City of Umbar - The Haven

"Going to Mordor!" Cried Pippin. "I hope it won’t come to that!"
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City of Umbar - The Haven

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"The fleet came at last to that place that was called Umbar, where was the mighty haven of the Númenóreans that no hand had wrought. Empty and silent under a sickle moon was the land when the King of the Sea set foot upon the shore. For seven days he journeyed with banner and trumpet. Then he sent forth heralds, and he commanded Sauron to come before him and swear to him fealty."("Akallabêth", in The Silmarillion)

Times have changed. Umbar was ever a hotbed of political rivalry, but as Sauron unveiled himself in 2951 of the Third Age the haven gave it's allegiance, throwing down the monument of Ar-Pharazon that had long stood on the highest hill of the haven, around which the city sprawled.

"On the highest hill of the headland above the Haven they (…) set a great white pillar as a monument. It was crowned with a globe of crystal that took the rays of the Sun and of the Moon and shone like a bright star that could be seen in clear weather even on the coasts of Gondor or far out upon the western sea." ('The Heirs of Elendil' from The Peoples of Middle-earth)

Over the course of time, Umbar has fallen predominantly into the hands of the Corsairs, comprised of Black Numenoreans and those of mixed heritage with the Haradrim. Now in the late Third Age, there is a Sauronic Temple on the hill, and the Houses of the richest and wealthiest controlling factions of the pirate-port. Within the haven there stand many rival guilds and merchant houses, inns, taverns and assorted businesses, both of a legitimate nature and otherwise, for few enterprises are illegal in the City of the Corsairs, or the City of Spires, as some call it. This name is coined from the Islet in the bay, that is connected by the bridge to the mainland. Here stands the Silent Tower and within it's white walls the secretive Hi-Bajrak meet, for they control Umbar. The Black Towers around this site are amok with sentries and soldiers, mercenary retainers of evil Houses, and piratical Corsairs. The influence of the underworld figures in service to Sauron spreads, the Shadow hangs over the streets themselves, and all manner of rumours flow endlessly throughout the bay. Tread warily, for dark figures skulk in the shadows, servants of Sauron conscript dissenters, and mean-spirited Corsairs are well renowned as slavers!

Locations:

The Silent Tower & The Ivory Hall: Perceived as the seat of government, the Silent Tower is anything but. It in truth serves an important function within the constant power struggle that is Umbar. The most powerful and influential Corsair Captains, the wealthiest merchants and owners of the Houses of Umbar, might occasion to meet here under parley. One might petition the other for alliance, or wish to discuss heated passions in matters of death and intrigue. The sheer might of the variant factions and their mutual service to the Shadow keeps them from each other's throats in open warfare, but assasination is rife, and rivalry is paramount. In truth, this organisation, the Hi-Bajrak, exists only in name. It's members are those mentioned. They meet in the Ivory Hall, for such it is, and it is sworn that all who come to the Ivory Hall do so under the conditions of Parley. No blood can be spilled within the Ivory Hall or the Silent Tower. To the people, the single white spire is a symbol that they do have a governmental control, that there is some power at large that runs Umbar. To those in the know, it is a place to fear, especially if summoned to the Ivory Hall!

The Armorer's Guildhall
- Three story stone building that is home to the Armorer's Guild, around it is the Ironforge, a place where most weapons and armour types can be purchased.

The Merchant's Guildhall - This four story building has a domed roof and is the meeting hall for the representatives of the merchants' operating in Umbar. It's halls are rife with all manner of scheming, greedy merchants.

The Barracks of the City Guard
- Long ago the Captain of the Havens who retired agreed to Captain the City Guard. His enlisted men are in the pay of the Corsairs through the Captains of the Havens. Unless the Captains all agree, then Valdurmir and his retinue do not act. But when they do act, they do so decisively and with extreme prejudice. They detain people at the Iron House, and execute people in the 'Crimson Rigging'.

The Iron House
- Jail or prison complex, three story building with two levels underground. A torture chamber is on site, sometimes referred to as the 'Chamber of Song'.

The Crimson Rigging
- Place of execution where people are hanged from a mock ships mast inside a large hall. Drinks are served here! So you can watch the fun! The Executioners' are the City Guard.

The Twilight Trickster
- Gambling den. This is a resplendent establishment frequented by the best gambler's, the richest and most infamous. Run by a former pirate, named Nizar.

The Serpent Pit
- This tavern meets gambling den has a unique feature. A circular pit dug into the middle of the ground floor which forms a Pit-Fighting Arena. Slave-masters bet their money on the slaves they think most likely win, and have a good knees-up and a sing song. Owned by the ruthless Haradrim Kha'nar.

The Death's Head - This inn, run by the mysterious enigma that is Adumir Valkad, is known by those with smarts as a place to hire a knife. It is unknown how many assassin's guilds operate throughout Umbar, but Valkad was once the best and master of the 'Shadowblades.' Of course, Valkad is very much still in business himself, though he rarely carries out hits these days!

The House of Studded Midnight - Jewellery merchants', and a known place to fence stolen items and trinkets. Run by Kaldurmeir, a former mercenary and cutthroat.

The Dead Reckoning
- A small guild of navigators' and artists' have got together to create a shop that sells wondrous maps of the coasts, Islands and hitherto uncharted areas, drawing on a life time of experience on the open seas!

The Blood Scryer
- A diviner's house, she tells fortunes in blood! Mrishma Kal'Akbir is her name, but most call her the Blood Hag.

The School of the Corsair's Blade
- Aqil was once a Corsair. Now he is risen as one of the best swordarms of his generation and he has founded a school to teach the art to warriors in Umbar seeking to join the piratical ranks! This three tiered building is one of finery and well established. It has many yards and rooms set aside for training it's patrons in their skill. All for a reasonable price of course!

The Slaughter House
- The last place you want to end up, the Umbar Hospital.

Umbar Market - Large square in the middle of Umbar, where everything is sold or bought, brought in by the ships from near and far, including slaves. The stage off to one side is where the unfortunate souls are displayed and auctioned off to the highest bidders.

The Warrens
- A poorer district, patrolled by gangs of thugs and urchins. This is where many of the villains who rise up to the heights of Umbar's society have their humble roots, though none would admit it. The best known gangs are the Bloody Scroll, the Tattered Flag, the Shadow Walkers, the Black Dragons and the Dark Lord's Wish. Often the warrens are a running battle between these evil gangs, but they also carry out work in the Slums of the Harbors.

This is a free rp thread, the locations and people can be used as you wish, though please try and keep the npc's to what they would be doing and don't make them act stupidly. Please provide a location and your name at the top of your post so we can see where you are. And please do not join in on someone elses RP unless given prior permission.


With thanks to Naith and LoTR Amino for the map
Last edited by Winddancer on Thu May 28, 2020 1:44 am, edited 3 times in total.

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Ellisiva Ylva

The rumour of the blood hag had reached House Ylva some weeks ago. Ellisiva had been the first to jump at the chance to make the journey to Umbar, deftly avoiding the cries of her male siblings that they were more suited to such a task. Her father had simply nodded and retreated back into his tower, leaving his sons and heirs to drink and argue while his daughter slipped away in the dead of night.

The breeze off the Bay lifted her navy cloak slightly and Ellisiva shrugged deeper into her hood. She was not hiding, no, the risks of Umbar did not frighten her. She was not intimidated by pirates, crooks, gamblers or guards. Umbar was relatively safe, if you knew which hands to shake when and who not to cheek. She had already eaten her fill at The Serpent Pit, which used to be an old haunt of her father's, when Ylva business had been less savoury, in her opinion at least. She knew the slave trade was but a step away for some of her brothers, but it was not something she would ever consider. She had taken her leave of the proprietor and gradually, weaving back wards and forth a little, made her way to the part of town where the Blood Scryer was housed. Now, she waited and watched.
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Rök, at the Docks

They had been waiting a fortnight now, the crew was getting restless. The captain had assured them that he would be back with funds and a mission, but day by day it seemed to Rök and his crew that the captain had reneged on his deal. The port authority had come that morning, a bombastic toad of a man with rheumy eyes and a flat chin, and told them that they would either need to pay for the ships docking or it would be considered forfeit to the city. It had taken restraint for the Uruk not to bend the man in half and crack his spine open right there. He could imagine it though, and the sounds of bones snapping and muscles tearing was sweeter than any song.
“Krakzun!” The Uruk’s voice bellowed from over the side of the now forfeited ship. An orc looked up at him from down on the dock, scaly black skin, orange-yellow eyes, and a thick mane of dirty hair. “Get up here, we need to talk!”
The orc nodded and ambled his way through the crowd, knocking, tossing a man from his path when he refused to make way. The orc was up in a flash, moving more and more like a spider than an orc.
“Aye, Rök,” his voice was harsh but had a hypnotizing quality to it. “how did the meeting the port authority go?”
“You were listening in, I assume,” Rök said, raising is brow.
“Aye,” the thaumaturgist agreed, “I’m surprised you didn’t gut him right there in your office. Sapthêth could have used those guts you know.”
“There are more important things right now,” the Uruk warned, his voice tight. “The captain ain’t coming back. It’s been a fortnight now and we’ve not a single word from him. It’s time we moved on, find another captain, another ship, or another job.”
The orc, a full head shorter than his companion looked out over the city of Umbar. Bells were ringing somewhere in the distance, mingling with the roar of voices and the roar animals being paraded through the streets. Salt air mixed the rank stench of people. Petrichor was in the air, just a hint, maybe it would rain later today, there was certainly enough overcast for it. The clouds above them moved at a sluggish pace. He could make out lights starting to burn in the streets, he could smell the whale oil too. It was foul stench, but he loved it. Rök had been born on the sea, or at least that’s what he told everyone, he couldn’t remember where he’d been born, or even if he had been. He was old by orc standards, when most were killed in battle within their first ten years, he had managed to build a seaman’s reputation for nearly sixty years now.
“Get the crew, just the important ones.” He continued. “We need to find us a new patron.”
“Only the important ones?” The orc asked, his fangs showing through the split lipped grin.
“Get Tagane and Sapthêth. That ought to do it.”
Krakzun looked suddenly very uncomfortable. “Do we really need Tagane and Sapthêth? They both give me the creeps.”
“You only say that because Sapthêth is better at reading the tarot than you are and Tagane creeps out everyone, surgeons are like that.”
“She doesn’t read the tarot better than me,” the orc interjected, “I know best when to leave well enough alone. She goes off traipsing into the void where we don’t belong. She’s too brash, sir. She’s gonna get caught one o’ these days an’ it’ll be us that has to pay the price for the seer’s mistake.”
A look from the Uruk, though, silenced the matter. No matter how much Krakzun hated the Númenorean seer, he was not about the argue the point with Rök. He was too smart for that.

Outside the Twilight Trickster

Within fifteen minutes, the foursome were arrayed in an alleyway some distance from the ship. An Uruk, and orc, a Númenorean, and a Variag. Rök watched as Krakzun, the orc thaumaturgist, waved his hands about and crushed a rat skull. The air shimmered around him and glamour slipped over him like a jerkin. One moment he was a scaly black skinned orc, the next he was a tall, slender nearly black skinned elven woman with a fount of shock white hair. His eyes went from sickly orange-yellow to nearly completely black. He looked unnervingly beautiful in his disguise. Now they were three women with their Uruk guard, a better fit on the streets of Umbar. Tagane had deigned to remove her surgeon’s apron and dressed in a more fitting leather hauberk studded with rubies and sapphires. She was the tallest of the group, save for Rök himself. She was the youngest too, best the Uruk could tell she had barely been twenty when she arrived onboard the Grand Conjuration five years back. Sapthêth was easily the oldest, she was a janky boned crone with thinning white hair, missing teeth, and diamond hard eyes, that’s how she had always appeared at least, Rök suspected that she, too, had a glamour over her that allowed her a certain air of mystery and fear.
They were able to make their way through the streets, Rök himself acting as a wedge to push people aside. He glared at everyone he saw, using his not inconsiderable charismatic prowess to cow anyone that dared look too long. It was a short walk to the Twilight Trickster, a gambling den of infamous appeal. The night was falling now, casting twisting shadows on the ground, the clouds overhead loomed even darker than before, Rök could hear distant rumblings of thunder, a beautiful, low drone that seemed to carry over the city like one of the great bats in the old days. He could feel the sound in his bones. The rain was going to be hard tonight. He was glad he wasn’t out to sea.
Inside the gambling hall, which cost nearly half of the coin they had left between them just to enter, the smells of meat and alcohol assailed the Uruk’s nose. His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten in a few days now. He shook off his distraction though, turning to his crew before they entered the gambling hall proper.
“Remember we’re looking for a man by the name of Jhabalar Xho, don’t get distracted and spend the last of the coin on gambling or food. Stay focused.”
“What dos he look like?” Tagane asked, her eyes lazily scanning the inside of the hall.
“I don’t know,” admitted Rök, “Ask around for me. My intel says he frequents this place when he’s in town.”
“And if he’s not ‘ere?” Sapthêth asked in her raven-like screech.
“Well then we’re in more trouble than I had forseen.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Jorund - The Warrens

"Saemund! Saemund!" his short legs could barely keep up with his neck-breaking speed that he was making down the dingy alleyway. Without knocking first, Jorund burst into the small dilapidated building, the crash of the door sending everyone inside scattering around, knocking over the table and drawing their weapons. Faced with five daggers and knives, Jorund halted in his tracks, his cry of surprise spilling out in a small squeak. Gasping in a ragged breath, he finally recovered enough to tell them why he was here and began yelling again, his voice high-pitched and panicked. "Saemund, you will never believe what I saw! One minute- AAHH!" The slap was hard enough to send the youngster flying back against the wall, tears immediately springing to his eyes.

"You stupid little maggot! What were you thinking!? Now everyone in the warrens knows where I am! And what did I tell you about calling me by that name!? It's Skar! Do you understand!?" The rhetorical question was followed up by a harsh kick to the young boy at his feet. "If it weren't because you were my brother, I would gut you right here and now" Disgust and a tinge of hatred shone in the eyes of the older boy as he looked down at his younger brother, hating him more when he saw Jorund beginning to cry. Giving him another harsh kick to stop him, he turned from Jorund and headed back to the table and pulled it back into place with an annoyed look on his angry face. Though fair is fair, his face was always angry and he always looked at the others as if he hated them. Which in all honesty, he did.

"Did you even bring any coins? Hmm?!" Skar turned to his brother, his gaze fierce and accusing, the anger on his face making the scar that ran through one eye seem more menacing than usual. "Of course you didn't you useless maggot! Get out! Get out and don't come back until you have some coins. No one get's a free ride with the Black Dragons, no one!" With an angry scowl, Skar nodded to two of the young men, indicating to them to remove his brother from the room, which they did without hesitation, grabbing the sobbing kid and all but throwing him out of the door.

Jorund landed in a pile of garbage that had piled up just outside the door, letting out a small cry as something sharp poked him in the ribs. Sobbing even more, he shifted out of the pile of trash, carelessly wiping at his runny nose with his dirty hands. At that moment a loud crash overhead made him leap up with fright, before he realised it was just thunder, eyes blinking fiercely when the rain began and showered his dirty face. Miserable and wet, Jorund pulled the threadbare shirt tighter around himself, shivering slightly as the rain began to fall in earnest, mumbling to himself as he made his way back toward the Twilight Trickster from where he had just come. "I know I saw an orc.. one minute he was there, the next he was a beautiful woman.."

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It had been a productive day. First, a dawn execution at the Crimson Rigging, of one of the least favorite enemies of Jhalabar Xho. It would have been a shame if it was one of his favorite enemies, for they provided so much entertainment! A stiff drink and a good long hanging were the perfect way to start the day as far as Xho was concerned, and this particular enemy had danced for many minutes on the end of his rope, to the jeers and laughter of the assembled crowd as they pelted him with nutshells and various unsavories. When at last the dancing ceased, another round of drinks were had, and much banter before Jhalabar departed for this next order of business. The School of the Corsair’s Blade, where Aqil had contracted with him to give a series of lessons in the dagger-axe. This shorter polearm was small enough to use aboard ship, but extremely useful in gaining distance on a boarding opponent- particularly when one had as much reach as Jhalabar- and slicing either flesh or ropes. After soundly thrashing his students, he had gone on to the Blood Scryer, not to have his fortune told, but to bring Mrishma a packet of her favorite crystallized fruit. He blew her a kiss as he departed, and she waved her gnarled fingers after him. These things all accomplished, Jhalabar Xho strode through his adopted city to his favorite haunt of an evening: the Twilight Trickster.

The doorman waved Jhalabar through immediately, and he passed through the entrance into the warm, smoky, opulent interior of the gambling den. As always, there was the broadest assortment of patrons withing, and Xho towered over most of them. He did not need to push to clear a path: the crowd simply parted before the corsair whether they realized it or not. Every inch of him was rippling muscle, this was his territory, and the confidence that radiated from him buffeted them out of the way. When he reached the bar, Jhalabar leaned against it and grinned at the barmaid, showing nearly all of his very white teeth. He had originally come from the farthes reaches of Harad, beyond the edge of many a map, and his skin was nearly black as coal, contrasting sharply with the teeth, which he assiduously cleaned. “My dear.” He spoke, rumbling deep and resonant to the woman, his vowels round and rich. The barmaid swayed over smiling, one brow arched as she flipped a towel over her shoulder. “Ahh, the Jhalabar joker, is it? Washed in on the tide?” Xho laughed aloud, throwing his head back, a jovial, booming sound. “Jhalabar the lover also my dear, as well you know. I will entertain you in so many ways.” At this the barmaid had the grace to blush and she too laughed, swatting at his shoulder with one hand.

Quick as a striking snake, Jhalabar caught her by the wrist. With his other hand he extended one finger and set it against the pulse point of her wrist. From the tip of the finger, up his hand, around the forearm, and up the bicep, through the shoulder to the nape of his neck ran swirling black tattoos, just distinguishable from the skin itself. The finger circled the delicate area of flash, causing the barmaid to shiver. “My darling, would you please send my usual, to my usual table? I have a night to waste, and I wish to waste it well.” Xho released her and, with a slow wink, made his way across the room to the table of which he spoke. There were many gambling tables in the place, with many games from many different lands at which to gain, or lose, one’s money. Usually the latter unless you were especially good at quitting when ahead. But there were also other areas which while they were called table, were really sunken seating areas, a three-quarter circle of cushioned benches with more cushions strewn about, and plenty of legroom between the bench and the circular table that stood before it. These places were reserved for those who were big spenders, friends of the owner, or both. On his way to one of these, Jhalabar caught the eye of said owner, Nizar, from the shadowy corner where he liked to observe business, and gave him a nod. Nizar grinned, flashing gold teeth, and returned the gesture.

Almost as soon as Jhalabar collapsed onto the bench of his favorite table area, a serving wench arrived with his order. Onto the table she set a large, crusted bottle of deep amber liquid, a pitcher of deep brown, and a plate covered in dates, cheeses, and cured meats. “Thank you my darling,” Jhalabar drawled, and sprawled, his limbs in all directions as he sank back into the cushions. His garb was simple and utilitarian: a snug, sleeveless leather jerkin, and sturdy cloth breeches that were ragged at the knee, through a deliberate slitting of the cuff. On his feet, rather than the boots which were often preferred by many sailors, Jhalabar wore thick leather sandals that allowed him to feel the sea spray on his toes. Wide brass cuffs adorned each of his wrists, and around his left calf wound a brass snake, with eyes of faceted ruby. Before long, two of Nizar’s more attractive serving wenches (who also served as dancing girls when the high rollers needed extra persuasion to part with their coin) meandered over to sit with him, one pouring a generous measure from the bottle of strong amber drink into a glass and handing it to the corsair as she sat at his side, the other lifting a date from the plate and holding it teasingly out before his mouth. This, Jhalabar thought as he stretched his neck forward to take the date in his mouth, is surely the best of life.

From this location in the Trickster, he had an excellent view of all proceedings, including the front door, and so it was that after some time when a curious group consisting of an Uruk (Rök), one who appeared to be a strangely colored elf (Krakzun), a Variag (Tagane), and a Númenoran (Sapthêth) walked in, Jhalabar picked them out immediately. He leaned back and spread his arms over the back of the padded bench, raising one hand to rub his bald head, before allowing it to fall down, stretching out his full wingspan. His black eyes narrowed as they fixed upon the elf.

“Hmm.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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The Streets of Umbar


Umbar smelled of raw sewage and rotting fish which, to be honest, was a pleasant change from many of the other things Thalionwen had smelled in Mordor. She made her way through the bustling, brawling streets with a spring in her step, humming under her breath and caring little for how out of place she looked—a slim, golden-haired maid of the Mark in a worn green kirtle, with a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.

Rounding a street corner, she nearly tripped over the body of an orc, lying prone in the gutter in a puddle of…something? Bending, Thali pressed two fingers to his pulse point, only to find a reassuringly strong heartbeat. Well, that was alright then, and she’d leave him be—if there was one thing she’d learned in the past year or two, it was to let sleeping orcs lie.

Hopping over the unconscious creature, Thali carried on, though she hadn’t much farther to go. She stopped in front of a long, two-story building and set her hands on her hips. What looked to be blood was smeared liberally around the double entrance doors, and a series of wagons lined the nearest alleyway, loaded down with severed limbs and mangled carcasses. Unearthly screams and wails emanated from the open windows, followed by loud cursing in the Black Speech.

Thalionwen smiled brightly.

“At least I know I’m in the right place,” she said to herself, before fishing through her satchel and pulling out a small wooden sign with script charred into it. It was nothing compared to the massive, frightening-looking signboard above the door, proclaiming “THE SLAUGHTER HOUSE, hospital” but it would do.

Stepping forward, Thali took a hammer and a nail from her satchel as well, and proceeded to tack her noticeboard to The Slaughter House’s front door. Then she backed away a little and put her head on one side, surveying her handiwork.

Haelend in Residence,” her own sign read. “Limb removal and reattachment services, major and minor surgery, and wellness visits for a fair price. Remember: those who heal fastest, fight again soonest.
The Slaughter House

With an approving nod, Thalionwen pushed through The Slaughter House's doors into an echoing and abandoned foyer. More blood smears in here, and what looked like a large pile of offal in one corner, around which flies buzzed—the place had obviously never been cleaned. Clucking disappointedly at the sight, Thali pressed on, down a gloomy and door-lined corridor. The ungodly sound she’d heard from the street were louder here, many of them coming from behind the shut doors, all of which had been barred from the hallway to keep their occupants locked in.

At the end of the hall stood a stone staircase, great chunks missing from the steps in places.

“Safety hazard,” Thali tutted to herself as she side-stepped the worst of the gaps.

The top of the steps let out before yet another set of double doors, and the worst of The Slaughter House’s noise and smell spilled out from behind it, even with both doors shut tight. Raising one small fist, Thalionwen knocked sharply.

For a long time, nothing. Then a shuffling sound came from within, one door opened slightly, and a snaga’s sniveling, anxious face appeared in the gap. The creature’s eyes widened perceptibly at the sight of Thalionwen, and she smiled disarmingly.

“Hello!” Thali said. “I’m here to see your Bealdorhaelend!”

The snaga’s mouth gaped, and its gaze went blank.

“Oh, sorry.” Thalionwen hurried to correct herself. “Of course you'd call it something else. I meant whoever’s in charge. The person—creature?—who oversees the hospital. I believe he’s an Uruk? Goes by Ugbûrz?”

Without a word, the snaga disappeared, slamming the door in Thalionwen’s face. Unperturbed, she waited, taking the opportunity to sort through a collection of useful herbs in carefully labeled packets that filled her satchel.

At last the door opened again, and an intimidatingly large Uruk in a blood-stained butcher’s apron appeared.

“What?” the creature snarled.

Thalionwen stuck out a hand.

“Hello!” she tried again. “I’m Thalionwen of the Eastfold, a haelend from Rohan’s Cavalry. And you need my help.”

A scowl wrote itself across the Uruk’s already unpleasant face. “Go away, little Rider, before I make mincemeat out of you.”

“You could make mincemeat out of me,” Thalionwen said easily. “I’ve heard you make mincemeat out of a lot of unfortunates who come end up here. But I think you’d better hear me out.”

Turning on his heel, the Uruk strode back through the doors but Thalionwen followed hard on his heels, nipping inside before he could shut her out. The creature rolled his eyes but carried on, striding across a wide gallery lined with gurneys. Some were empty and blood-soaked, but most housed an assortment of monstrous beings, a few unconscious but the majority writhing in an agonized fashion as they clutched at bandaged stumps of limbs or gaping, poorly-stitched incisions.

It was, admittedly, horrifying, but Thalionwen had been blessed with three things since birth: a sunny disposition, a startling lack of common sense, and a bull-headed stubbornness. Once she’d set her mind in something, nothing dissuaded her. So despite the appalling scene, she carried on in the large Uruk’s wake, clutching her satchel close and taking care not to filthy her hem in any of the pools of blood and guts that dampened the floor.

At the far end of the gallery, the Uruk stopped, before another gurney to which an unfortunate orc was shackled, his wrists and ankles held fast. He’d been sliced open and his viscera glistened gently, displayed for all to see—including him, for he was fully awake, eyes wide and horrified, his mouth open in a silent scream.

The Uruk, Ugbûrz, plunged one dirty hand into the orc’s abdominal cavity and fished about for a minute, before pulling out a length of intestine with an arrowhead embedded in it.

Thalionwen raised an eyebrow and stood watching as Ugbûrz put his tongue between his teeth—fangs?—and attempted to work the arrowhead out of the hapless orc’s guts. It took an agonizingly long time, but at last he succeeded, and withdrew the razor-sharp triangle of steel with a look of triumph.

“You’re a bit late, he’s died of shock,” Thali said helpfully, gesturing to the orc on the gurney, who was indeed extremely dead now.
“That’s what happens when you cut them open or chop things off without any sort of sedative,” she added. “A lot of the time their bodies just can’t take it and they die. Of course, he would definitely have died of gangrene later, if he’d survived all that. Your hands look as if you stuck them in a dung heap this morning and then just…carried on with your day.”

Ugbûrz glanced up in unveiled surprise, which took Thalionwen aback a little. She’d meant the bit about a dung heap metaphorically, but judging by the Uruk’s response, it could very well be something that had happened. An odd Mordorian tradition, perhaps. She was still finding her feet here, and a great deal of the cultural nuances escaped her yet.

“Is, um,” Thalionwen began. “Is whatever Dark Lord you report to right now pleased? With The Slaughter House’s survival rates, I mean. Only you must burn through troops in the army, not to mention anyone who suffers some sort of occupational injury. I expect so much as an infected papercut is a death warrant here.”

“It’s Mordor,” Ugbûrz growled. “No one’s ever pleased.”

Thalionwen glanced about. A few snagas wandered the room, dispensing crude bowls of what looked like strong liquor to the hapless patients.

“Are they especially displeased with this place, though?” Thalionwen pressed. “Because I heard something of that nature. That whoever oversees The Slaughter House never lasts long, before he’s—what was it you said? Made into mincemeat. Before he’s made into mincemeat for incompetence.”

Ugbûrz only grunted, stepping away from the gurney containing the newly-dead orc and gesturing to a snaga to wheel it away.

Thali drew in a quick breath and squared her shoulders.

“Look,” she said. “Presumably you’re as uninterested in becoming mincemeat as I am. So I think we can be of use to each other. I need a job in Mordor—I seem to be ending up here more often, and I can’t just wander about doing nothing indefinitely, sooner or later I’ll have to pay off my pub tab. And you very badly need someone on hand with actual healing knowledge. It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement if you were to take me on as a haelend.”

“I don’t—” Ugbûrz began, but Thali clapped her hands in delight before he could finish.

“Oh good! I knew you’d see reason. And I’ve already put up the sign. Anyway, I’ve been too much of a disruption already, you carry on with all of—” she waved a hand vaguely at the assortment of more-or-less dying Mordorians “this, and I’ll get to work straightaway!”

“What’re you going to do?” Ugbûrz shouted after her suspiciously as she hitched up her skirts and hurried back through the gallery.

“What am I not going to do?” Thalionwen shot back. “There’s heaps to be managed! Cleaning the foyer, setting up a triage room, laying in a good stock of herbs and bandages and alcohol, cleaning everything else, teaching the snagas to—”

Her voice faded away as she vanished through the gallery doors, leaving Ugbûrz bewilderedly shaking his head as he watched her go.
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Bealdorhaelend
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Serra - Slave ship

Serra could barely breathe. Not because she had a thick heavy iron collar around her throat that was almost too tight for her, but the air itself seemed to want to sufficate her. Heavy with the smell of decomposition, rotting fish and human excrement, it was all anyone could do to breathe within these tight confines. Pressed uncomfortably in between her younger brother and a constantly wailing woman, Serra tried to reshift her position to something a little more comfortable without pulling too much on the chain that connected her to her brother and the woman. "Here.. scoot over here.." Jarnvir offered, while he carefully shifted himself and raised his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her in closer so she could lean her head on him. With a grateful sigh she lay her head on his broad shoulder, ignoring his unwashed smell, merely grateful for more comfortable position. Though he was four years younger than her, at the age of sixteen he was already a strapping young man. And while they had been at sea for at least a week, it had done nothing to lessen his powerful physique. Two days. Two days and he would have been safe, or as safe as he could have been in the army. But at least he would not have been chained and shackled in the bowels of this hellish ship. A tear pushed through her closed eyelid, creating a less smudgy line down her face, one that was usually considered strikingly beautiful by most men. At least those men that had tried courting her and failed. Now however there was no sign of this beautiful woman that had men travel far and wide to ask for her hand in marriage, all there was now was a scared and filthy young woman who hid behind her long dirty tresses that had once shone like gold.

Serra started as the latch suddenly was thrown open and a dim grey light made it's way down into the pitch dark, forcing many of them to avert their eyes in pain, which was quite fortunate as a guard made his way down the stairs with a burning torch.

"OUT! Get up you useless maggots and move out!"

As they shifted in order to stand, Serra had to help the woman she was chained to as the woman began to hysterically sob, tearing at her hair. "Sssshhh. Shhh Hildir, it will be ok. Come now, maybe we will get to bathe, come it will be alright." Pulling under the woman's arm, Serra finally managed to get the woman to her feet, while at the same time making sure Jarnvir also rose so that she wasn't choked. Fortunately they were only chained in threes and the trio slowly shuffled towards the stairs as best as the shackles around their ankles allowed.

The air was far from fresh, but it was glorious all the same and Serra breathed in deeply as soon as she stumbled out of the hold. Anything was better than the smell they had endured for so many days. While it was late afternoon there was no sunlight, the clouds hanging low with promise of rain, much to Serra's regret as she yearned to feel the warmth on her face again. Stumbling as Hildir tripped, Jarnvir grabbed her arm and prevented her from falling as well, while she grabbed the woman to steady her. "Easy, watch your step. That's it, head down that plank, it will be ok." Serra grabbed the woman's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze to prevent her from losing it again and likely from losing it herself.

The shock of seeing the city made her pause for a second, until Hildir stepped onto the plank and forced her to continue on. She had never seen so many people in one place, the noise itself overwhelming. The cacaphony of seagulls screeching, to guards yelling and dockworkers calling out, to the rumble of wagons and horses neighing. Swallowing hard, Serra wanted to reach back and hold her brother's hand for her own comfort, however her hands were chained together, instead lifting her hands to the collar to stop it from digging too far into her skin.

"FRESH MEAT, GET YOUR COIN PURSES READY!! FRESH MEAT COMING UP!"

The loud yell made Serra flinch, only then realising that they were the fresh meat. Luckily it did not seem like Hildir had caught on, as she was still stumbling forward in the direction the guard was leading them. Twenty or so poor souls poured out of the hold, all of them looking the worse for wear and definitely smelling horrendously and it did occur to Serra that there was a chance that no one would buy them with how they looked and smelled. But even that small hope was shattered as they were all ushered into a large wooden building with huge wooden tubs with steaming water. Lining up, they were relieved of the shackles around their ankles and wrists, though the ones around the necks were left on.

"UNDRESS AND WASH! Get on with it you stinking pile of maggots! I will not have your value decreased by your foul smells! Wash yourselves, or WE will wash you!"

There were enough tubs that each group of three could use one and they all reluctantly made their way to one, though were quickly encouraged by the whip lashes that seemed to be given quite freely. Jarvir stepped in front of one such lash that would have caught Serra right across her back, hissing in pain as it burned across his broad shoulder though managed to keep it quiet enough so that Serra did not hear.

Humilated and shamed at having to undress in front of everyone, the group of twenty quickly washed and tied the wraparound tunics around themselves after they were all clean again. The more comely women would never be relieved of the memory of the looks they had gotten, most crying and shaking with fear at what was to come, including Serra who was now free to grab her brother's hand. While her hair was now clean, it was still soaking wet and she let it fall across her face as she shuffled after the others towards the stage where the whips enticed them to line up for the crowd to see. With an arm around the sobbing woman, Serra huddled in against her brother, noting that even he was shaking, which almost made her cry as well.

Slave Aution

One by one the auctioneer went through the group, pointing out their traits and likely making some up when there were none immediately visable. Good for breeding and a good cook is what Hildir was sold as for 40 gold, though they had to physically drag the hysterical woman off once she had been unshackled from Serra and Jarnvir. Thinking she was next, Serra tried to hide behind her brother, letting out a startled cry when the auctioneer instead began calling out her brother's traits.

"Young! Strong! Good looking! Would make someone a good bedmate! Or a good worker! Or a fighter!"

The bids began, Serra shaking her head, tears freely flowing now. "Nonono, please no.. Eru save us.. no.." She clutched to him tightly as he tried to reassure her, hearing the bids rise though slowing down.

"I will have him! 75 gold!" Loud murmurs spread as the man stepped from the crowd. He will make a good fighter in my pits!" Kha'nar stood with his hands on his sides, daring anyone to outbid him, though at that price no one did. Screaming in dispair, Serra clung to her brother, the fear on his face making her almost hysterical. "NOOO!! NOOO!" The guards finally seperated them, Jarnvir calling to her one last time before he was removed from the stage, leaving her in the hands of the auctioneer, sobbing and trying to wrestle from his tight grasp.

"And this fiesty little beauty! I don't think I need to say much, you can all see she is the gem of the lot. Starting bid at 75!"

"Three hundred. Nizar will have her." The man did not yell his bid, but his voice still carried over the din of the crowd. The auctioneer looked down at the man nervously, wavering for a long moment as he knew he could have gotten more for this gem. But one did not deny Nizar, especially not when one owed him a considerable debt. "Right, SOLD!" Mumbling a curse under his breath, the auctioneer shoved Serra into the arms of a guard who effortlessly dragged the crying and struggling young woman off the stage.

Twilight Trickster

While the chains had been removed, the iron collar was still tight around her throat as she was handed over to the man after he had paid the three hundred coins to the sour auctioneer. Grabbing Serra by the upper arm in a vice like grip, he began the walk back towards the Twilight Trickster, the thunder booming above them like a death sentence as the day turned into night. Serra was still crying as the man lead her through the doors to the gambling den, deftly moving around a diverse group of four different races, the man momentarily eyeing the large Uruk to see if he would be any trouble. Serra however did not see anyone, keeping her eyes down, letting her hair cover her face as she was dragged through the crowded room, unaware that her captor was nodding in her direction towards the owner Nizar and that he in turn gave a nod towards the back. Slamming the door to the back quarters open, the man called out "Beywyn! Got another one for you".

Melkor
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The Person in the Iron Mask- Waiting outside The Blood Scryer

A black-cloaked figure walked along the streets, whose long hair stretched to the bottom of her back. She was an inch or two above 6 feet in height, and the cloak obscured much of her. She was armored in cast-iron with rusted dried blood marks scattered throughout. Yet the weight did not seem to affect her walking. Covering her face was a cast-iron mask with holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth. The masked was stained in an assortment of black and red dried blood If one looked closely, two glints appeared oddly from the eyes even when there was no light outside. If one looked even closer, surrounding the mask was a very thin light. Her hands were covered by cast-iron rusted gauntlets. In her right hand was an upright polished spear. Its base made out of polished wood, while the blade shone cold steel. Her boots made a light tap with each footstep.

The Person in the Iron Mask walked to the outside of the The Blood Scryer, and stared at Ellisiva Ylva. If the latter caught her masked gaze, the figure would slowly tilt her head to the side, and would give a heavy exhale.

@Queen Nerwen
Last edited by Rivvy Elf on Tue Jun 02, 2020 12:40 am, edited 1 time in total.

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The Slaughter House

Thalionwen stood in the middle of The Slaughter House’s lobby and gave a small sigh of satisfaction. The place was far from the gleamingly clean she’d been hoping for, and still bordered upsettingly on dingy and unkempt but at least it no longer looked as if you’d contract a fatal disease the moment you drew breath. There were still dozens of rooms to be given a good going over, but she couldn’t do it all herself, which meant she’d eventually have to start teaching the snagas which side of a mop was which. That was one job Thali did not look forward to.

Uuuuugbûrz!” she sang out, knowing The Slaughter House’s overseer would be within earshot. He hadn’t gone up to the Surgeon’s Gallery for the day, which was charmingly referred to as The Chopping Block.

In answer to Thalionwen’s call, Ugbûrz wandered out of a storage room, smelling of strong liquor and wiping the back of his mouth with one large hand. He fixed the haelend with what seemed to be a longsuffering look. Of course, it might also have been an expression signaling indigestion--it was hard to tell with Uruks, sometimes.

“Are you—are you drunk?” Thali asked. “Not that it’ll make any difference to your healing skills, but Bema’s horn, the sun’s barely up. Bit soon to be hitting the bottle already, isn’t it?”

“Not already,” Ugbûrz grunted. “Still. Been here since last night.”

“Oh.” Thali wrinkled her nose. “Well your dedication is commendable, but you should strive for a bit more balance in life and go home sometimes.”

“I live here. In there” Ugbûrz gestured to the storage room he’d come out of. “Don’t ask.”

“This is a strange country,” Thali said. “Look, I’ve stocked the infirmary with whatever herbs and supplies I could buy—I came into a little money at the pub last night. But that didn’t go far. Have you got any funds for supplies?”

Ugbûrz’s beady eyes narrowed. “You can’t have my money.”

“No, not your money,” Thali explained. “The Slaughter House’s money. How is all of this paid for? Do you charge the patients, or is care covered by whoever your Dark Lord is? Who pays you? Who is in charge of Mordor now, anyway?”

Ugbûrz ignored her last question and looked bewildered by the rest.

“No one pays for anything,” he said. “And we don’t have supplies. Other than what I use to do the chopping with upstairs, but all that is just made with scrap metal over at the Armory. And my compensation is of the not-being-tortured-or-executed-if-I-keep-doing-my-job sort.”

“Now look here!” Thalionwen said despairingly, “I didn’t come here to earn nothing. I wanted a paying job, so we’re just going to have to make all this pay.”

“Almost everyone who comes here dies,” Ugbûrz pointed out. “Hard to make dead things pay you.”

Thalionwen hesitated and thought hard, leaning one elbow on the receiving desk she’d cobbled together from ill-smelling crates, and resting her chin on her hand.

“You’re right,” she said at last. “But you can make someone else pay for a dead thing.”

“Not catching your meaning,” Ugbûrz said. He shuffled about and it took Thali a moment to realize he was about to lie down. On the floor. In the middle of the lobby.

“What…what are you doing?” she asked.

“Sounds like you’re about to make me think,” Ugbûrz explained. “I don’t do my best thinking standing up. So this is better.”

As he settled down, a waft of rank air hit Thalionwen and she grimaced. She’d have to add personal washing to her list of cleanliness-focused endeavors. Perhaps she could teach the snagas to wash their overseer, as well. And themselves, while they were at it. They’d be adorable in a proper bubble bath. Like spiky, sniveling, horrible little ducklings.

Thali snapped her attention back to the present upon realizing Ugbûrz was staring expectantly up at her.

“Something I overheard in the pub got me thinking,” she said. “Why not make some money off the dead bodies? It’s the one thing we’ve got plenty of, and no one here seems to care about proper burials. They’re just being carted off and burned, or thrown into pits. We could sell them instead. There are wraiths and wights and things here, who need fresh carcasses from time to time, as theirs rot and start to fall apart. I saw one of them last night—she looked appalling. Or, more appalling than she might have. We could do minor limb reattachments—fingers and toes and ears and noses and such, though they might decay and need replacing now and then if I can’t get all the fussy bits lined up properly. And then whatever’s left over we could sell for soup. Oh! Or for target practice—the army could dress them up like Gondorians, for an authentic drill experience.”

Ugbûrz sat up suddenly, and gave Thalionwen a long, narrow look.

“You said you’re from a farm, in Rohan?” he asked after a moment.

“Mmhm!” Thali answered with a bright smile. “So what do you think?”

Ugbûrz shrugged. “The knackers won’t be happy.”

“The knackers,” Thali told him gently, “are probably already selling off a carcass here and there on their end. And they’ve had the upper hand in this arrangement for far too long. Think of all the improvements we can make with the proceeds, too. Herbs, fresh linens, horsehair for stitching, a bed to put in your storage closet so you’ll stop lying in the middle of the floor.”

It had taken Thalionwen approximately one hour after arriving at The Slaughter House to sort out that scratching the back of his head meant Ugbûrz was about to give in to her.

He scratched at the back of his head.

“Well, alright. We can give it a try.”
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Bealdorhaelend
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Rök
Inside the Twilight Trickster


Despite being a very large building, the inside of the Twilight Trickster felt claustrophobic. Rök felt like he was being jostled every few steps. None of the assailants dared show their faces of course, immediately melting into the mass of gambling bodies, yelling in excitement.
Rök’s nerves were on edge. They always were when he was forced to be around this many humans. He felt more eyes on him coming from the shadows, he could barely discern the outlines of hoods in hidden alcoves and hallways leading further into the establishment. He didn’t like this. He could the itch in the center of his back, there was someone watching him from just out of his line of sight. He rubbed a thumb over the round pommel of the falchion at his hip, a nervous tick he had developed as soon as he started wearing the weapon.
Krazkun seemed to bear fairing better than him. The black skinned elf had just as many eyes on them as he did but none of them had the same atavistic aggression in them. Rök marveled at that. He had known the thaumaturgist for nearly a decade now and he still had no idea how power he was. He had seen him do this, a spell that changed his physical appearance. Krazkun had explained it to him once, though he had been three cups into a barrel of grog so any explanation he had given was suspect. Krakzun explained to Rök that this spell quite literally transformed him into a new being. While he appeared as a dark elf woman, he was in fact a dark elf woman. In the guise Krakzun now wore, he told Rök to call him Eldûrien, the Lady of the Black Stars. She had a reputation up and down the Harad coast as a witch of terrible power. In some places, Krazkun had boasted once, she was more feared than one of the Nine. Rök doubted that.
Eldûrien glided through the ranks of men, drawing away some of the eyes that looked at Rök as a potential target. She moved with far more grace than Krakzun had ever managed. Rök chuckled. She blew on a few sets of dice for luck before they were thrown. Rök suspected each of these was the beginning of an enchantment spell Krazkun (or Eldûrien) could use later.
Sapthêth hung back, cloaked in her shadows, preferring to slink about the edges and using her sight. She was an enigma to the Uruk. She was a master at the tarot, could see patterns and images and auras around people, but she was slippery as a fox about it, wrapping all of her words in riddles. She was a sadist. Her eyes never stopped moving, they would hover over the face of some Númenorean for a heartbeat, only to look away in disgust and disinterest. What she was doing was only Rök’s guess, and he did not want to know.
Tagane was one only one of them that moved through the crow like she belonged here. Rök suspected she had grown up here, in the Warrens, though she’d never admit to it. She moved with purpose, with an ease that the Uruk could only envy.
There was someone in the back, Rök could only see the vaguest outline of them, they were sitting back in a booth in a corner, strategically placed so that they could watch the entire floor.
Rök squinted and blinked. The smoke in the room was getting to his eyes. It was thick and heavily scented with perfume. He was used to the smoke of burning whale blubber but he hated the perfumed air of an opium den. This gambling hall must double as one. There were corridors that seemed to spiraled off into the bowels of the building.
He blinked again, there was something else here, something that was leeching his focus. The room started to spin. It was barely perceptible at first, but with every heartbeat of the Uruk, the room started blending together; voices, colors, air, all blended together in a cacophonous kaleidoscopic maelstrom. He closed his eyes. Someone was casting a spell. Was this a test? Or a distraction? He needed to center himself, place him a specific point in this ever shifting hell, ground himself. He rubbed the pommel of his sword again, running his forefinger and thumb along the leather grip. The leather was cool and familiar, his fingers tightened around it, flexing, itching to jump.
Then the room stopped, the miasma of light and color dissipated. Eldûrien was standing to his immediate right, her folding as if in prayer at her waist. Sapthêth was to his left, and Tagane beside her. They all looked forward, to the figure wreathed in the darkness. Had they passed this test?
Jhabalar Xho, I presume.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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“You presume correct.”

Jhalabar waved one hand, causing the haze before him to dissipate, then turned to the serving wenches, who were looking put out at the approach of visitors. “My darlings, I have some business I must attend. I shall enjoy your company later.” Much as the women knew that Xho was a jovial soul, the also knew a command when it was given, and departed without fuss, blowing kisses over their shoulders. The corsair returned his gaze to the quartet before him. “Come my friends, sit, be at your ease.” Jhalabar gestured to the semicircular padded bench on either side of him. There was not enough space for all four to side on one side. They would have to separate. “No need to fear,” he said, inclining his head at the Uruk (Rök), fingering the hilt of his falchion, “Jhalabar Xho wishes you no harm.” The unspoken yet lingered on the air, as it always must in situations such as these. He leaned forward to take a date from the platter and tipped it down while glancing up to indicate that the newcomers should help themselves if they desired. He transferred the sticky fruit to his mouth and bit half of it off, chewing with relish as he slowly surveyed each of the group in turn. “Rumor has it,” he ruminated, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the back of the bench and crossing one foot on top of the other knee so that its leg formed a triangle pointing to the side, “that you people are looking for a captain.” Jhalabar popped the second half of the date into his mouth and chewed, sucking each fingertip of sweet goodness as he continued, “And that not all of you,” his gaze settled again upon the elf, “Are what you seem. Speak to me.”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Rök
The Twilight Trickster


The itch in the middle of Rök’s back returned, a bell starting ringing in the back of his mind. As surreptitiously as he could, the Uruk made a final sweep of the area around them. Xho was sitting back in his booth, arms spread like an eagle over the leather seats. The corsair oozed confidence like a musk. Rök could smell it. It was more than confidence that he felt coming off this man in waves. There was power, not necessarily magical power, but the power that comes from knowing that you know everything. Xho wasn’t wearing any sort of special garb, one of the most powerful men in all of Umbar and he looked like a common merchant. That had to be by design, Rök surmised. He did not need to dress flashy, not in his seat of power. All the eyes that had been on the Uruk and his team, it had been his men, either scattered throughout the gamblers or the gamblers themselves. If this went sideways, they were as good as dead, no matter how powerful Krazkun or how persuasive Eldûrien managed to be. With a final rub of his thumb over his falchion, Rök guessed he could move fast enough to make a single strike, a single slash before the masses descended. Xho would move too fast though, even a killing strike from the Uruk with a blade as light as his falchion, a weapon honed to make perfect slashes, would be too slow. What if he was warded? What if he had weapons concealed on him? Rök glanced at Eldûrien. Even with all her magic, a single spell would all she could get off, and would it be enough? No. No, they had walked right into a potential trap. Damn his foolishness!
“A woman never gives away all her secrets,” Eldûrien’s voice was smooth and husky, the purr of a leopard. “But you are right,” she continued, stepping into seat across from Xho. She nodded to Tagane and Sapthêth who followed her lead. “We are looking for a new captain. Captain Frost Enguson seems to have left us in the lurch, as it were. We are a crew with a ship or a captain. And that is a tragedy that poets have waxed on about since the first dawning of the sun.”
Rök remained standing, his muscles tense. “The lady is right,” he confirmed. “And we have heard in the streets here and up and down the coasts, that you would be the man to remedy such an injustice.”
“We’re at your mercy,” Tagane said suddenly, breaking the script they had prepared earlier. She exchanged the briefest of glances with Rök before continuing, “I grew up here, in the Warrens. I know all about you, or at least what all the legends say. To be honest, I don’t believe half of them but you do have us over a barrel. One story I heard once was that you require new crews to go on a mission for you, usually a mission that involves destabilizing a rival of yours.”
Rök suppressed a groan. All their leverage was gone. Tagane had just thrown out bargaining chips in favor of a direct plea, with some ego massaging of course, to his good will.
“I suppose what we are trying to say,” Eldûrien took up the cord of conversation, “who is a rival of yours today?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Jorund - Outside the Twilight Trickster

"I know I saw an orc change into an elf. I know I saw an orc change into an elf."

The sentence, while barely audible was repeated over and over, almost like a chant, the young boy slowly rocking back and forth as he kept his eyes locked on the door to the gambling den. His constant rocking back and forth did nothing to ensure that he stay hidden in the darkness of the alleyway entrance that he was sat in, though he could not stop. Occasionally he would absentmindedly lift a dirty hand and wipe the trail of snot from his runny nose, creating a smear across his cheek. The other cheek had gone dark red, black and purple, swelling up to the point it almost had swollen his eye shut. Jorund was far from unaccustomed to pain as he had often been on the other side of his older brother's wrath, never quite learning to discern when would be a good time to be around him and when wouldn't. His older brother was all he had, never having known his parents and in many ways Saemund was his parent, the only one that had 'cared' enough to take care of him. That is until Saemund started the Black Dragon gang. It had not been easy since and the few beatings he so rightfully deserved when acting out, now became more frequent and unwarrented. But however many times Saemund lay hands on his younger brother, his fealty never wavered and he constantly sought his older brother's approval.

It was only the cold drip of the rain falling from the rooftop that brought him out of his reverie, shifting closer to the building so that the overhang would spare him from the heavy downpour that followed a loud boom just overhead. No rain was going to make him leave, he swore to himself, determined to find further proof of what he had seen. Anyone who could do that kind of sorcery was bound to have a lot of wealth and Jorund was going to be the one to lead Saemund to it. That would make Saemund proud! A small smile lifted his lips, ignoring the sharp pain in his cheek as it moved, again running his dirty hand up to wipe the snot away. "I will join the Black Dragons, you will see!" The smile remained even though it hurt to do so, shifting again and resigning himself to waiting until the orc/elf thing came back out.

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“Aaah, sweet child,” Jhalabar said fondly to Tagane, “I imagine you have heard many things. And I hope you remember also the stories of the kindness of Jhalabar Xho to the urchins, especially those who serve him well.” His stare hardened for the briefest of moments, before passing back to Eldûrien. “Captain Frost Enguson you say? A scoundrel if ever there was one. I imagine such a beauty as you is glad to be rid of him in any case.” Xho drew a small knife from the belt at his waist and began to pick his fingernails as he continued. “You are right,” the corsair’s black eyes flicked back to Tagane again, dancing once more, “that I seek to test a new crew, to gauge their mettle, and see if they are worth my time, and my money. A man such as I has many rivals… or many who think themselves my rivals. Hah!” Jhalabar’s head jerked back with the booming bark of laughter, and the point of the knife just nicked the pad of his left thumb. “And you are right,” he said to the elf, “that a woman must never give up all her secrets. But you, good madame, are no such woman.” With a flicker of his wrists to twist their hands in an intricate gesture and two swift, guttural Black syllables, Jhalabar thrust his left palm towards Eldûrien. A shockwave seemed to run through the air between them, and as it struck the elf she shimmered, revealing the orcish form of Krakzun beneath. As swiftly as he had struck, Xho withdrew his hand, allowing the elf to stabilize. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together, and when next he displayed them, settling the hand back onto the bench beside him, the cut had healed, no sign of blood to be had. “It is not kind to start a new business relationship with lies, my friends.” He sheathed the small knife again, and retrieved a slice of cured meat from the platter, popping it into his mouth before taking up his glass of amber liquor. “I offer you my hospitality and you tell me lies. But in the spirit of honestly, as you seem a capable lot, I will tell you that the mission I must soon embark upon is not solely for me, but at the behest of my former captain, a formidable woman. Who could very well be a distant kin of yours my good, silent, witch,” Jhalabar continued, winking at Sapthêth, “Amarthel, the Delgaran. Now, knowing what you do, do you wish to know more?”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Rök
The Twilight Trickster


For a moment, just a moment, Rök didn’t know what was going to happen. Xho’s display of his own powerful magic had thrown him. The pirate had never seen anyone break through Krazkun’s spells like that before. He saw Eldûrien’s eyes bulge for a second, he couldn’t see, but he imagined her hands were already forming the strange shapes she twisted them into to cast her spells. But then… the moment passed. The black skinned elf relaxed, even smiled. Rök relaxed his grip on the sword, uncurling the fingers from the grip. He kept his eyes on Xho. He knew who, and what, they were and he wanted to them to know that. The Uruk and never felt more unsafe in Umbar than he did now. Eyes were still watching them too, he could sense them. There were more than just the eyes of the patrons as well. There was something else watching them, observing them. His skin prickled. The muscles in his arms and legs begged him to do something, to leap into the air and start the killing. The blood would feel nice. It was a tempting thought. But just as with the dock master, he could not kill everyone here. He had his crew to think of.
Eldûrien’s voice was velvet smooth, unruffled by the intrusion of Xho’s magic. “And you can see why I have to protect myself in a place like this. My… other image is not quite so welcome in this city of humans.” The last word she said with distaste, Rök suddenly felt the urge to spit something out of his mouth. “But I would have to ask for the safety of… everyone here, please don’t do that again.”
Tagane broke in before anyone else could speak, glaring at both Rök and Eldûrien. “I’ve heard of the kindness you’ve given those that try to tell you. I remember the story about how you paid for the funeral of the boy caught spying by the Red Piper, how you cut the flayed, skinless body down from the dock tower and buried him yourself.” Tagane’s blue eyes were cold, but there was no hint of malice or anger in them. “And yes,” she continued after a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, I’ve heard of the Delgaran. The rumors at least. Master assassin, Witch-King’s chosen, killer of hosts. I even heard she had a cult worshiping her up north at one point, not sure how true that one is though.”
A chill ran through Rök as well. The name was familiar to him, familiar like a bad dream. He had heard stories, like Tagane, and they chilled him to the bone. “We’ve heard of her,” was all he could manage.
“So what’s the mission?” Eldûrien asked.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Now in the late Third Age, there is a Sauronic Temple on the hill


It had carried to the point where he could no longer believe it was coincidence. The wind, he had naively surmised at first, it was just the wind .. and for as long as he had been able to shrug off all suspicion, that thought had been his mantra. Just the wind … Yet still it had persisted, the same dogged pursuit, coupled with a doubt that punctured hope. Finally he had rounded a corner, breath snagging about the dour concession. There was no wind as sounded like that.

Whistling, as far as he had been acquainted with the art, before this day, was an expression of jubilation. Idleness perhaps. There were an absence of birds trilling in the sunbaked city, save of course for the squawk of those exotic imports which folk haggled over in the Souk. The orbiting vultures which stalked the more arid quarters of Harad .. they did not whistle. The jolly recreation of sailors was as far from explanation as is day from night. He was at a loss of quite whom or what made that noise which had chased him all the hours of this morning. Glancing in the direction of the sporadic summons only provided yet more enormity of suspects. At length the alarming frequency, the confounding direction of the alarm proved less clear the longer he concentrated.

They were either few and ably vanquishing his efforts to elude them, or their number was without apparent limit. Regardless, he had spent all alternatives. The alley loomed before him, blurring to a baleful gloom on either side, and the sheer reach of it’s distant conclusion scarcely held the promise of a reunion with sunlight. Rare were those ill-thought-out quarters in Umbar where neighbouring architecture clamoured in a race with one another to seize height. It was his luck that he had found his way here. His assuredly bad luck. The incongruous shadow leant a menacing ambience to the arcade, and his heart threatened to burst from his chest in a colourful vomit of gore. But no sooner had he stumbled into the confines of that trap, that was when he felt the entrance draw behind him, like a pair of curtains. They were human shaped, these denizens of darkness, a pair closed in, closing in. His feet trembled over hard stone with more speed.

Before long he could not discern his footfall from the pounding on those paving stones behind him. And for all that he was stumbling forward, it seemed that his race was run in place, with no progression. The whistling had amplified. Both before and behind him, which made no sense at all. Until the inky silhouettes separated from what he’d assumed were the stone borders to his path ahead. A second pair of human shaped despair, reflection of the denizens of darkness to his back .. they now advanced on him from ahead. And more ever and more of them it seemed closed in behind them, and before him also, until he might have to claw through a mire of their meaty impediment.

Relinquishing what further time he might have been allowed, knees folded, feet flew from their support, and he flattened, face down. Hands beat fruitlessly against the ground like the flightless wings of an anchored bird. The worst thing he could have imagined .. gathered and observed the fervent cantations which wrought his lips to seizure. The puckering of eyelids in a valiantly inept faith of shielding his every exposed and vulnerable inch of self from what was now inevitable.

No more whistles. Not a word. There was no need now. They discarded all semblance of what had made him a man, and herded the bald remains amongst them. There was scarcely any call for him to lift each foot in turn. There was not an opportunity to leak through any weakness in their stifling escort. Muscle weighed in on all sides, motion propelled onward from the rearguard, and as though a bone of driftwood in a tripping current, he travelled the slow depleting ascent of the cruel incline. Up the hill. Up toward all knew what dominated the summit. Up toward the Sauronic Temple.

That was where one of the most disquieting souls in all the city held court; he whom was most often named 'the Burned Man'. He who had been born just plain old Pharak Halsad. He who had become the Dread Priest of Umbar. Advocate of ritual, and of human sacrifice.
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The spell had told him much, and their reaction to the name had told him more. They were suitably impressed and wary at his association with, and their potential employment by, the Delgaran- this was good, for it saved much tedious explanation. “Amarthel has no cult.. for her worship,” Jhalabar corrected slowly, “but many things you have heard are true. It has been long enough that there are those who do not remember her beginnings as the most feared corsair on the seas, long before you or your father’s father’s father were thought of. Though you would now be very luck -or unlucky- to meet her on the streets of Umbar, she owns a great many things, and controls a great many others.” The faintest of scuffing sounds announced the arrival of a newcomer, summoned by the wake of the spell, and Xho paused to welcome him. A long, wet nose appeared, then whiskers, and sharp claws, followed by the rest of the enormous black bilge rat as he pulled himself up over the top of the back of the bench upon which the corsair was seated. As large as a small dog, with a thick, lengthy black tail, long scruffy fur, and a set of sharp, beady black eyes that swept the group of petitioners with derision, Nâr nuzzled Jhalabar in greeting, before scuttling around to rest on his right, head settling upon the corsair’s domed shoulder. “Ahh Nâr,” Xho reached up to scratch the rat behind his ears, “don’t be like that. These people are going to be our friends. My apologies,” Jhalabar returned his attention to the group before him, “he doesn’t like strangers.” He reached forward to the platter again and selected a date, reaching back to feed it to the rat. Nâr gobbled the sweet fruit with delight. “Now, as I was saying. The Delgaran controls a great many interests, but from a distance, and there are those in her employ who do not know that they are so. It is one of these which we must deal with. A captain, Agrakhan, an Easterling, has decided to make off with a cargo he was meant to deliver, a very valuable cargo indeed. We know where he was bound, and we must track him down, whether on sea or land, regain the cargo if we can, and either way,” Jhalabar’s brow arched meaningfully, “punish those who would steal from the Delgaran.”
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Rök
The Twilight Trickster


With a single brusque nod to his new employer, Rök backed away from the table, not yet releasing the tense hold he had on the sword. “Then by your leave, we will begin doing some searching for this Easterling, find out places he may have gone.” He looked to his crew and gave a slight shake of the head to Eldûrien who looked like she was about to say something. He could still see the rage in her eyes and, while he couldn’t guess at what she’d say, knew that whatever might come from her lips would end in a bad way. “We will report back here with any information we find.”

Before the man could answer, Rök, with a tilt of his neck, motioned for his crew to follow him out of the gambling den. The air in there was getting more and more stifling in there. The uruk could tell something was about to explode in there if they stayed a moment too long.

He navigated his way around drunk patrons, roughly pushing a few of the smaller ones aside and glaring at them as he passed, a challenge none of them wanted to take up against the massive uruk. Eldûrien was on his left, her eyes darting from the doors of the establishment to the darkened hallways behind them. Sapthêth was to his right but at least a pace behind him. Tagane brought up the rear, standing directly behind him, roughly three paces back. A great blast of lightning shattered the sky as they exited. There were sounds from within the gambling hall, sounds of scuffling feet and shouting, but Rök couldn’t make out anything distinct. Perhaps one of the more drunken idiots had decided issuing a challenge once they had actually left would increase his standing in the eyes of the serving wenches. He spat. Humans and their strange mating rituals.

“Anyone tries anything like that again, I swear I don’t care if the Eye himself comes after me, I’ll tear them apart and sew them back together all inside out!” Eldûrien’s eyes had changed from the previous black to a glowing purple, a vein was pulsing in her forehead.

“You should have been prepared for that,” Rök said evenly. “If you hadn’t been so distracted in there, he wouldn’t have been able to get the drop on you like that.”

The dark elf’s jaw clenched and she spoke through gritted teeth, “I will kill him and everyone he’s ever met if he tries that on me again.” Another peel of thunder and rain began pouring down, sheets upon sheets.

“Still,” she shouted over the roar of the water, “it’s good to know what kind of magic he has on him. He had to bleed to break my illusion. Blood magic is nasty, taxing stuff.”

Rök nodded. “Be more aware next time. And you,” he whirled on Tagane as she was putting up her hood. “Don’t go off script like that again. I don’t care if you knew his mother’s barber!”

The ship’s surgeon and assassin remained quiet, standing nearly motionless as the rains torrented around her.

“Enough all of you!” Sapthêth’s voice was harsh and unlovely, it pierced the veil of the rain. “If we’re gonna be a crew, then we have to be one that rolls with the waves. This is not a good situation we’re in. No other way o’ looking at it. If we start snapping at each other like Mordor rats, then we’re well and truly screwed.”

“The crone is right,” Eldûrien said, positioning herself beside the human. “I’m sorry for letting him get in my head like that. It won’t happen again.”

“Right,” the uruk said. “We’ll need to split up to do our searching. I’ll go with Tagane and go down to the Dead Reckoning, see if any of the merchants there have sold anything to this Agrakhan that might help us figure where he might be going. Eldûrien and Sapthêth, you both head over the see the Blood Hag. We need to find out what it is that he stole. Could give us leverage and Xho certainly isn’t going to tell us. Right, now let’s get this done ‘fore we all drawn like rats in the sewers.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Jorund - Outside the Twilight Trickster

The young boy suddenly perked up when the group of four exited the Twilight Trickster, his skinny little body trembling heavily with the cold and the heavy rain. Absentmidedly he wiped a dirty wet hand under his runny nose, slightly wincing as it got to his sore swollen cheek. But he was too exited to take much notice, his eyes squinting to see them better through the heavy rain. Though the rain was making the four of them speak louder than they would normally, the rain was also making it a lot harder to make out what they were saying. Leaning onto his knees, he could just about make out that they were going to split up, but he could not hear where they intended to go.

While he would have preferred that the four stayed together so that they would be easier to follow, Jorund had already made up his mind that he was going to be trailing after the sorcerer. She was bound to be the wealthier one of them all.

Clutching his ice cold fingers to his chest, he kept his eyes locked on the group, determined not to let them get away from him, almost giddy with exitement at being able to tell Saemund about this, his mind already playing out his acceptance into the Black Dragon gang.

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Eldûrien/Krakzun
The Blood Scryer


“Don’t screw this up now, do you hear me?” The Númenorean woman’s voice was thick with mocking, her smile full of mocking. “Don’t need your pretty image getting shattered again ‘cause you aren’t paying attention.”

The dark elf woman sneered at her partner, looking down at her with eyes of glowing darkness. “If you were better with the tarot we wouldn’t need to even be here. You ought to be the one paying attention.” Her voice was thin and angry. Eldûrien’s rage had not subsided from the encounter with Xho. She knew it was necessary to work for him for now, she knew it was a bad idea to strike at him but all her thoughts from outside the Twilight Trickster to the hovel that marked itself as The Blood Scryer had been of ways to kill him.

The rain was still pouring, her clothes were nearly soaked through. She felt none of the chill though, a little trick she had learned from her time in the north, an easy spell to disperse the unwanted chill. Her breath fogged in front of her, tiny clouds of mist that danced with the rain until passing into vapors. It was hard to hear anything over the roar of the rain, a constant deluge of sound assaulting her senses. The rain made it hard to see too, sheets of translucent water obscured, twisting and stretching, all the images behind it. It would be easy to imagine all sorts of monsters and shadows drifting in and out of this world, just beyond that veil of rain. A great stench had risen in Umbar with the downpour, the smell of mud, salt, and sewage filled her nostrils. There was no scent of petrichor here, nothing so soft and beautiful could last long in a harbor like Umbar. She hated it here. The rain even tasted wrong here. It was bitter and had a heavily acidic aftertaste.

She could not shake the feeling that they were being followed. She cast out wisps of smoke that could act as her eyes but each time she did, she saw nothing. Still, the feeling persisted. Either it was someone very good at avoiding being seen or she was imagining things. She did not like either prospect. The rain and driven most indoors, only occasionally did she see someone peering out at her suspiciously from underneath a drenched cloak, mostly she could see the eyes of watchful strangers from behind the safety of glass, wood, and stone.

“Let’s just get on with it.” She shoved her way past the old woman, standing for a single breath in front of hovel. “Let’s find out what it is we’re looking for.”

She was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of decay, rot, and death. The smell was similar to Sapthêth’s quarters aboard the Grand Conjuration but much stronger. There were symbols drawn in chalk whose meaning escaped even Eldûrien’s vast occult knowledge. Glyphs written in blood and runes carved into wood and stone. The dark elf could feel the power coming off everything in here. It made her skin crawl.

Sapthêth followed her in, and closed the entrance to the hovel. Now to deal with the infamous Blood Hag. Eldûrien lazily wondered if the name would live up to its reputation.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Jorund in pursuit

The deluge both helped and hindered his pursuit of the now two 'women'. Jorund had seen with his own eyes that one of the women was an orc. Jorund was drenched to the bone, though truth be told, the rags he wore barely kept him warm and dry in the best of times. In fact they never kept him warm and dry, they just covered him enough to not get called out for running around naked. Shaking so badly that he had to clench his teeth so that they didn't chatter and give him away, Jorund darted from overflowing water barrels to discarded boxes to deep entry ways as he followed as best he could, hoping his splashing footsteps would be drowned out by the rain. There were several times when he almost lost them as a mysterious fog would suddenly appear and at times that same fog almost caused him to run right into them.

Jorund had only just managed to avoid a huge puddle that had been hidden by the mysterious fog that had suddenly popped up out of nowhere again, drawing in a sharp hissed breath as ducking around it had him bump into one of the women. A strangled cry died on his lips when he realised it was not one of the two women he had been following, the relief almost enough to loosen his bladder. Awkwardly saying his apologies to the woman, while cupping his nether regions, Jorund caught a glimpse of the women entering the Blood Hag's place and again almost lost the ability to hold himself again. Ducking away from the woman (Nerwen), Jorund found an empty alleyway a couple of buildings away from the Hag's place, smart enough to know not to go anywhere near there as she had eyes and ears everywhere. Squatting behind a water barrel, he peered out from between the barrel and the wall, hugging his knees and hoping they would come out before he wet himself.


The Blood Scryer

Darkness seemed to have a life of it's own here, it seemed to ebb and flow within the small confines like a pulse. Two rooms this small hovel sported, the first the entryway and the second where the actual scrying took place, the rooms divided with what looked like clay pipe stems if you did not wish to inspect them further. Though if you were foolish enough to inspect them more carefully, you would see that they were small bones, though it would then leave you guessing whether it was human bones or animals and if it was human, what was the age of something that small. The few flickering candles in the entryway did nothing much to allow anyone a good inspection of anything to be fair, their flickering making it seem like the room breathed. Piles of small bones lay scattered absentmindedly on the floor among the many carvings, painted glyphs and runes, that were obviously made with blood, some seemingly just made as they glistened in the candle light.

"Enter.."

The low command came from behind the bone curtain, the voice too low for anyone to discern it's intent, but loud enough to be heard. A sudden breath seemed to coarse through the front room, making the candles flicker and the bone curtain tinkle softly.

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Rök
The Dead Reckoning


Rök and Tagane found it much easier to navigate the rain drenched streets now that it was clear of people. They could still see vague, shadowy shapes filtering in and out of buildings. They moved close together, each with their senses tuned. Sailor and assassin. The rank, fishy smell of the docks had followed them, and in the rain the smell had only increased, mixed with the smell of burning whale tallow, refuse, and dead animals. Bells could be heard tolling the hour somewhere in the vast maze that was Umbar. Thunder boomed too, a deep natural counterpoint to the bell’s metallic tones. Lightning flashed over head again and again, stabbing down into the sea like a knife. Food stalls lined the street with all sorts of things peddled as meat, Rök’s nose was good enough to know that most of what they were selling was not what they were calling it. The air was afire with potential energy, Rök could feel it. This was the kind of weather he normally loved. The thunder and rain woke something atavistic in his blood. This was fighting weather! In his youth, whenever he was docked for shore leave, he would either take to the streets or find the nearest fighting pit and savage anyone he came across. Now, though, the world was different. He still felt that same savage bloodlust, the urge to rip and tear and punch, but it was tempered with age and responsibility. He had to be better than that. And in this current situation, a brawl in the streets would not go over well. He knew Xho would have people follow him. It’s smart, it’s what he would do if the situation was reversed. But that didn’t mean he was happy about it.

“I don’t remember you ever saying you grew up here,” he said finally breaking the heavy brooding silence between them.

“Aye, grew up in the Warrens. How’d you think I got so good at killing people? My parents just disappeared one day and I was forced to find a way to survive on my own. The Warrens force kids to grow up very fast.”

“Were you ever in the employ anyone like Xho? You seemed rather familiar with his history?”

The variag woman shook her head, “No, even though it would have probably made my life easier, it would have made it shorter. Getting involved with them when you’re just an orphan, something barely even alive to them, is usually the fastest way to find yourself strung up and gutted.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, each of them battling the paranoia of the streets of Umbar. It was not safe here.

Finally, they arrived at The Dead Reckoning. It was smaller than Rök remembered, but then he had been there in many years. They passed through the heavy wooden doors, a few heads turned within but otherwise they went unnoticed. The rain’s heavy barrage suddenly seemed like it was part of another world. The pitter-patter on the roof was the only sign that the rain had not truly abated.

Rök flexed his fingers over the pommel of his falchion and craned his neck to one side until he felt the bones pop. Tagane took up her position beside him. Any causal onlooker would fail to notice the way her hands crossed her chest, gripping the knives hidden on her sides.

Rök meandered, as much as an uruk could be said to meander, to the table near the window, the only place it seemed that had any sort of activity, three middle-aged men pouring over a map. “I’m looking for a man called Agrakhan. I was hoping you gentlemen could help with some information.”

Eldûrien/Krakzun
The Blood Scryer


"Enter..."

The voice, accompanied by the sudden gust of wind, suitably twisted the knife of unease in Eldûrien’s stomach. The voice was nasty and phlegmy, a voice choked with age and decrepitude. She hated this place. She looked at Sapthêth who looked as though nothing was amiss. Bloody woman!

They both moved through the maze of glyphs, wards, and runes, having to dance a bit to avoid stepping into any of the circles cast upon the floor. There was a small room beyond the antechamber. The Blood Hag’s reading room no doubt, thought Eldûrien as she passed into it. Her hands fidgeted at her side, ready to set this whole offal pile on fire if anything even looked at her wrong. Her skin was clammy. The air in here was all wrong. It was stiflingly hot. And the rain. Where was the sound of the rain? She looked about, entering the room, the dimensions were all wrong. There was no way something so large could be back here. She had expected a cramped, claustrophobic room but what she encountered was anything but. It was still small, but it would have fit her entire troupe comfortably on one side with the Blood Hag on the other. Sapthêth entered behind her and gave no indication that what she found was unexpected.

Eldûrien sat on the floor in front of a wide, circular table scored with symbols that vexed even her knowledge. Sapthêth sat next to her. The elf did take some pleasure in noticing that her companion had a sprig of wolfsbane wrapped around her fingers. Perhaps she was not so foolish after all.

The shadows were too deep to see the other side of the table, the darkness there seemed alive, writhing and undulating as if it was a living breathing monster. The elf assumed that the Blood Hag sat somewhere, wrapped in that shadow.

“If you’re as good as they all say you are, you know who we are and what we’ve come for. The question I have is, can you do it?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Blood Scryer

“If you’re as good as they all say you are, you know who we are and what we’ve come for. The question I have is, can you do it?”

The question hung in the air, almost palpable as if the words had to penetrate a vile gooey liquid. The thick heavy silence followed after, spreading through the room like a poisonous cloud, the temperature suddenly increasing and making the air even thicker to breathe. For the longest time there was no reply, until suddenly the candles flickered and the darkness in front of the two visitors seemed to throb and move.

"That. Is NOT the question.." came the whispered reply that sounded like the lid of a sarcophagus being scraped off after a thousand years, the last words giving off a strange eerie echo that should not have been possible. Again the darkness pulsed, this time almost angrily, tension growing in the air like it would do just before a lightning strike.

Without a sound made, the darkness seemed to birth the view of a figure in front of the two, allowing them to see the vaguest image of a hooded figure sat by the table.

"The question is, as always, can you PAY.." again the last word echoed eerily around the small room, that should not even have allowed for the possiblity of any kind of echoes.

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Eldûrien/Krakzun
The Blood Scryer


"The question is, as always, can you PAY…"

The black skinned elf nearly leapt across the table. Her lips pursed in a snarl. Her hands began weaving frantically under the table, drawing in energy from the leylines around them. She gathered the power and began shaping it. All of the sudden though, it all fizzled out, the energy she captured flittered through her fingers. Something was wrong. There was no way this hag could have blocked her power. Eldûrien shuddered. The air around her grew cold.

Sapthêth finally spoke up, her voice slicing through the silence and the chill. “Enough both of you! This is what men do, pissing contests are for the weak minded. I will give you the blood you require!” Her voice was a knife’s edge, sharp and cruel. Her voice, normally so placid and sardonic, was alien to Eldûrien’s ears. It had the air of command. The Elf’s eyes narrowed at her companion. There was something suddenly in her countenance she did not like.

The old woman held out her left and produced a wicked looking curved ceremonial dagger in her right. “I know how this works. I have to bleed on your table to waken your magic, right?” Without waiting for a response, Sapthêth sliced open her palm with the dagger and squeezed her hand into a fist. Blood spilled out over her fingers in deep rivulets, the cut was deep. Blood flowed from her hand and down onto the table. The blood smeared, mixing with the thin layer of dust that settled on the stone slab. She squeezed and squeezed. Eldûrien was shocked, her elderly companion was not growing pale or weak in the slightest, despite the rather large pool of blood now dripping toward the center of the table. Sapthêth’s eyes never left the shadowy image of the blood hag, her slate grey eyes were hard and focused.

“Don’t lie to me now, elder sister. I will know if you are. And if I like the information you have us, maybe I will do a reading for you.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Blood Scryer

As soon as the first drop of blood hit the table the air in the room seemed to changed. It was as if something had been brought back to life, throbbing with malice. A low thrum seemed to vibrate through everything in the room, bringing with it an eerie static feeling, one that made you feel like if you touched someone now you would create a spark.

While not seen there was a sense that the shadowy form held the old woman's gaze just as intensely and never once wavering, the silence only broken when the old woman spoke. The silence returned like a thick blanket, all sound seemingly disappearing along with the oxygen in the air for long countless moments until suddenly a grating chuckle erupted that echoed in a way that should not be possible in this small room.

A sudden movement throbbed in the darkness and it seemed to swirl and billow around the hooded form in front of the two visitors almost as if the form was drinking in the darkness itself. The room grew lighter, making it possible to see more in the gloom before several candles suddenly lit by themselves, all positioned around the stone table and it's guests. As soon as the candles lit the room the dark form moved and slowly pushed the cowl of the hood back off her head, revealing a stunningly beautiful woman and if anyone were to look closer with their own abilities it would become apparent that this was not a glamour. Hair as pitch black as the room had just been, pale skin and eyes as white as snow. With no discernable iris's or pupils it was an unnerving sight for most, though the form seemed unhibited by the lack of sight with an unnerving accuracy of where things were in the room as her eyes settled on each visitor in turn.

The chuckle came again, the horrific grating malice of the timbre so opposite of what one might expect from someone who looked the way the Blood Scryer did.

"I might just take you up on that..Sapthêth.." the Blood Scryer whispered, her voice sounding like death.

Suddenly the Blood Scryer's white eyes flicked to and settled on Eldûrien, one perfect eyebrow rising questioningly as if to ask when she would contribute, the blood from Sapthêth seemingly having disappeared or been sucked into the table itself.

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Krakzun/Eldûrien
The Blood Scryer


When the Blood Hag finally revealed herself, she was not what Eldûrien had expected. The voice of the hag had seemed to indicate she was a haggard, wizened old woman. But this was something different. The Elf could see, too, that there was no hint of a glamour to be seen. Either it was the best glamour she had ever seen, or there was something more foul at work. Her lip curled in disgust and she reflexively pushed herself back from the table. The voice was the same. It felt like the voice of something long dead, shunted into a shell of a living person but without the affectations that made it harmonious. The hackles on the back of her neck rose and gooseflesh prickled over her skin. Damn Rök for telling them to come here! She took a deep breath, settled herself and leaned back over the table.

She didn’t like the way she said her companion’s name either. There was something sinister about it. She might not like the old Númenorean woman but the way the hag had spoken, there was a hunger in that voice, a ravenous, monstrous hunger. Her lizard hindbrain was telling her to cast a fireball into the center of the room and be done with it, but she knew that wasn’t an option. Not yet. Not until they got what they came for.

“You want some of my blood too?” She snarled, stuffed her hand inside her coat pocket and produced a swan feather. She breathed out a single word in an old Orkish dialect and the feather burst into flame, her appearance did to, burning away the black skin and white hair and elven features to reveal the orc beneath.

“Then you can have it,” his voice was cold iron. He dropped the ashes of the feather and took the dagger Sapthêth used, quickly slicing open his palm and letting the blood pour out onto the eldritch table.

“Now, tell us what we came here to find out! Tell. Us. What. We. Seek.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Person in the Iron Mask- Being Rudely Cut in Line Outside The Blood Scryer

It had begun to rain, but the pitter patter of raindrops merely bounced off of the The Person in the Iron Mask. When suddenly the person was cut in line by two people, who opened the door and rushed in.

Now this turned The Person in the Iron Mask's gaze from the other person waiting outside, towards the door. At once, their feet moved to the entrance of the doorway, with left fingers closed around the spear. The right gauntlet formed a fist, and promptly pounded 5 times in quick and hopefully loud succession. At once, The Person in the Iron Mask stepped away from the door, with spear at their side.

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The Blood Scryer

If the Scryer was surprised by the orc's glamour disappearing, she certainly did not show it as she continued to watch him until he finally cut his palm as well and bled onto the table. She remained completely still waiting patiently until the last drop had fallen, ignoring the orc's blunt demand. Looking at each in turn with the slightest of smiles, she flicked her hand and the table between them suddenly disappeared. Giving Eldûrien a look the small smile widened just a bit more as if to say that he was not the only one with tricks up their sleeves.

Instead of the table, there was now just a wooden bowl and she leaned forward and reached out for it, revealing long slender pale arms, the skin perfectly pale without any blemishes whatsoever. As she pulled the bowl towards her, she paused for a fraction of a second, her brows almost furrowing before her face returned to it's neutral expression. Following the brief flinch, the room suddenly seemed to devour any sound, blocking the sound of knocking from the two before her.

Balcheth.. she would deal with the woman later, knowing the woman would never enter without being bidden.

Returning her attention to her current guests, she raised the bowl to her mouth and drank from it, the blood staining her already red lips and making them glisten. Lowering the bowl down to her lap, nestling it in her crossed legs, she slowly ran her pink tongue over her lips before finally speaking again, her voice starkly different from her appearance, the oppressive silence finally lifting.

"You seek.. Agrakhan" she grated out in a low voice. "Yes.. he holds something of.. value." She sucked at her teeth as if to draw out more information from the blood she had drunk. "Valuable cargo.. but dangerous." Her eyes widened for a moment as if she just realised what the cargo was. "He does not know just how dangerous this cargo really is..fool." She smacked her lips once more before continuing. "Black powder. That is what he stole..."

Suddenly her eyes turned to Eldûrien and she smirked. "You wouldn't want to send a fireball at him.. either.." the last word added as she lifted an eyebrow knowingly.

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Krakzun
The Blood Scryer


Black powder. The words sent a shiver up Krakzun’s back. He had seen it in action a few times and had been in complete awe of it. It burned. It burned so hot. The fires he could spread with such materials. For years he had been obsessed with finding as much of it as he could, stockpiling it, developing it, refining it. Until the day he found out the unpredictable side of it. He nearly burned himself alive. A spark came off his transformation from Eldûrien, a tiny little spark that couldn’t have done any damage. Yet it did. The fire was so immense, so beautiful and so hot. Krakzun tried to stay, tried to absorb that energy, but even he could not have predicted the unholy amount of strength as in that fire. The concussive blast threw him from the loft of the warehouse into street and turned his skin, which had been nearly completely invulnerable to fire before, the charred black color it is now. Since that day, Krakzun stayed away from black powder, even when their captain, Frost, had tried to use some in the cannon’s he acquired. Krakzun didn’t need to be taught a lesson twice.

“Black powder?” he said finally, gathering his thoughts. His sickly yellow-orange eyes narrowed. “Black powder? That is a prize.” He laughed wickedly, his laugh was a soft giggle that should have been inaudible but somehow, either through his own magic or the magic of the Blood Scryer’s domain, the volume increased. “No, wouldn’t want to be shooting fireballs at that one. Not up close anyway.”

He stood back and turned to go. Sapthêth, for her part, did not turn to go. She stayed staring at the Blood Scryer. The orc was terrible at reading faces, what was she doing? “Hey! Bruja! Let’s get a move on shall we?”

Sapthêth merely shook her head. She didn’t turn to look at the orc, standing now half in and out of inner chamber. “I made an offer,” her voice was calm and measured, her eyes, implacable and impassive, did not stray from the Blood Hag’s inexplicably beautiful face. “You fulfilled your end of the agreement. Should I hold up mine?” A deck appeared in her hand, though neither hand had moved to put it there.

Krakzun re-entered the room with a snarl. “Enough of this blood magic tarot nonsense!” He raged, spittle flying from his lips. “We don’t have time for this! Rök is waiting for us.”

Slowly, like the turning a great water wheel, Sapthêth turned to her companion. Her face was iron hard ruthlessness. “You,” her voice was dangerously calm. “May wait outside. Or you can run back to your precious uruk. I am no longer here for you.” She turned back to the Blood Hag without waiting for the orc’s response. “So, big sister. What say you?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Blood Scryer

The horrific laughter echoed eerily in the small room, the cadence growing and lowering in no real discernable or natural pattern. As the last few grating chuckles left her, the Blood Scryer seemed to lean back as if in a chair, though nothing could be seen behind her. The bowl of congealing blood was still nestled in between her crossed legs, her hands laying leisurely across her stomach.

Drawing in a deep breath, she let it out slowly. "By all means Sapthêth, do your thing. However, I doubt that you will see anything that I haven't already seen myself. If you aim to scare me by telling me of my death, know that I already know how and wehn I die and it will not be by your hands. Or any of your companions.."

Grinning again, she raised her white eyes from Sapthêth to Krakzun and gave a slight movement with her head, almost as if to challenge him. "I can share with you your death, if you would like? Though it will cost you more than just a few drops of your blood.." Smirking she looked at him for a moment longer before returning her gaze to Sapthêth. "So? What do you have to share with me then?"

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Sapthêth
The Blood Scryer


The orc raged, she could hear him as he moved through to the entrance of the hut. “I not need to you tell me when I’m going to die!” she heard him shout back. “I’m never going to!”

The old woman sighed, and muttered something incomprehensible under her breath. She rolled her eyes and looked down at the table, that had indeed become a table again. She hadn’t noticed when the magic took place, somewhere between Krakzun’s tirade and the Blood Hag’s taunt. She shuffled the cards in her hand, deftly flicking them back and forth between her long, thin fingers. She watched the Blood Hag carefully. She was not quite unsettled by the woman, more that she was fascinated by her power, which was clearly several leaps and bounds beyond her own. But the Hag used blood magic, something even Sapthêth had reservations about. There was great potential there, but also something very dangerous. Yet looking at her, Sapthêth could believe she’d managed to control the uncontrollable magic.

“I have no need, nor wish, to harm you in any way, Elder Sister, you wound me by your taunts, but perhaps that is simply the way you think now.”

She placed the first card on the table, face up. The card was faded and worn thin with age, but the ink was still vibrant: The Fool, Reversed. The old Númenórean woman tsked gently. “ The Fool, here it symbolizes recklessness to the self. I don’t think you need me to tell you what that means. You are the Blood Hag and are the most powerful sorceress in Umbar, but even you must pay the price for the magic you wield eventually, be careful, else the death you think you know is coming will change and take you unawares.”

She placed the next card above and to the left: King of Swords. A brief smile passed over Sapthêth’s face. “King of Sword, representing mental clarity for your home. You are indeed aware of what power you wield, and you’ve taken steps to protect yourself and your… home.” she looked about hut with a sudden feeling of unease. She kept her gaze placid, however, and nodded sagely. “Be sure, then to watch who it is you allow inside this place.”

To the left and above the second card, Sapthêth placed the third card: the King of Wands. “King of Wands,” she chuckled dryly, “meaning ruthlessness in skills. You are going to face something soon that will be require you to be ruthless, more so than you already are. Perhaps…” she turned slowly, and purposefully around to look out at the doorway, “it is your next client you should be ruthless with.”

Above the second card and to the right of the third, Sapthêth placed the fourth card: 2 of Swords. “This one is strange,” the old woman said, “this is a spot normally reserved for love, or what ordinary people think of love, but you and I know it as something else: weakness. Here the 2 of Swords warns you of difficult decisions. There is a weakness you must shore up, but to do so, you will have to choose between two things you hold dear.”

Above the fourth, she placed the fifth: 10 of Pentacles. She frowned, tracing the edges of the card with a bony finger. “10 of Pentacles, representing the dark side of wealth. You’ve accumulated quite a bit of wealth, Elder Sister, and most of it not of the coin variety. Power and prestige can draw all sorts of eyes, jealous eye mostly. Be wary.”

The sixth, she placed to the right of the fourth, rounding out the shape of the diamond pattern: The Lovers. “Regarding your wealth again,” Sapthêth said, sighing heavily. “The Lovers here mean that someone is coming into your life, someone you don’t expect. There is an alignment of values here. It could be profitable to build an alliance with this person, if only to use the power they hold now.”

The last card, the seventh, she placed on the opposite end of the table, directly against the third: Wheel of Fortune. “Ah, Good Luck. You are wise, Elder Sister. Wise beyond my knowing for certain. This last card represents intellect, of which yours is vast. Do not be overconfident in that wisdom though. Even the mighty Golden One was brought low because of the pride he placed on his intellect. See that you do not fall into the same trap.”

With that, Sapthêth gathered up her cards, gingerly picking each of the cards up and placing them back into her deck. She stood, waving slightly as the air seethed around her. “And now, I must make my leave. Perhaps we shall meet again, perhaps not. Be careful you pay attention to the cards and their meanings, it could be vital that you do.”

She bowed low and moved back through the hut, following in the footsteps of her compatriot

Krazkun/Eldûrien
Out on the Streets


The orc snarled as he left the Blood Hag’s hovel. Rage clouded his vision to the point that everything he saw had a tinge of red to it. Flames, unbidden, began wrapping around his arm like serpents. He glanced to the side and through the haze, saw… was that a person in an iron mask. He snarled at them. “What are you looking at?” He spat. Momentarily, he thought about razing the entire street to cinders, it would not be hard to do and would be oh so satisfying. But no. Rök said no gathering attention to themselves. The flames wrapping around his arms slowly faded into cinders that pressed back into his skin. Without so much as glancing abut him, Krakzun took out another rat skull from within his cloak, crushed it and drew the glyphs in the air again. His form shifted, elongated, and warped until Eldûrien, the onyx skinned, white hair elf emerged.

She sniffed the air. There was someone watching them. She knew that stench. She strode to the alleyway within sight of the Blood Scryer, the scent grew stronger and stronger until she found the boy behind the water barrel.

“And just what, little darling, do you think you’re doing?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Blood Scryer

For the whole reading the Blood Scryer sat motionless, her arms folded in front of her chest, though leaning on the table that seemed a little higher than before. Not once did her snow white eyes move from the woman before her, not once tempted to look at the cards being layed out before her. The tarot cards did not interest her, it was the woman before her that was of importance.

Not a single intonation or movement the woman made was missed, both more valuable to her than what was actually spoken. Noiselessly she breathed in deeply, smelling the woman and taking in her scent, one that changed a few times as she spoke. 'No fear,' she mused. 'Fascination.. hmm.. not unusual. Apprehention? No.. unease. Interesting..' she thought.

As Sapthêth turned towards the front door to allude to her next guest, the Blood Scryer remained still, eyes still locked on the woman before her as the fact that the woman knew there was someone out there waiting did not surprise her one bit. However with each card there followed a warning of some kind. The woman had not spoken of anything that she had not already scried, though it did leave her wondering why this woman had chosen to warn her.

When Sapthêth rose, her eyes followed, though she did not speak or move until the woman reached the front door. She did not raise her voice, yet it carried eerily to the woman all the same as she returned the favour.

"Be even more wary than you already are of Jhalabar Xho, or he will be your undoing.."

***

Jorund

The rain had continued to fall mercilessly and made it a monumental task for the young boy to not wet himself. He was on the verge of tears from the pain of holding it in, the now constant shivers only adding to the torture. "It will only take a second, I can be done before they get back" he muttered under his breath with his teeth chattering together. "No! No, I can't. I will lose them. They are bound to come out as soon as I turn my back." Jorund let out a small sob as a new river of raindrops started pattering into the barrel right in front of him.

Shaking so hard now he almost lost the battle against his bladder, he was about to relent and just get it over with when he heard the shouting from inside the Scryer's house. Freezing mid move, he slunk back towards the wall, his bladder momentarily forgotten and peered out from behind the barrel cautiously. To his horror he saw the horrific orc emerge with his arms aflame despite the rain. Jaw dropping he watched enthralled as the flames died out, thinking it had to have been the rain that had put it out. "She set him on fire!" He hissed under his breath, his head shaking as the orc had likely done something to make the Scryer angry. "Never anger the Scryer is what Saemund always says.." he muttered as his teeth clattered together from the cold.

Jorund leaned forward a bit more towards the barrel to see what the orc did as he waved his hand around. Was he still trying to put the fire out? He had barely formed the thought when to his horror the orc's body twisted and warped right before his eyes and he had to clamp a cold wet hand over his mouth so that he did not let out a startled cry, barely believing what he had just seen as the orc morphed into the elven woman. 'I need to tell Saemund!' Though his thought remained that as he realised the "elf" was stalking straight towards his hiding place.

'Run! Run!! She is almost here!! RUN!!' his brain screamed at him, but he was frozen in fear and as the woman peeked behind the barrel and saw him, all he could do was let out a small scared squeak in response to her question as he looked up at her with horror, the river of water running around him suddenly becoming slightly more yellow.

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Eldûrien/Krakzun
On the Streets


“How delightfully pathetic,” the black skinned elf crooned. She laughed, her voice was a lilting, bubbly harpsichord, belying the sinister intent behind her eyes. She looked down at the boy with a kind smile, but savage eyes. She squatted next to him, her eyes level with the young boy. “You seem to be in a spot of trouble.” She traced his dirty, rain soaked jaw with a perfectly manicured finger and watched with indifferent amusement as the water around him turned yellow.

“Do I scare you, my little sweetling?” she giggled delightedly then leaned in conspiratorially “or does he?” Her eyes brightened. “Oh you sweet pathetic little puppy you! Oh I could just eat you up!” She flashed a wicked grin then looked about the alley. They were alone, the rain had driven everyone who might normally have been traversing the streets. The sounds of the street were now completely different. Instead of the heavy din of countless voices yelling and shouting, it was a heavy roar of water followed by the occasional crash of the waves at the dock. Everywhere in Umbar, no matter how close or far from the water, could hear the crash of the waves. The smells were dampened too, by the grace of Thuringwethil. Eldûrien’s hyper sensitive nose was no long assailed with the smell of sweat, piss, offal, and blood. She could smell the salt of the ocean again, the brine wrapped her senses in a hard, loving embrace.

“Come with me, I need somewhere passably dry for this next part,” she grabbed his hand, her nails digging into his flesh as she pulled him along, draw deep rivulets of blood. She ducked under a stone archway and pushed the young boy against the wall with a flick of her wrist.

“I know you’ve been following me,” she leaned against the opposite wall, hiding half her face in the shadows. “I could smell you from a mile away. When was the last time you bathed?” She wrinkled her nose involuntarily. “I have to decide what to do with you, sweetling. Rök won’t like that you followed us, and Tagane has been itching to have someone to perform surgery on.” She looked directly into his eyes, gauging the amount of fear she was instilling in him. He was so wretched looking. She couldn’t help by smile a toothy grin. “But you’d do anything to stay alive wouldn’t you? Yes you would. I can see the spark in your eyes.” She in fact thought they were a dull brown but flattery was everything right now. “I’m going to give you something, if I do, will you keep it secret and safe for me?”

She reached into a pocket and pulled out a black glass bead about the size of her thumbnail. She placed it in the palm of the boy’s hand and closed his fingers around it. “Keep it safe darling. I’ll always be able find you with this. I’ll be able to hear and see everything. You want that don’t you?”

Eldûrien leaned in closer, her breath hot on the boy’s skin. “Right?” she whispered, her lips almost touching his ear.

She kissed him then, hard and savagely on the mouth. It lasted only a second but it was the last component of a charm spell she had devised. It was not overly strong, it would not rob the victim of their wills entirely, but it would make them very, very open to suggestions.

“Now tell me, boy, what is your name? And why were you follow me?”
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Jorund

Even in the rain the elf before him glowed with a fierce beauty. Never in his young life had he ever seen anything as beautiful as this supposed elf, and now that she was right in his face it was all he could do to not lose his senses. But as her almost sickly sweet voice spoke their foul words drawing his mind in, the eyes were like constant slaps. He thought he knew the look of hatred, he saw it every single day of his life. Obviously from his brother, but also from pretty much every single inhabitant of Umbar as no one liked the street urchins, finding them almost more despicable than vermin as the urchins could and would steal and would be harder to catch than rats.

The sudden pain in his arm as she grabbed him had him yelping in pain, tears immediately springing to his eyes. He had never learned not to cry, despite Saemund's many warnings that he would receive more punishment if he did not stop. He did try, he really did, but they always burst out no matter how hard he tried. Pushed roughly against the archway he cried out in pain again as his head bounced off of the stone, his free hand darting up to grab the back of his head.

Crying freely now, he wanted to lower his eyes or look away, though felt drawn to look at the elven woman before him. Her voice so fair it was sweeter than any music he had ever heard, yet the words she was saying twisted his guts in fear. Surgery? He almost asked what that meant, but even he was not that stupid, guessing it was likely not something pleasant. The sudden change in topics caught him off guard as she offered him something, immediately wanting to accept it despite a niggling voice at the back of his mind trying to remind him that there was no way she would give him anything that was good. Though despite the fear making him need to relieve himself again, he found himself nodding.

As she placed the black gem in his hand, his eyes went wide, unable to comprehend his luck. A gem?? She had given him a gem?? Even in the gloomy light the gem seemed to ripple and gleam, his jaw dropping in wonder at his prize. Saemund was going to be SO jealous he thought, not aware that she had leaned in. As she asked her question right in his ear, he let out a startled squeal, his voice breaking as he tried to say "Y-yes.." However his response was cut off as she suddenly kissed him, leaving him stunned and barely able to breathe. Staring up at her in shock, his lips slightly parted, he could barely fathom that she had just kissed him. An elf had just kissed him.

"Wha-?" Baffled he blinked his eyes, trying to sort his scattered thoughts out and finally realising she had asked him some questions. "J-Jorund, Miss.. that's me dad's name too. At least that is what Saemund says, cause I ain't never met 'im, not that I want to I guess, he was a right ol' bastard is what Saemund says. And I had to follow you, you see!? I saws you. One minute there you was an ugly orc.. uh orc and next an elf! Magics I thought and I went to tell Saemund, but he hit me and told me to go get some coins. He always want's coins, he is making his own gang you see and that costs money. Lots I 'spose. So had to come back as I figured that if you could do magics then you might have a lot of coins too.." His million mile a minute account slowed down as he realised he just admitted to going to rob her. "Sorry.."

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Eldûrien/Krakzun
In the alleys


Jorund,” she spoke the boy's name with the whisper of a laugh. “I like your name darling, it’s very strong.” Whether her words were genuine or wrapped in mocking no one could tell. She smiled a toothy smile at the cascade of words that poured from the boy. Her spell had taken hold it seemed. His confession was not surprising, she’d known since she smelled him he had meant her harm, but he would never have had a chance.

She pulled out a coin, an old piece, gold and heavy. Her fingers caressed the edges of the coin, the gold nearly twitching with energy. For a moment the elf thought of giving the boy the coin without the warning, but it had been so long since she had had a pet. He would do nicely too. Jorund was you g and pliable. Even after her spell wore of, she knew exactly how to keep him engaged. “ Stop your crying darling. I cannot abide a companion that weeps so. You’re going to have to be much stronger than this.”

She put her arm around the boy's shoulder and drew him in closer. Her black eyes level with his own. She watched Jorund’s terrified expression expand as his words finally came to an end. She looked deeply into his eyes, probing them for any hint of something else, something hidden. It was true this boy looked as guileless and innocent as a crippled lamb but she had been deceived once today and this boy was going to have to pay the price for that. She knew how uncomfortable the process was, every thought and memory you had ripped open and laid bare for someone to see. It was painful and embarrassing. This boy though, Jorund, would be no worse off for it. She saw the memories of his brother, a nasty piece of work that one. She touched the face of the coin absentmindedly. There was an easy pathway to binding this boy to her. Her black eyes glittered, a reflection of the black stars for which she had named herself.

“I’m going to give you a task, Jorund. To prove your loyalty to me. You’d like that right? To prove yourself to me. I know you do, darling boy. I’m going to mold you into something so wonderful you’ll forget pissing yourself in gutters in terror. You'll be the terror that haunts people's worst nightmares.” Eldûrien caressed the boy’s cheek and touched her thumb to his lip. “If you fail me though, your end will be the stuff of legends. They’ll whisper about the boy that betrayed the elf and how he drowned on sand for generations to come.”

She pulled him back into the pouring rain. She welcomed the freezing droplets as they wrapped their frigid embrace around her. There was life in that cold, heartless touch. He would feel that touch now too, and he would grow to love and crave it. “Give this coin to your brother. Tell him you found it on me. Tell him you stole from me and I didn't even notice,” she put the old coin in his palm, but kept her hand over it to shield his eyes. “It’s an old coin, from Númenor before it sank. It’s cursed though. Give it to your brother, tell all of his friends to come and see it, but don’t look at it yourself. When the curse unleashes itself and it’s all over, come find me my sweet boy and we shall see what kind of weapon you can be.” She released him, letting go of the coin, eager to see her work play out. Sapthêth would be wondering where she was though, it was time she rejoined the old crone seer in the streets and find their compatriots.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Jorund

Not that he could explain why, but his heart swelled with pride as she appreciated his name. That she was tapping into a deep sense of longing for someone to love and care for him that he couldn't even put into words if he tried, went unnoticed as a small smile started to play on his lips. It was a strong name. He thought so too, despite what Saemund said. Sniffling he wiped a wet ragged sleeve under his nose in an attempt to do as bid when she reprimanded him, not even noticing the sting as he touched his still swollen and bruised cheek. He wanted so badly to be strong. To be strong and powerful and show Saemund that he was worthy of joining the Black Dragons. And to not be hit or kicked anymore. He really did not like that.

His thoughts were halted as she drew him in closer, his face so close to her that her warm breath tickled his nose and almost made him sneeze. Though there was something at the back of his mind screaming out a warning, desperately trying to get him to pull free and make a run for it, to close his eyes and not let her look into his. Eyes wide with fear, his heart hammered so hard in his chest that it almost hurt. Tears once more sprang to his eyes unbidden, but in a desperate attempt to not to anger her even more he blinked them away and briefly held his breath as he ignored the voice and stayed where he was, his legs far too shaky to run even if that was what he had chosen.

Unexpectedly images of his brother sprang to mind as she looked into his eyes, flashing between several of the worst memories he had where he would be beaten, ridiculed or locked in a dark cupboard for hours on end. A small scared whimper escaped along with the feeling of another warm rivulet running down his legs, his face flushing with embarrassment as he realised what it was.

Her voice guided him through the horric images, some he had long locked away as they were too painful to remember, and brought him back to the alleyway with a promise of better things. His cheeks flushed again as she so casually mentioned how he had pissed himself, for a moment feeling like he was being ridiculed. His brows furrowed at the promise of making him so great that he would be the terror that haunted other people, not quite sure that was what he wanted to be as that did not sound that nice. He hated nightmares, why would he want to be one?

The warning was both clear as day and as murky as the water in the gutter, as despite trying to figure out how one could drown in sand, he just couldn't quite picture it as surely you only drowned in water?? However the touch of her finger left his lip tingling and stopped him from trying to correct her. It did not seem like a wise thing to do anyway.

He did not fight her when she drew him back out into the cold rain, though gasped as it pelted his frigid body having to blink the raindrops out of his eyes. He could feel his body tense as it readied itself for the shivers, every muscle taught and straining. An odd sensation follwed, feeling like the cold bore into him, that it hit his skin and sunk right into the bones, travelling deep inside and then squeezed, like a cold embrace from the inside out. Gasping he looked up at her beautiful face, her face seemingly glowing in the darkness, as she gave him something that he was to give to his brother. It took a lot of effort to tear his eyes away from her face and look down at his hand as she placed something in it, though she was covering it with her own and preventing him from seeing it. Cursed? His curiosity was burning in his gut, desperate to look at the coin now as he had never seen a cursed coin before! Oh man Saemund was going to be sooo jealous!

But as she let go of his hand and allowed for him to open it should he want to, he found that he could not make himself do it. She said not to look at it. I shouldn't look at it. It's for Saemund. Oh yes, I can give it to him as he said not to come back without any coins! Surely this will get me into the Black Dragons! Suddenly eager to go give it to his brother, he quickly nodded his head "I will, I will find you!" He didn't know how, but he had found her before, surely he would be able to find her again as afterall there were not that many beautiful elven women in Umbar.

Without a goodbye, he pulled from her grasp, one hand holding the gem and the other the coin and ran as quickly as his frozen legs allowed. Through puddles and over trash, skirting around a dead cat in an alley, he quickly made it back to the hideout. Though just as he was about to burst through the door, the memory of what had happened last time he had done that flashed before his eyes and he halted, almost toppling over as he nearly lost his balance from the abrupt halt. Wiping his nose with a wet sleeve, he took a deep breath and knocked on the wooden door in the secret code thay had. He even waited patiently for the return knock before stepping inside.

"Sae-Skar! Skar! I got a coin! I snatched it right out of her pocket I did, she didnt even notice either! The coin is HUGE!! Come look!!" His eager excited voice caught the attention of the young men in the room and despite their misgivings about the boy they all came to look all the same, if for nothing else but to ridicule him when they saw he had not gotten anything of the kind. Beaming proudly at the sudden attention, especially from his brother who even looked mildly curious now, he stood before them all and held out his hand.

"Look!" Slowly he opened his hand, his eyes remaining on his brother, wallowing in the newfound attention.

Arien
Arien
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Amaris, Daughter of the House of Harân

Again.

She bent her face to the water. The silver bowl was so highly polished she could make out the reflection of the fine glass lamps that had been carefully hung from the ceiling, in the fashion called chandelier. Nothing more.

A hand struck the table.

“You’re not paying attention,” her grandmother said sharply. The old woman was still beautiful, in a severe way; the bones of her face were sharp and elegant, and she was carefully groomed. Those perfect eyebrows were furrowed as she stared at Amaris. “Concentrate, girl. We’ve been here an hour and you’ve seen nothing except your own daydreams, and the Dark Lord knows no one has any interest in those but yourself.”

“I’m trying, grandmama,” Amaris protested; but her brow was as furrowed with frustration as her grandmother’s. “Why are you so sure I’ll be able to see anything at all? No one in our family has the gift. You’ve not pressed the boys about it, lord knows Mama has no interest in this sort of thing, and Papa says-”

“Hold your tongue about my son,” hissed the old woman. A cold and reptilian gleam crept into her eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t use harsher methods. I could have sold you as apprentice to the Blood Hag down on the docks - to be sure, she’d have sucked any ounce of talent you had out of you, and claimed it as her own. Now, I’ll not have that. Any use you have will be for the good of this family.

Again!

Amaris’ teeth bit into her lip.

She looked...

A drop of blood, falling into the water,
swirling now, as of its own accord,
the silver darkening as clouds scudded over, blackening the room
as the chandelier dimmed
Amaris’ palms flat on the table; the creaking of wood
cold trickling through her body-

“Nothing,” she sighed. “I see nothing, grandmama.”
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Arien
Arien
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Amaris, in the House of Harân

Tap. Tap.

She waited a few breaths for a reply, and was almost about to turn on her heel and go when the voice called out.

“What is it?”

Her mother’s voice was languid, sodden as if from sleep. Amaris knew if she cracked the door open, the heavy, sweet perfumes that clung damply to the walls of her bower would spill out and tangle in Amaris’ own thick black hair. The woman had a taste for dreamsmoke. It was an expensive one, like all of her tastes.

“Just me, Mama,” Amaris called back, forcing brightness into her tone. “I’m going out. Grandmama said she was done with me for the afternoon.”

There was a sigh and a rustle of silks from within.

Amaris waited.

“Did you see anything this time, darling?”

“No,” said Amaris, too quickly. “But, Mama -”

“What?”

It would be too stupid to say she had felt something. That was the sort of thing silly girls said; girls with nothing in their heads but daydreams and feelings and ideas.

“Nothing, Mama. Why does Grandmama make me keep looking? Nobody in our family has the gift, and I don’t have any of the other signs.”

There was another pregnant silence. Amaris creaked a floorboard with her toe.

“Come in, darling.”

The air inside was hot and stupefying. Amaris breathed out; sighed in flowers. Her nose tickled. Her mother reached a pale arm out from a red satin bed gown and drew her close, running a hand through Amaris’ black braids.

“You’re not like the others,” Lady Harân said sadly, in a sing-song voice. “Who’d be marrying you, my strange one? Your grandmama just wants you to have a skill, that will keep you safe in this household, long after we are unable to protect you.”

Amaris drew back. Her mother’s eyes were a deep and velvety black, the pupils blown wide and wavering with the force of her dreaming. Amaris’ own matched hers; but whilst was one was dark, the other was a glittering, fierce blue. “Why wouldn’t anyone want to marry me?” she demanded. She should be a fine catch: daughter of the house of one of the great Merchant-Princes of Umbar; she had half expected a scion of Castamir to make an offering of alliance with her hand as the price, if not Izraebeth.

Her mother only blinked. “Do you want to get married?”

“No... not yet,” Amaris confessed. She only had the vaguest thoughts about her future, but she had always assumed...

Lady Harân’s voice sharpened. “See that you don’t. I’ll hear no tales told of you running around after boys. Go on then, out if you must.” She withdrew her hand from the girl and pillowed her head on her arm again, staring out into the depths of her velvet curtains.

Dismissed.

Amaris went. As she left the house, two figures peeled away from the courtyard to follow her.
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Balrog
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Saemund
The Black Dragon Hangout


His worthless little brother was banging on out in the foyer again, disturbing his well earned peace and quiet. His eyes bulged and a vein pulsated in his forehead. He sat in his room at the top of the tenement, watching the blistering rain as it fell on what he believed would be his domain someday. He watched the sheets of rain batter against the rooftops, flooding out the poorer areas. There would be trouble after a rain like this, all the rats would be looking to find a new place to live, and he was going to have to be the one to patrol the streets. Not literally of course, he’d moved far beyond that now. He had men to do his bidding. A few of the rats would be brought to him and if they pleased him enough he’d give them menial tasks to repeat over and over and debts they could never get out from beneath. A few of the prettier ones he might use to his own ends now and again before discarding them, one of the perks of his position as head of the Black Dragons.

One of the draw backs was Jorund. Jorund was worse than any rat. His little brother, half-brother, was nothing but a drain on resources. Why their father hadn’t taken him to the harbor and done what should have been done, why he didn’t now, was something Saemund would never understand. He could order the deaths of anyone within the Warrens if he wished, hell he could do the killing himself if the bloodlust was on him, but when it came to Jorund, no matter how much he wanted to, he just couldn’t. It was a weakness. A weakness that could be exploited he knew. Either by members of a rival gang, or by his own ambitious lieutenants he could not be sure, but he knew if he did not deal with his brother, someone would.

He growled, forcing himself off the silk cushioned overstuffed chair. He was a not a fat man, far from it, but since he had gained the leadership of the Black Dragons in the wake of his predecessor’s bloody retirement he had lost some of the dangerous edge that made him who he was. That would end soon. That would end with dealing with Jorund. Quickly and brutally, as to leave no doubts about his resolve. There was no part of him that was sad about that, Jorund might have been blood (half-blood) but the mongrel was nothing against the weight of the power Saemund could hold.

Slowly, methodically, he descended the staircase that lead directly from his suites on the top to the lower rungs of the Black Dragon Headquarters. As he did, he surveyed his kingdom. The rains were still coming in wave upon wave but the streets could still clearly be seen. The Warrens were an ugly place, both physically and socially, everything was bend and broken and falling apart here. It was high time he cleaned it up. Him. Saemund Jorundson. He’d start with the Tattered Flag, the closest of the gang’s to his territory, sea scum and washed up pirates, that’s all they were, but they held a portion of the harbor that he wanted, that he needed.

The entirety of the boys on the lower floors were gathered around Jorund. The image gall him. The boy had no right to be the center of attention! Saemund seethed quietly, the vein in his neck throbbing again.

“Well, well, well,” he said in a thick, phlegmy voice as he descended the last stair case. “Look what the tide dragged in. You look like you’re a half drown cat, Jorund. What do you think you’re doing just running in here like this?”

The words should have sent shockwaves of shame and humiliation into Jorund, the little wretch, but something was holding him back. Something was interfering with his authority! Jorund didn’t cower and piss himself like he usually did. What was going on here? He pushed through the crow of boys hovering around Jorund, shoving one orange haired ape looking boy into the wall opposite him. He stood, arms crossed over his broad chest, in front of his tiny, whip thin little brother.

“What you have you got there? A coin from your little elf girlfriend? You say she didn’t even notice, but Jorund,” he bent low, meeting his little brother’s eyes line. “How could she not notice you? You smell like garbage and dead fish. You stink worst than the privy!” He guffawed.

No one joined in.

He snarled. “What’s the matter little brother, eel got your tongue?” He slapped the boy across the face, grabbed his hand and wretched the coin from his hand. “This is all you got? If she was an elf like you said she’d be carrying jewels too! What’d you do with the jewels?”

He reached for Jorund’s other hand, closed tightly around something but the boy screamed and kicked at him. “No! She gave it to me! It’s mine!”

What had gotten into the boy? Defiance like this was not something he knew. He was a worm, no less, he was dirt. How could this boy be so bold all of the sudden.

“You took one look at that elf lady and decided she was your lady didn’t you?” He spat, a greenish grey ball of phlegm and spit landed on Jorund’s cheek. “Pathetic sack of dog shire. You’re never getting into the Black Dragons. Ever.” He coiled his hand into a fist, then happened to see the image on the coin.

It was only a second, a heartbeat, less than. He saw the image of a king. No, not a king, the King. The Golden One. His face was resplendent and awe inspiring. Even after three thousand years, the coin showed the image perfectly, preserved from the ravages of time and war and death. It was beautiful. Saemund then looked at it again, slack jawed. His mouth hung open, drooling. The coin, the coin was shaking in his hand. No, it was his own hand that was shaking. The coin turned in his hand. Where once shown the grand countenance of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, now there was a wretched skeleton, bits of flesh and gore hanging from the remnants of a skeleton. The eye sockets stared at Saemund. They saw him. Though all the centuries, those eyes stared at him. He vomited, splattering down the front of his shirt. He hardly noticed when Jorund backed away, pressing his back against the doorframe. He whirled around, or he tired to. Something stopped him. He tried again, but he felt like he was moving through knee deep sand. All the other boys in the house looked the same as him, slack jawed, terror stricken eyes, their skin was sallow and wane.

“What.”

“Did.”

“You.”

“Do?”

Jorund just… smiled.

Saemund tried to shout, tried to curse but instead of sound, sand began pouring out of his mouth. He coughed and hacked and vomited again but the sand kept coming. All the other boys were doing the same, some weeping blood as sand blasted it’s way out of their innards.

Then the sky darkened. It was as if night came upon them all of the sudden. The clouds parted for a brief moment and Saemund saw the sun through the window for a final time.

Something fell.

Earth began raining down on them. Great massive clods of dirt, stones the size of his head, tree roots. Everything fell onto the house. The earth shook. Saemund couldn’t tell where anything was coming from. It was a mass of confusion and earth. A stone stroke him, blasting him across the face. Half his teeth flew away with it. He tasted blood, blood and sand. He looked for Jorund but the weasel had vanished. He tried to take a step but… he couldn’t. He focused all his strength, mental and physical, to move… a single… step.

But that’s where he stopped moving. Everything stopped moving. There, there was nothing. The light was gone, the boys were gone, the Black Dragon hideout was gone, Jorund was gone. Earth covered him up to his neck. He heard a final, bone crunching snap and everything around him gave away.

Somewhere in Umbar, Eldûrien smiled.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Jorund

No. No! This was all wrong! his was not anything like what he had imagined on his frenzied run back here. He had done what they asked! He had gotten a coin! He barely heard his brother's taunts, desperate for Saemund to just look at the coin in his hand, to look at the proof that he could join the Black Dragons now. Why was he being so mean?

His head exploded with pain, tears springing to his eyes as Saemund backhanded him across the face, ensuring that he would now have two black eyes. He wanted to ask why Saemund was treating him like this, wanted to voice how unfair it was that he was being hit when he was doing what his brother had told him to do. However before he could speak up Saemund mentioned the jewel. HIS jewel. Panic like he had never felt in his entire short life crashed into him and he desperately lashed out.

"No! She gave it to me! It’s mine!" he screamed desperately, trying to keep his brother away by kicking him with his bare foot. He knew that was a mistake as soon as he did it, however the panic was so crushing that he would have done anything to protect what the elf had given to him. It was HIS! His hand cramped as he held onto it even tighter, unaware of how it was digging painfully into his skin, not ever wanting to give it up as freely as he had the coin.

The glob of spit hit him in the face and stunned him, the sticky humiliating feel of the disgusting spit slowly sliding down his cheek almost enough to make him gag. It was almost worse than the slap, feeling like some slimy monster was crawling down his face. He desperately wiped at it with a wet sleeve, keeping his eyes on his brother as his other hand held the jewel behind his back.

"Pathetic sack of dog shire. You’re never getting into the Black Dragons. Ever."

Just like that Saemund crushed his dreams. Like a boy stepping on an ant. With just a few words Saemund ripped away his hopes and dreams of making it into the Black Dragons and becoming a respected member, maybe even getting to a point where he could run the gang with his brother. What was worse was the venom with which he said it, the hatred all but dripping off his brother's lips.

A choked sob spilled from the boy's lips, tears spilling freely from his eyes as he took a step back. Saemund had said things like this before, but he had never said it with this much hatred, the young boy knowing in his heart that he meant it this time. And Saemund did not change his mind when he made a decision. Ever.

"But.. but I got the coin, just like you said.. I did what you told me to.." His voice was low and whiny, filled with sobs and sniffles as the crying made his nose run again, still backing up until he bumped into the doorframe.

"What."

"Did."

"You."

"Do?"

Jorund paused his whiny tirade, his arm rising subconciously to wipe at his runny nose, his eyes looking at his brother with confusion. "S-Seamund? What are you doing? Why are you looking at me like that?"

The terror started as a small bubble in his gut, causing his heart to begin it's panicky race. With another scared sob he peeled his eyes away from his brother and looked at the other boys in the room, crying out when he saw they were all just stood there, slack jawed and with a distant look in their terrified eyes.

"Stop it! Stop it! You are scaring meee!" Sobbing helplessly Jorund pushed back, but the doorframe kept him in place until the panic rose enough to engage the flight mode. Finally able to tear himself free from the terrifying view of all of them just stood there with open mouths, he turned on his heels and with a scream that only children can produce he fled the room.

The ice cold rain hit him as soon as he left the building behind, not stopping until he was at the end of the alleyway. Just before he turned the corner he heard the loud crunching sound even above the noise of the downpour. He could tell it was not thunder and startled he turned to look behind him despite himself. Again the water around his feet turned yellow as the young boy watched as the whole house he had just been in crumbled in on itself with a sickening wet crunch that sounded like bones breaking.

"Seamund.." he whispered softly as his tears mixed with the rain.

Balrog
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Note: This is a retconning of an earlier post with the intent allow a better RPing prompt
Rök
Dead Reckoning


The large uruk watched the elf and the woman go until the rain obscured their forms. A brilliant flash of lightening illuminated the sky, a vast array of blues and white temporarily flared and blaze through the sky, followed by the fierce crack of thunder. Windows rattled and those still on the street jumped in surprised. Rök hardly noticed it, save for the smell of burning. Another bolt soared through the sky, stabbing the roiling sea not but a few hundred feet away. The crack of thunder that accompanied it rattled his bones.

He began walking, rain spattering off his chest. The smells of the Umbar harbor were vast and varied. The closer they were to the actual water, the smell of salt and gutted fish was strongest, as they moved through the labyrinth the smell of burning whale tallow filled the air, mingling with the smell of some mysterious thing peddled as “meat” by the street merchants. As the rains came down harder and harder, Rök watched them scramble to close their shops, tie down shutters, or pull carts away. The rain, too, brought out all the nasty smells of city life, rotting garbage, offal, and waste all wrapped around each other and assaulted his senses. To his side, Tagane seemed utterly unbothered by the rain or the smell. Her hair was plastered to her face and her clothes hung heavy on her slight, but muscled frame. He watched the way she moved for a moment. To a casual observer, she was merely walking through the rain, avoiding puddles and the like, but the uruk could see the fluid grace with which she moved, her feet barely touched the ground as she glided through the streets. As an assassin, she seemed to have an equal amount of finesse that Eldûrien possessed.

“You really used to live here? In the Warrens?” he shouted, barely audible over din of the downpour.

She looked at him, her eyes strangely cold and lifeless. “Aye, it’s where I learned so many of my skill,” at that there was a strange twist to the corner of her lip that could be called a smile, something with the eyes of a hungry shark could smile. Rök was glad she worked with him.

“It must have been rough, were you a part of any of the gangs that infest that place?”

He was answered by a humorless laugh. “Most of them don’t girls, unless it’s for purposes that I don’t really care to be a part of. My life might have been easier, but it would have been shorter too. Most of the little rats don’t live long once they get initiated.”

“How is it you came by your skills then?” the uruk asked.

“Necessity.”

He scoffed and nodded.

They continued to walk in silence. The streets had cleared remarkable with the unset of the storm. There were a few stragglers, much like themselves, that still had places to go, yet even those were few and far between. The uruk knew though, that just because he did not see the eyes did not mean that they weren’t there. There were plenty of eaves and porches for people to stare from, and he counted dozens of darkened windows that held at least a pair of eyes. The spot between his shoulder blades itched with anticipation. He could remember the days of his youth, when he was so full of violence, rage, and wild abandoned that he would stalk these very streets on shore leave, looking for a fight. That potential energy never left him. Even now, urge to roar and tear and fight was strong. The difference between his youth and now, experience had taught him to channel the rage at specific moments, to bottle the rage until to exact instant it was needed, never anything more. Still, every now and again he needed to let loose and let the bloodlust take him over. He hoped his control would last long enough to get them out of Umbar. By the sounds of this mission of Xho’s, he would have his fill of blood and rage. He licked his lips absently in anticipation.

Finally, they arrived at The Dead Reckoning. It was smaller than Rök remembered, but then he had been there in many years. The lanterns inside were still lit. They passed through the heavy wooden doors, a few heads turned within but otherwise they went unnoticed. The rain’s heavy barrage suddenly seemed like it was part of another world. The pitter-patter on the roof and the occasional flashes of light were the only sign that the rain had not abated.

Rök flexed his fingers over the pommel of his falchion and craned his neck to one side until he felt the bones pop. Tagane took up a position beside him. Any causal onlooker would fail to notice the way her hands crossed her chest, gripping the knives hidden on her sides. They passed through a small maze of scattered tables with maps, sextants, spyglasses, and hourglasses scattered about haphazardly. The place smelled of stale bread and ink.

Rök meandered, as much as a giant uruk could be said to meander, to the table near the window, the only place it seemed that had any sort of activity, three middle-aged men pouring over a map. “I’m looking for a man, an Easterling called Agrakhan. I was hoping you gentlemen could help with some information.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Jhalabar Xho had left word with Nizar to tell the odd quartet now in his employ where to find him, should they return to the Twilight Trickster with their findings. Now that he had found a crew to round out the job, it was time to make final preparations. Nâr perched on his shoulder, back claws digging into the leather of the corsair’s jerkin to stabilize himself. The garment had been made from the hide of a Mûmakil, and its craggy surface and deep crevices gave plenty of purchase to the giant bilge rat’s paws. Nâr’s weight settled comfortably into place, and Jhalabar’s walk was jaunty as he moved through the streets of the City of Umbar. His legs took him high upon the hill first, not to the Silent Tower or Ivory Hall- no, though he had a place there, Xho avoided them unless there were unavoidable matters at hand. The pomposity of those who lingered there under other circumstances was anathema to him, and in the past there had been more than one incident of bloodshed inspired by an inspid courtier’s high opinion of himself in the face of Jhalabar Xho. Chuckling at these amusing memories, Jhalabar turned down the avenue that led to the familial complex of House Castamir.

Though he was not by blood descended from that house, long association meant that Xho’s presence in their halls was welcomed by the Castamir. And it was through their ravens, rather than those of any public rookery, that he communicated with the Delgaran when a written message was required. They had other methods of making contact, of course… but those were generally left for moments of greater urgency. While Agrakhan’s theft was pressing, it was not urgent in ways that would justify such an interruption. The slanting, spiky letters unfurled across the small page from beneath the black quill in Jhalabar’s left hand, outlining the situation and the interesting company he had found to assist with the task at hand- in particular, the one who called herself Eldûrien. He had a feeling that, if she did not already know about the orc-cum-elf-witch, Amarthel would be very interested to know of this person…

As was he interested to see how the group would perform at the tasks to come, and whether they might prove themselves potential future conspirators. They were a motley crew, and one without interest, Jhalabar thought as he made his way back out of the realms of House Castamir. Nâr shrieked at the doorwarden as they passed- the man had once trodden on his tail in pursuit of the bilge rat, thinking he was common vermin. Nâr neither forgave nor forgot. To the port, now: down though the winding streets and noxious alleys, lower through the city until the scent of saltwater began to overpower that of city streets, and the buildings thinned to bring masts and piers into view. With quickening steps, he strode to the berth that held his pride and joy: the Avalêbawab, goddess of the wind, as they would call her in the common tongue. A lateen-rigged caravel of surpassing speed and agility, she and her sails were black for invisibility in the night. She could not carry huge amounts of cargo, but that was seldom what Jhalabar was about. Avalêbawab was in the business of chasing the most valuable of prizes, ferrying the most urgent or cargo or news, and running down with all speed, with or against the wind, those in need of chastisement.

Jhalabar tripped lightly up the gangway and as he mounted the deck, Nâr leapt from his shoulder to the rail, scurrying off to take stock of his domain- and force into line any rats who had made their way aboard in his absence. Xho himself strode aft to where his cabin door stood tight shut against the weather and intruders. He brushed his hand against the door handle and gave a low murmur. A clicking, grinding sound came from the other side of the door, and it swung open beneath his hand, the pinprick on his thumb healing as quickly as it had appeared. All was silent and still within the cabin, its spartan furnishings augmented by thick, opulent coverings. Jhalabar Xho valued both utility and comfort. Satisfied that all was in order, he retreated from the cabin, and made his way belowdecks. Again all was silent and still, but for the enraged squeaks that indicated Nâr’s discipline was being enforced, and the hold stood ready to receive supplies. Which, Jhalabar noted, cocking his head to one side, were beginning to arrive. He trotted back up to the deck, where the source of the footfalls he had heard revealed itself: the merchant he had ordered provisions from, and his lackeys, hauling crates and barrels aboard. With a booming laugh of greeting. Xho clapped the craggen merchant on the back, and set about directing him where to place the things.

When the quartet showed their faces, Avalêbawab, and Jhalabar Xho, would be ready. But would the crew?
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Balakân, Tollor, and Haedirn
The Dead Reckoning


The navigator slouched leisurely through the downpour; endless streams of rain ran down his face as if he were in a flood of tears, and water sloshed in and around his boots. Despite all this, he wore a contented smile. A lifetime aboard ships had taught him to embrace the water, not to shun it. And as his feet were firmly planted on land, the treachery of the sea in a storm was not of concern just yet. Once the Rôthgimil sailed south, though, that would be another story. When they left the harbor, he would pray to unknowable and unnamed gods, as sailors had done for years beyond counting, for clear skies and smooth waters.

For now, he was set to a task in the city of Umbar. As navigator of the Rôthgimil, he was out to procure a map to chart their journey south. They were to depart in a week, and the captain was meticulous about plotting his excursions in advance. The best map work in the city came from The Dead Reckoning, and so it was there he turned his steps.

He pushed a shoulder into the door of the shop and stepped into the warm, humid room. Mildewed stains ran up the walls; he inhaled air heavy with the musty mix of sweat, ink, and damp decay. Maps covered the room's every surface: piled high on shelves around the room, stretched out on tables or pinned, on display, to what little free wall space there was. Some had crisp edges while others' curled in on themselves, tinged yellow with age. A few old lanterns burned throughout the room, casting a warm glow over the ubiquitous pale parchment. A small man at the back of the shop looked up from the map he'd been touching up, a magnifying glass in one hand and a quill in the other. A crust of bread lay discarded on a plate to his left; a pot of ink sat to his right. Unnoticed by the mapmaker as he stared down his guest, a large mouse scurried up to the plate and nibbled a few bites of the bread.

"Ahh, Balakân," the mapmaker said in a reedy voice. His close-set eyes bore into the navigator and he smiled. He knew this seafarer from his earliest days on ships; as a boy, Balakân had run errands into The Dead Reckoning for his first captain. "What brings you in on this, ah, most moist of evenings?"

"Tollor. A pleasure, as always." The navigator inclined his head in greeting. "I've come to fetch the map of the southlands commissioned by my captain. I was told it would be ready today."

"Yes, yes, let me see." The mapmaker shuffled a stack of parchment aside to busy his hands, then rummaged in a pile of rolled-up maps on yet another laden table. "Must be in the back. Let me fetch Haedirn." He wandered, slope-shouldered, into the back room of the cramped shop, where supplies and surplus stock were kept. He motioned silently for his business partner, who had no doubt heard the whole exchange, to emerge with the completed item.

Haedirn, the younger of the two shopkeepers, bowed to Balakân as their eyes met, then walked to the window and spread the map with a flourish across a nearby table. Despite the rain, it would be good to cast this one in as much light as possible. "I believe you'll find this to your - and your captain's - satisfaction," he breathed, barely concealing his satisfaction with his work on the coastline. This map had been the work of weeks and now sat, perfect in every detail, before him. Ink stained the tips of his fingers and a smudge of the stuff ran across his cheek, but that was all part and parcel of a day's work.

Balakân peered down at it and was indeed satisfied. He had just removed the agreed-upon coin from a pouch at his waist when the door banged open. All three men looked up and jumped in unison. The hulking form of an orc (Rök) and a woman with a dark complexion (Tagane) stood framed momentarily against the rain before pushing their way into the already cramped shop. The Uruk before them was of a stature unlike any these men had seen: they looked up and up and tilted their heads back to see into his face, and, cringing, looked away at once under his menacing gaze. His arms were as thick around as Balakân's thighs and the orc's shoulders spread like a mountain range across the narrow shop; in short, his every muscle implied threat. The woman made the men tense by the simple fact of her close and comfortable proximity to the behemoth before them.

The orc spoke before either mapmaker thought to welcome the new pair inside. His voice was a low rumble, a tremor fit to shake the earth. "I’m looking for a man, an Easterling called Agrakhan. I was hoping you gentlemen could help with some information."

Balakân stepped back from the table. This was not his territory and therefore not his fight, should it come to that. He had learned that people who came asking after information did not usually hesitate to strike the first blow if the conversation went sideways. He quickly pocketed the coin he'd been about to hand over and stood there, wary and waiting.

It was Tollor who unstuck his tongue first. His nostrils flared as he spoke. "An Easterling, you say? What exactly might this fellow look like?" He licked his lips. "You see, we have so many folk passing in and out of the Reckoning that we scarce know one customer from another and almost never exchange names." He smiled hesitantly, hoping to see understanding in their faces. It certainly made sense to him, after a lifetime in the city, not to ask too many questions in Umbar.

Tollor glanced now at Haedirn. The younger man shook his head, gazing silently at his map to avoid the newcomers' eyes.
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Amaris at the Docks

The wind is up. It’s a fine day in Umbar; hot, as usual, but the sea breeze freshens the air with salt. Amaris’ fine hair escapes in tendrils from her braids as she hastens along. She is wearing fine silk trousers, cuffed at the ankle, and a white linen blouse. Unremarkable garments, except for their fine quality: but her two tails, clad in similarly nondescript garb, prevent anyone from interfering with her. She pays them no heed. In fact, perhaps she is not aware they are even there at all.

Amaris walks with purpose. Her father’s office - or rather, one of her father’s offices - is in one of his many warehouses, large and well appointed and marked with the H of Harân. The way there is lined with toughs. Not all of them bear their allegiance so obviously; but even without her tail, no one meddles with her. They know who she is.

The antechamber is full. Petitioners, gamblers, debtors; they’ve all come to pay court to Lord Harân on his Dockday. He holds court here, and none may naysay him. Amaris slides into the crowd, but is immediately noticed. The steward nods abruptly to her, and she sidles forward.

“Is it important?” he asks her, without looking at her; his finger is sliding down a ledger and his lips are moving impatiently under his breath.

“I can wait,” Amaris assures him. The air is arid with nervous sweat. People’s hands form praying knots, their fingers twisting around talismans or scrips of paper. A couple look triumphant - wagers paid off, or gossip against a rival hiding in their mouths, ready for Lord Harân’s ear. A woman slips through the door, shielded further from curious gazes by a carpet racked up as a curtain; comes out and nods at Amaris.

“He’ll see you next in a moment,” she tells Amaris. The man who had been first in the queue slides her a glance, quick as a flicker, but no more. Whether he’s grateful or resentful for having his audience deferred is impossible to say.

Amaris waits.

She is a patient girl, and well schooled; she keeps her eyes lowered, to be polite, but she’s watchful.

A few more minutes go by,

and the woman is beckoning her in. She feels two dozen pairs of eyes fix upon her as she makes her way past the curtain and through the door. It clicks behind her, and the sound of the antechamber’s muttering and whispering is cut off at once.

Her father is sitting at a plain table, made of rich wood. Neat stacks of papers are in boxes by his feet. A smear of blood, still wet, is on the floor in front of him. Amaris skirts it neatly as she approaches.

“Good afternoon, Papa,” she says.
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Rök
Dead Reckoning


“Hmmm,” the sound was deep and resonant as it came from Rök’s chest, matching the tone of the thunder that rumbled outside. He looked at the three men, suspicion etched in deep brow lines. Each one of them received a long, considering look. They were all hiding something, even if they had not said anything yet. His narrowed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath that puffed out his already massive chest, and craned his neck to one side until there was a crack that could be felt through the floor; he tilted his head to the other side and did the same. Without breaking his gaze on the three men and without saying a word, he folding his knuckles together until they popped. “What did he look like?” Rök repeated the question with disgust, leaving subtlety behind for a moment. “He looks like a blasted Easterling. Don’t play game with me now human, I am in no mood.”

He wasn’t. Of all the human emotions that he had encountered, greed was the one he could not fathom. The overwhelming desire to acquire more was apparently the driving force in nearly every human he met, even Tagane and Sapthêth were not immune to it, though they were able to cover it with a blanket of useful excuses. The naked greed of these men made the uruk’s blood boil. Such a thing would never fly in an orc encampment. Information was never withheld with the promise of payment. Information was shared by dominance, and dominance was established through the usual means. Sadly, he looked each of the men in the eye in turn, these pitiful wretches would not last long enough in a fight for him to get his information. He was going to need to be more… reasonable. He tasted bile in the back of his throat and his gorge rose. He wanted to hit something. The storm raged outside and with each flash of lightning, he could feel the urge growing stronger. He wondered absently how the wargs held themselves in check. He took a step forward.

Tagane, beside him, began to moving around to his other side. With a nod, she began to meander though the shelves of wares, appearing to look at the maps, sextants, and spy glasses on display while she moved around to cut off any potential escape through a back entrance. She moved with the lithe grace of a lioness on the hunt. Her eyes seemed to dart from product to product, considering them but the uruk knew her attentions had never left the men at the table. She picked up a spy glass, one that looked especially ornate and delicate. “How much does this cost?” she asked casually, handing the instrument with practiced indelicacy.

Rök smiled slowly, then turned his head back to the three men. He rummaged through his pocket until he found a coin. It was a heavy, iron coin. He brought it out and looked at it, feigning consideration. On one side was a familiar spiked visage and on the other were lines in a script the uruk could not read. “Gentlemen,” he drawled, setting the coin down with sinister purpose on the table, “I’m sure we can come to an understanding about the information I seek. We don’t need this to become… difficult.” As if on cue, Tagane dropped the spy glass and it shattered on the ground.
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Balakân, Tollor, and Haedirn
The Dead Reckoning


Lightning flashed across the sky and briefly illuminated the shop; in the sudden brilliant light, the hulking uruk and his much smaller companion were silhouetted against the windows, making them appear to loom even more threateningly. All three men jumped, and so preoccupied with the odd duo were they that they failed to see that they had flinched in unison. Balakân found he had taken a couple steps farther back away from the uruk without realizing.

Proud as Haedirn was of the map he'd presented to the navigator, he wished he had stayed hidden in the back of the shop. "He looks like a blasted Easterling," the uruk sneered. Haedirn bit his tongue and tasted blood when the uruk twisted his neck back and forth menacingly; the mapmaker's ink-stained fingers twisted into nervous knots behind his back.

As the woman began to meander between the shelves and tables, examining an object here and there, Tollor shifted uneasily. He hated it when people with no intention of buying anything touched the wares on display, and he found he had curled his hands into fists and was leaning into the balls of his feet with anxiety as she handled one of the priciest items the shop had to offer: a finely-wrought spyglass. "It's - " he began when she asked after the cost, taking a step forward at the sight of it held with almost purposeful clumsiness. But the uruk cut him off and he stopped in his tracks.

"Gentlemen, I’m sure we can come to an understanding about the information I seek. We don’t need this to become... difficult." The low rumbling voice shook the air and with a shattering sound, the spyglass crashed to the ground. Tollor looked in horror at the wreckage of the item - bent metal and shards of glass scattered across the floor of the shop. He looked at Haedirn, eyes pleading his colleague to say something, say anything. And here he saw Haedirn's hands folding into and around themselves over and over as if performing some ritual to ward off the two threats that had entered the shop. The man was acting more nervous than he had any right to be . . . But ahhh, of course. He was sitting on information. It took Tollor less than a second to decide that it was not worth his life or the shop to hide information from these two.

"I'm most hopeful we can be of assistance," Tollor replied, still eyeing Haedirn. "Now, I can't say that I have seen any Easterlings in this shop of late, but perhaps my colleague can say different. Or perhaps our friend from the Rôthgimil" - he gestured at Balakân now, at which the navigator cursed inwardly - "has heard something down at the docks."

Haedirn's eyes went wide. He tugged nervously at the apron he wore to shield his clothing from the ubiquitous ink, gritting his teeth with anxiety. He'd held his tongue so hard he'd drawn blood - would he be punished for his initial reticence if he shared now what he knew? Why was he even debating himself about this? The uruk could snap him in two like he himself could snap a thin pencil. There was no reason to stall any longer - not now that Tollor had called him out. "My colleague speaks truly," he began cautiously. "I believe I did see an Easterling in the shop not a few days ago. He asked after a map. A map of the southlands. Didn't buy a thing, though. Just stood and stared at the map and bid me put it away when he'd seen enough."

"Very good, very good," Tollor murmured. "I had hoped that we could serve." Haedirn looked at his colleague with incredulity. They would be having words about this later. "And Balakân," he said, giving up the navigator's name now, "What do you know of this Easterling? Anything?"

Balakân wondered what Tollor had been drinking before he walked into the shop. Since when was the cartographer's tongue so loose that he gave away names to just any uruk who stalked into the shop? But there was nothing for it. Haedirn had given up his bit and the threat before them was more than enough to coax him forward. The navigator swallowed and took a tentative step toward the group. "Agrakhan, did you say? I do think I met a man by that name down by the docks - staggering drunk and playing at dice when I joined the game. He went on and on about going south when he heard the Rôthgimil was headed that way, too. Funnily enough, said he was going south when he should've been going north."

"Did he now?" Tollor asked. The other two men looked daggers at him - why was this one acting like the interrogator? His simpering words left an oily residue of distaste in his companions' mouths.

"Yes, he did," Balakân spat, running out of patience with the mapmaker. "He rambled on about the profit he was fit to turn selling whatever he's carrying in a village of the Haradrim. All the while, he poked and prodded me for advice about how to get around in those waters. That's all I know."
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Arien
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Amaris Harân, at the Harân warehouse

Lord Harân is a tall and powerful man. A slice of light from the high windows, guarded with leathers scraped thin, falls across his hands, clasped in front of him on the table that holds his papers. A heavy gold signet ring shines on his finger. It, and some of the papers, are stained with blood.

“Good day, Amaris,” he says calmly. His amber eyes study her, apparently benevolently; but it’s the stillness of a lion. “What brings you to me today?”

She hesitates. It sounds foolish, now. Why is she disturbing her father at his work?

“Grandmama made me use the bowl again,” Amaris begins, in a low voice. She’s finding it hard to meet his eyes, somehow. “And I think - I think there’s a storm coming.”

“Ahhh,” says Lord Harân. He leans back in his chair, something like satisfaction brimming in his face. “You saw it?”

“I felt it. I felt something!”

“Hmm,” says Lord Harân. He makes a note on a sheet of paper, freckled with red. “Thank you for telling me.”

Is that it?

“Do - do you think it’s real?”

“I certainly think it’s worth finding out,” her father answers coolly. He’s appraising her now, golden eyes staring into hers. “Who knows if you really have gifts after all? Your grandmother certainly thinks you may.”

“But why?” Amaris bursts out. Her nails cut into her palm. There’s been something secret brewing in the household for too long, glances and unspoken words thickening the air. Her grandmother only mutters. Her mother takes more opium and goes to bed.

Lord Harân’s lips twitch, in almost a smile. “I half-expected that witch to have told you by now... but I suppose you might as well hear it from me, Dark One knows your mother’s incapable of truths. Amaris, you are not my blood daughter.”

What?
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Nazir - Twilight Trickster

His dark eyes that usually shone with mirth immediately turned dark as Jhalabar Xho stepped out of the Twilight Trickster. Turning towards the man next to him, he raised an eyebrow questioningly. He had seen Hagon dragging the young woman through the crowded establishment, something that would be addressed shortly. But first he wanted to be sure that it was indeed the correct woman they had gotten.

"It is she, my Lord. Just as you said, she arrived with the others on the Wanderer, straight from the land of the Beornings. The princess. It was a very long trek and though she is thinner now than before, she is no worse for wear. No one will have suspected that she was the main target with the whole village taken, though only twenty or so made it all the way, from what I saw was sold at the auction. I kept an eye on them the entire way from the ship to the auction, she was not approached."

Nazir's dark brows furrowed as Halgon spoke, his eyes dropping to the floor before him as he tried to picture how gruesome and harrowing the long journey here must have been for them all and how many were lost because of that. But he had no sympathy for those poor souls, his only concern was the girl. As if still contemplating Hagon's words, Nazir's hands moved to fold behind his back, a stance he often took up when thinking, however this time his long slender fingers wrapped about the dagger that was sheathed there on his belt.

"I brought her straight here, so if my Lord would like accounts on where all the others went, I would need to head back and question Akmir." Halgon turned as if he had already been asked to do so, his head turning back as if he suddenly remembered something. "Oh, I know that one woman in her late thirties or forties went to Adumir Valkad, though if she keeps weeping the way she did she won't last long there. Oh and yes, her brother went to the "Pits".. ARRRGH!"

Halgon's cry halted as his head was bashed hard against the wall, Nazir's face so close to his own that it was almost touching. With stars filling his vision, he blurrily blinked, one hand rising to touch the back of his head in confusion before Nazir began screaming into his face.

"A BROTHER!? SHE HAS A BROTHER!!? AND YOU DID NOT THINK TO BRING HIM AS WELL OR TO TELL ME OF HIS EXISTANCE!??"

Nazir did not wait for a response, the sharp dagger whistling from it's sheath and sliding through Halgon's neck and up into his skull. All Halgon managed was a gurgled "Huh" before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slipped from Nazir's grasp onto the floor, the blood slowly pooling around his body as it slid to one side.

"DAGON!!" Nazir screamed with anger, his dark eyes seeking out his establisment for the man, several of the remaining customers drawing even further back with fear.

Arien
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Amaris on the docks

not my

not my

blood

daughter


The words strike Amaris with the force of a crossbow bolt, laden with venom. She can’t take a full breath, her palms knotting into loosely trembling fists. She wants to sit down. There’s no chair. There’s only a blood spot on the floor.

She asks him a question, the only important question.

“Who?”

Lord Harân continues to regard her benignly, this... this stranger, this tiger in a man’s skin who has raised her for sixteen years. Ice is pouring through Amaris’ veins. For the first time, the thought comes to her that: he might kill her. Why else tell her such a thing?

“We do not, in fact, know,” he admits, finally, a twist of his lips betraying his annoyance at such. Harân trades in knowledge and power as much as wealth. “No doubt the name he gave your mother was not true. Some fine rogue from one of our ships: handsome, dark-haired but fair skinned; it could be any one of a hundred. I know you are not mine, because the month you were conceived I stopped by the House but once, and I did not go to your mother’s chamber then: which only we know. I suspected at one point it was an agent of Castamir’s sent deliberately to mock me with a child not of my true blood; but since I was there by chance, and I have raised you as my own, their barb fell short of humiliation.”

Amaris is hearing the words as if she’s underwater. A powerful hatred is surging in her. She opens her mouth but her jaws are shaking and she can’t form the words. Lord Harân guesses her intent.

“Your mother frequently amuses herself whilst I’m away,” he says casually, “though usually she takes precautions: hence my suspicions of ill intent. I bear her no ill will: I have other companions myself, of course. Of late she’s been so dosed on poppy she wouldn’t recollect if Melkor Himself visited her. But I know the truth, and so now do you.”

“And grandmama,” says Amaris, numbly. “Grandmama knows.”

“She does.”

“And this is why you won’t broker my marriage to Izraebeth,” Amaris continues, the puzzle pieces clicking together in her empty heart.

Lord Harân nods. He seems pleased at her intuition.

“I’m a merchant, Amaris,” he says. “I don’t deal in false coin.”
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Rök, Tagane
The Dead Reckoning

He licked his lips slowly, narrowing his eyes down at the weaselly little men. They had been so quick to sell each other out. He picked the Angmar coin up off the table and began to flip the coin over the top of his knuckles. Without saying a word, he looked from face to face, searching all three of the excuses for educated men for any sign of treachery. They had given up far too fast. Either they were as cowardly and sniveling as they appeared, willing out sell out any one, or they had an ounce of deviousness and hoped to send him off on a wild chase. The briefest of glances confirmed in the uruk’s mind that it was the former. None of these men had any guile, only one of them seemed to have an actual shred of intelligence behind his eyes. Rök took an extra moment to stare at him. What was it they had called him? Balakân? The name rang a bell somewhere in his head, perhaps it was just a common name.

“You,” he said and pointed at finger at the navigator. “Why do you hold with the rest of this… creatures?” he said the final word and spat as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. “I’m sure you can find better companion.” He dropped the large iron coin into a purse then dropped it on the table, spilling over a dozen northern minted iron coins. “We will be at the docks for a few hours before we are ready to set sail. You’ll know which ship is ours.” A cruel, wicked grin crept over his features, his eyes were hard and scornful. “Unless,” he drawled, “you are happy in the company of rats.” He gave a hard but bored look at the other two men. “You don’t have long, make your decision soon.”

Without another word, the uruk exited the Dead Reckoning. He pushed through the door and the sounds of rain came flooding back. Tagane lingered, a sultry smirk on her lips as she followed the uruk out. Before she exited though, she tipped over an unlit lamp. Glass and oil spilled out everywhere in front of her. “Do be wise in how you proceed gentleman,” she tone was almost a purr, but with daggers behind them, “your lives aren’t worth much as they are. Don’t make them worth nothing.” She made a show of sheathing the dagger she had drawn during the conversation and exited, leaving the three men to their shocked silence.

Outside the rains were still coming in heavy. Waves upon waves of icy, salty water assaulted the pair as they made their way through the streets of Umbar. They did not speak, the roar of the storm would have drowned out any words they had to say to each other in any regard. They walked for a few minutes in the seemingly abandoned streets, streams of water rushing underfoot. For just a moment, the rains began to slacken and the clouds parted to reveal the golden rim of the sun. Light pierced the veil of shade and a cascade of a hundred different colors filled the air, dancing like dragonflies on the wind. A bolt of lightning flashed, then again, and again, and again. The clouds that surrounded the sun were black as ash and the lightning woven itself through the patches of midnight, giving the sun a thorny halo of blue and white light. The image only lasted a moment. Rök had the brief fortune of seeing the impression before the clouds swallowed up the light again.

“What would you have done,” Tagane said at his side as the rains lowered their unending roar, “if they had not given in so fast?”

The giant uruk chuckled, a rumbling that rival the lower notes of thunder. “I would have killed the old one. Or at least that’s what I would make them think I would do.”

“Wouldn’t that have been risky? They could have called for the city watch.”

Another chuckle. “No, even if they had, the city watch wouldn’t have done anything. Not with the coinage we carry.”

Tagane mouthed a word, Rök caught the last half of it and nodded.

“That was a very nice touch,” he said after a moment. The rains were slowly clearing to the point yelling was no longer required. The sky remained as black as ever, waves could be heard in the distance, angry explosions of sea water venting their rage against the shore. “I’m not sure if it was my presence or your destruction that made them break first, cowardly little goblins.”

“I sailed with a crew of goblins once,” Tagane said. “They were far more honorable than that.”

“Come,” the uruk said. “My bones ache to be away from this city. The open waters are calling us.”

The rest of the trip was spent in silence. It was only a few more blocks until the run-down buildings began to thin and open as the great harbor of Umbar came into view. Rök spied the giant half troll of a man that was their employer and ushered Tagane to stand behind him as they approached.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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Eldûrien, Sapthêth
The Streets

“You are reckless and feckless,” the old Númenórean woman spat.

Her companion, tall and lithe with brilliant white hair plastered against her head from the rain, only laughed. The sound, if any could hear it from their position in the middle of the street, was the sound of honey and cream but also of festering wounds and scorched hair. “You missed your calling as a street prophetess. Proclaim doom and damnation for us all unless we accept the unlight of our lord and master. You worry too much Sapthêth. It’s not doing your complexion any good. Besides, I deserve to have another pet. Frost made me get rid of my last one.”

“But this one is a child!” the old woman hissed. “Have you no shame? Even you?”

A playful, but dangerous snarl built up in the back of the elf’s throat. “I promise to train him well. I won’t let this one go wandering off the edge of the boat at night.”

“A child!” Sapthêth repeated. “I could have looked the other way if it was a grown man or woman, but a boy? What possible reason could you have? You’ll turn the child’s mind into a tangled mess. I’ve seen you do it before. I had to get rid of one of your compulsion victims. He shat himself to death as I tried to leech the poison of your words from his blood. Do you have any idea what it could do to someone so young? You reorganize their minds so that all they think about is serving you, making you happy. They forget to sleep, forget to eat, forget to breath in the end.”

The elf shrugged. “Maybe having a subject so young will aid the process. Perhaps if I start giving him commands much earlier he will learn quicker and…” she waved her hands dismissively. Eldûrien, Lady of the Dark Stars, couldn’t keep up the lazy façade of caring over much about her pets. There was a ringing in her ears, a sound of an avalanche, and then silence. She smiled. The boy had done as he was bid and she was rid of another troublesome gang of miscreant boys and urchins. She closed her eyes and reached out to him in her mind, sensing the connection she had constructed between them.

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

The charm she had laid on him would not last much longer in it’s current form. She would be able to give him that last command and that was it. If the spell wore off before he reached the docks he would forget everything that had happened that day and wake up covered in his own piss again. She hoped he was close by.

Her charm spells worked as such that her prey was not forced to do anything against their will. Rather, every time they did something she told them to do, a wave of pleasure and happiness would come over them, if they disobeyed, all sensation would be taken from them until they acquiesced and relented. She would have to create new spells for the boy though. She did not want him turning in to a drooling mess on the ship. With a crew of humans it would be harder to dispose of the body in the rations. And the elf genuinely wanted to keep the little waif around, his pitiful state amused her.

“I’m not cleaning it up this time,” Sapthêth said resolutely.

“Really?” Eldûrien rolled her eyes. “Not even if you can have all his blood and bones and organs? Can you use that for your special kind of…” she trailed off and waggled her fingers.

The old woman snarled a curse then went silent. They continued down the main thoroughfare until the docks came into view. Eldûrien’s sharp elven eyes made out Rök as he was approaching a ship. Aboard that ship was him. She narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Both she and Krakzun would have their revenge for the trick he had pulled. But not yet, not yet. She let out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding and pointed.

“There. Let’s meet our new crew, shall we?”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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