressage, and weighted where they stood unhappy witness. Their cold-hearted custodian would slowly rise, slathered in the sweat and stains of his centrepiece; then orbit his captive audience, bowing before each and every one of the blanched bodies which was slowly starving to death within the luxuriant prisons of their own making. Lips sewn shut, eyelids securing their blinkless scrutiny. Of the sight not one had want to see, or smell, or suffer as a constant collision to their own private malady.


Long after the door slammed shut behind him, the Umbarian could hear their smothered cries. And long past where that tethered sound could stretch, he dreamt deep in his pillows of the thrilling memory; that giddy excitement, the power he held over his puppets, awaiting and ever afraid for his return.

[Baphởmet]

The Games Foxes Play
(Private with Tara)

He threw the sack of meat on the table and ripped the burlap open. He could smell his subject; the boy had fouled himself more than once on the journey here. “That’s okay now. We can get you all cleaned up and presentable.” Âdhûn chuckled grimly, ripping the rest of the sack open. The boy looked much the same as he had when they had encountered each other in the streets of Minas Tirith’s Marketplace. Thankfully though, now he was blessedly silent. It had been the boy’s rude behavior that landed him in the Black Pits. Âdhûn had merely meant to poison him with the venison jerky. He really should have just eaten the jerky. The pain would have been intense, but it would have killed him quicker. The dwarf, now, was in no hurry to make this short. Brevity had never been his forte. He knew how to butcher and animal; all dwarves learned such things at an early age. His father taught him to do more than that though. He could butcher a man in just under and hour, an elf in a little more. He also knew how to butcher them slowly and keep them awake so they were able to experience the entire process for as long as it took. Some of his brethren had called him cruel. At the time, he was too angry to accept this. But now, years into his exile, he began to think that they were right. He was cruel. What’s more, he enjoyed being cruel. This unlucky Gondorian was about to learn how much he enjoyed it.

He lit a torch and placed it in the sconce by the door. There was already one in the room, but for this sort of work, he wanted more light. The better to see by. Unceremoniously, he dragged the body of the man off the table and pulled him along the floor covered in rat shire, bits of bone, something foul and sticky, and dried vomit. It was the royal treatment this boy deserved. The dwarf chuckled. “See now? All cleaned up.” The room was not large, Âdhûn couldn’t currently afford one of the larger torture chambers. They were lavish affairs; tables, racks, tubs of oil or water or whatever your depraved heart could desire, brazen bulls, a roaring fire and hot coals. The methods of torture were limited only by one’s imagination. The room he had rented for the time being was small and poorly lit. There were only two tables in the room, no furnace, no rack, and no tubs. Still. He had his full array of devices: poker, knife, bamboo shoots, a bucket (there was surely a rat around here somewhere he could catch and use), a pear of anguish, and the old standbys nails and a hammer. That would be more than enough to make sure this boy learned what he needed to learn.

He yanked the boy up on to a stone table and bound him tight with iron manacles on his wrists and ankles and a tight leather strap across his forehead. He stripped his unconscious victim to bare skin. He had to admit, the boy had been in impressive shape. His muscles were lean and there was not much fat on him, except around the sides of his torso. Too bad, really. The body was already covered in a sheen of sweat. It was very, very hot in this room. Âdhûn had requested a room a far below ground and as close to the furnace as possible. He wiped his brow. He could already fill the grime of the room saturating his skin, enhancing his eager resolve. He dug through the pockets, something he would have done in Minas Tirith if he’d had the time. He found a coin purse with a less than generous amount, and a set of dice with the numbers in the wrong place. “Tsk, tsk. A cheater too? I should go to the king and tell them I did them a service and demand payment for taking out the refuse.”

Something skittered in the shadows, giggled maniacally, and grabbed the filthy rags where he’d thrown them before disappearing down a rat hole. “And that,” Âdhûn said in a hoarse whisper, “is why I wanted a second torch. No telling what’s occupying these cells at any given time. And I don’t want your lessons interrupted. You have a lot to learn and, well a very long time to learn it. Let’s begin.”

He clasped his mailed fists together and brought them down as hard as he could on the boy’s stomach, then slapped him across the face. “Lesson One: no sleeping during class!” His voice was hard with an iron edge. He was going to enjoy this.

[Marceline]

The Games Foxes Play
(Private with Frost)

In the beginning, there was nothing. There was only silence, empty space, and freedom from the relentless pull of time. And then, in a rush like a gale racing through a tunnel, Delioron became aware once more that he existed. His eyes flew open as an involuntary cry burst from his lips, and the world came rushing back to greet him. Pain radiated from his core. It was as if his insides had decided to writhe and twist instead of going about their daily business. Then, there came a stinging slap across his face. Strangely, his head did not turn to the side to absorb the blow. Instead, his eyes remained fixed straight ahead. A shock reverberated through his jaw as it flew to the side, and his teeth clashed together when his lower jaw snapped back into place. He groaned again in pain. The throbbing in his stomach had eased, but only slightly.

The next thing he felt was the heat. It was so hot. Beads of sweat ran from his brow into his hair and along his neck. They tickled. He almost laughed. What a strange, strange contrast to the agony he’d awoken to. At almost the same moment, he noticed the tight pressure of the bonds which held him fast: a thick strap held his head in place, and the cool, heavy things around his wrists and ankles must surely be metal. He moved his hands and feet and heard the clanking of chains. As he fidgeted, his bare skin scraped lightly over the rough stone on which he lay. It took several moments for his thoughts to catch up with his senses. Bare skin? Where were his clothes? His every instinct screamed to find some way to conceal himself, and his hands - handcuffs and all - shot to his groin to conceal his shame.

He began to panic. This was not The Jealous Lord. Thoughts flicked through his mind faster than he could understand them. Where am I? What is this place? Why am I here? What is happening? Who is here with me? Where are my clothes? What is this place? Why am I here? What is happening? Why is it so hot?

Gradually, the pain subsided, and he mastered his wild thoughts just enough for his awareness to venture beyond his own body. A single torch flickered across the room. There was a door there. There were also smells. Nothing in Minas Tirith smelled like this room. How could it? It was a beautiful, clean place, free of the diseased decay which must have festered in this room for years beyond counting to produce such a reek. Vaguely, Delioron wondered why he hadn’t noticed the smell before any of the rest. He gagged and retched, but his stomach was empty. It felt hollow, now that the pain had subsided. When had he last eaten? He found that his lips were chapped and painful, and his tongue felt foreign and huge in his mouth, like a strange prickly slug he might choke on at any minute. When had he last sipped a glass of water? Before he’d left the tanners, that was for sure.

All that had happened that afternoon came back to him in a flood of rage. His eyes flicked about the room until he spotted a dark spot amongst dark shadows: short, squat, and menacing. Delioron remembered how the dwarf had attacked him, and his voice cracked from dryness and disuse as he repeated his shout from that day: “You!”

[Baphởmet]

The Games Foxes Play
(Private with Tara)

Âdhûn chuckled. He couldn’t help himself. This boy, even in the Black Pits of Mordor, in the heart of his worst nightmares, still had the bravado of a tower guard at their station. He was something alright. Brave? Stupid? Horrendously unaware of his surroundings? Maybe a little of all three. The dwarf pulled a piece of venison jerky from his pack (not the poisoned one of course) and tore off a piece, smacking his lips and gums loudly as he paced back and forth across the room, the meat juices dripped down his beard. “Got it in one! It’s me indeed! Though with all the enemies and adversaries you no doubt have, I’m surprised I’m the first to do something like this to you.” His smile was twisted and mocking. He moved in and out of the light, casting a long shadow across the naked man. “Care for some jerky now?” He waved the half-eaten chunk under the man’s nose the pulled it away and put it back in his pack. “You know lad, had you simply taken the jerky before, none of this would be necessary. I’m disappointed in you. Not surprised, all you Gondorian men are as bigoted as the day is long, you see anything that isn’t a shapely docile woman and your first thought is to attack it in as many ways as you could. But still very disappointed. Either way though,” he concluded, “You’re going to die and I’m going to enjoy it.”

He selected a boning knife, long and thin with a wickedly sharp point and edge. The handle was the bleached remnant of a human ulna. He’d used it so much the bone itself began to twist and mold itself to his grip. He liked this knife. He tested the edge against his thumb. The edge was still deadly sharp, there would be no need to bring out the whetstone before he used it. It would have been a nice scare tactic, but there was only so much fear this boy was going to take before he simply blacked out and pissed himself.

“First things, first,” he said, spinning the knife between his index and middle fingers, “You can call me by my name, Âdhûn. Or you can call me master. I will answer to either. Call me anything else and I will flay the quivering flesh off of one of your extremities.” He gave a meaningful look to the entirety of the boy’s body. “Are we clear? Okay then.” He smiled broadly, as if he were simply talking to an old friend at a pub but angled the boning knife against the man’s putrescent skin, just at the center of his navel. “First question I have for you, it’s a simple one, don’t worry. I have every confidence you’ll get it right. What is your name?”

[Marceline]

The Games Foxes Play
(Private with Frost)

The unpleasant wet sound of chewing made Delioron wince. That was nothing, though, to the surge of horror which shivered through him when the dwarf spoke - and mockingly, at that. Still shielding himself from view as best as possible, Delioron grimaced and tried in vain to ignore all the signs that he was in a very bad place: the pervasive, offensive smell; the salty odor of the jerky; the dwarf’s voice, heavy with the threat to kill him; the way his skin pressed into the rough stone. It was all too much, and so he simply tried to will it all away.

He had never been polite and pliable, of course, but he’d never received more than a slap on the wrist back in Minas Tirith for his arrogance and cheek. And he’d never even been caught in the act of cheating. Was this all some game? Some cruel joke? He ground his teeth. This was all down to the fact that he’d chanced to offend a dwarf: the stunted, ignorant, bloodthirsty savages were good for nothing more than digging up treasures or constructing walls and gates - all in service of building up the kingdoms of their superiors. Where are the great dwarven cities these days? Delioron thought spitefully. Their kingdoms had crumbled into nothingness an age ago, for all he knew, and he had no motivation to educate himself further.

And this particular specimen - well, it just kept talking. Through his rage and muted fear, Delioron heard it say its name: Adhûn. He heard a light whistling as something spun through the air, but bound as his forehead was to the table, he could not see what was happening. His stomach clenched tightly. It was as if all his fear had concentrated there. Unfortunately, so had the dwarf. Delioron felt a light pressure against his navel. He dared not look to see what it was.

“Adhûn, is it?” he rasped, his voice still hoarse. He cursed inwardly; he had hoped to put up a stronger facade than this weak whisper. “Well, Adhûn, what say you tell me exactly what it is you think you’re doing?”

[Baphởmet]

The Games Foxes Play
(Private with Tara)

The dwarf bit back a snarl. Even bound and chained this little smear of excrement thought he was still in control of things. Âdhûn wondered, were all humans like this? Or just the Free People? How did these miscreant rats ever become so prominent? How did they not tear each other apart? He supposed having a common enemy “other” enough distracted them had kept them from killing one another. He smiled. Ah, what a day it could be if the Shadow would be draw back long enough for them to forget he existed. They would turn on each other and he and the crows could feast on the ashen battlefields they left behind. How long would it take? Alliances would give way to isolation, isolation would give way to factions, factions would break down into fanatical units, fanatical units would kill each other over even the most miniscule perceived differences. And they say dwarves and orcs were savage. He barked a laugh.

“Your name is Âdhûn as well?” he leaned, breathing heavily in the man’s face. “That’s strange. An interesting coincidence to say the least. Imagine my surprise to meet yet another person named that? Tell me, Âdhûn, did you come by a name in Black Speech by chance, or were your parents particularly cruel and absent? You know Âdhûn means alone, don’t you?”

He touched the human’s greasy hair, tenderly brushing grimy jerky stained fingers though it. It was luscious and full; the curls and waves must bounce with his every step. Must drive the boys, or girls, up the wall with desire. It was too bad that that hair came with such a poor example of humanity. He then grabbed the hair in a rough fist and slammed the human’s head against the stone. Just hard enough to daze, but not hard enough to crack anything… yet. Still holding onto the boy’s hair, he tore a meaty chunk of it away. It brought with it a nice lump of pink skin with it. Nonchalantly, he tossed the bit to the floor.

“Shall we try this again? What is your name? I will not ask again. And you will only get to ask questions of me if you answer mine. How’s that for a deal? And just to make sure you understand me…” he reached to his roll of tools and picked up a decently sized pair of pincers and grabbed the man’s hand. He kept making a fist, likely knowing what was coming. “This will go easier for you if you don’t resist so much,” the dwarf commented offhandedly. He finally had to break one of the fingers to unfurl it from his inmate’s tightened fist. The sound was deep and satisfying; it sent a shiver through his arm. However, there was no time to waste. He grabbed the fingernail from said broken finger and pulled until the nail was halfway removed. “If you don’t answer again, this will happen to all your fingers and your nails will be replaced by something much less pleasant.”

[Marceline]

The Games Foxes Play
(Private with Frost)

Delioron clenched his teeth. Was this dwarf mocking him, or genuinely dim-witted enough to misunderstand him so badly? Were all dwarves so willfully idiotic? Of course, Delioron counted himself lucky enough not to have spoken to many, save to shout at their workers to get out of the way as he raced some girl or other through the streets and to his bed. If this one was truly representative of his kind, he was as stupid as he was cruel.

A shiver ran down the young man’s spine when the dwarf ran its stubby, thick fingers through his hair. He did not have time to conceal it before Adhûn slammed his head against the stone. Delioron’s whole world - small as it had grown in this rank, disgusting place - convulsed with a shock of pain and dizziness. Pain radiated from the point on the back of his skull which collided with the unyielding table beneath him. That was a wide pain, a deep pain, a pain which swallowed up his consciousness for a moment before spitting him back out. The pain which came next was pointed and precise, isolated to the spot where his scalp had come away from his skull.

He screamed. A small object fell discarded to the ground, and he knew it was a piece of himself. His pain might be localized to his skull and his scalp, but his rage knew no bounds. Delioron would not have admitted it aloud, but his rage was tinged with a sourness of fear, too.

He screamed again while the creature tried to pry open his clenched fist, and he screamed all the louder to hear his finger bones snap. They were wordless, rage-filled shouts. At last, he ran out of breath and inhaled. When he drew breath, he drew a fresh wave of agony into him. His head throbbed and stung. His finger more than ached: he thought that if he could look down at it, the twisted, broken thing must be throbbing visibly. Already, he could feel it beginning to swell.

None of this compared to the torment to come in the smallest of spots yet. His fingernail clung and clung to its roots deep within his finger, yet the dwarf ripped it slowly from its bed with ease. Fresh screams erupted and echoed around the little room. Something skittered across the floor, frightened perhaps by the pitch and desperation of these shouts more than the others.

“Stop!” he shrieked between incomprehensible cries. “Stop!”

Tears had begun to pool in Delioron’s eyes. He clenched his eyes shut, and they rolled down his sweat-streaked face. He took a shuddering breath. It was like his lungs had forgotten how to take in air and were no longer cooperating with the rest of him.

“Fine! Fine! My name,” he wailed, “is Delioron.”