The Black Host - Free Army RP

[Winddancer]

Domain of the Black Host

“Cirith Gorgor, the Haunted Pass, the entrance to the land of the Enemy. High cliffs lowered upon either side, and thrust forward from its mouth were two sheer hills, black-boned and bare. Upon them stood the Teeth of Mordor, two towers strong and tall. In days long past they were built by the Men of Gondor in their pride and power…Now the watch-towers, which had fallen into decay, were repaired, and filled with arms, and garrisoned with ceaseless vigilance. Stoney-faced they were, with dark window-holes staring north and east and west, and each window was full of sleepless eyes.
Across the mouth of the pass, from cliff to cliff, the Dark Lord had built a rampart of stone. In it there was a single gate of iron, and upon its battlement sentinels paced unceasingly…None could pass the Teeth of Mordor and not feel their bite, unless they were summoned by Sauron, or knew the secret passwords that would open the Morannon, the black gate to his land.” (The Two Towers, The Black Gate is Closed)

The Morannon is the name for the rampart across Cirith Gorgor and is an impregnable black stone and iron wall that stretches from the Ered Lithui in the north to the Ephel Duath in the west. The wall stands some sixty feet in height, and measures over two hundred and fifty feet in length with each half of the great gate being ninety feet wide and set on large stone wheels. Behind the gate are gigantic circular stone ramparts, and when the gate needs to be opened, two pairs of Mountain-trolls tethered to gigantic beams push their way around their rampart's track, gradually levering open the gate and allowing for the incoming or outgoing of Mordor’s armies.

Within the wall myriad archers, spearmen, bowmen, ballistae, and hundreds of thousands of Orc troops stand ready to defend Mordor. Their purpose is to protect and guard the northern entrance into Mordor and to prevent invasion at the gap between the Ash Mountains and the Mountains of Shadow.

In Gondor's early days, when it was building towers and cities such as Minas Ithil and Cirith Ungol close to Mordor's border, it raised the two great Towers of the Teeth, Narchost and Carchost, which were built on either side of the gap where the wall now known as the Morannon stands and these towers are tall enough to overlook the defences.

Purpose of the Thread:

Training missions for Conscripts of the Black Host will take place here. This will be a unique way of training, that can later be changed to having an actual trainer in charge of the conscripts and I have a whole system for earning ranks and GM'ing other scenario's. But for now, while we find our feet, you alone will be in charge of your training. 1 post over 300 words = 1 Renown. Renown has been adjusted to reflect the current situation where we just want to post, this can also be altered later. However, if you find someone you would like to train you, then by all means do so. Though the one training you should have earned a high rank from the former Army.
You may also post in other threads with the character you are training with. Make sure it is army related and that you state in the top of the post so it can be counted towards your total.

Once you attain 5 points of Renown you progress from Conscripted to Soldier in the Black Host. You continue to gain Renown throughout your Host career and each post will score you a Renown. The more Renown the faster you will progress through the rank echelon, and the more well known and feared your character is for his deeds.

Locations for the Thread:

Carchost, Chambers of the High Command, The War Room: New soldiers sent from Carach Angren need to report to the Chamber of the High Command for assignment (You think one up). The main entrance is a gate on the ground level, which leads into a large hall filled with new soldiers, young and old, waiting to earn an appointment to a division or further their progress within their division. On the far side there is a stairwell and a barrier behind which are several men keeping track of all the recruits and records of who applied for which division.

Narchost, Officers’ Quarters & Guard Posts: The officers have established their chambers high in the Tower of Narchost. Though there is soldiery garrisoned both above and below them, the private chambers of the rannking officers of the divisions are here. The entrance to the tower, a narrow stairway creeping along the side of the tower to a door on the third level, is guarded by elite sentinels, and admittance to these chambers is under strict watch.

The Orc-holds, Under the Mountains, the Barracks: The mountains on either side of the Cirith Gorgor are riddled with passages and halls delved deep. An entire host could be garrisoned, and exit at a moments notice from the countless tunnels, hidden amongst the niches in the cliff walls. Here the soldiery of the Dark Lord has a sort of home, if that it can be called. There can always be found here numerous troops off-duty, up to any sort of activity their mind has wandered to.

Armory and Smithy: The army maintains a stock of weapons, for when the supply of weapons issued to soldiers begins to grow thin. The smiths there are able to perform minor repairs and sharpening, but they have neither the means nor the skill to operate a full forge such as the one at Ostigurth, which is regularly commissioned to stock the army. This is located in a small building set back from the Black Gate, near where some sparring and other forms of competition occur in a near-constant fashion.

Mess Hall: Next to the Armory is a low building with a trail of smoke ever rising from its roof, like its neighbor. With a large army comes the need to feed them all. Minions are ever present here to collect their rations, mostly hard bread and dried meats, though on occasion there is some more attractive fare, and for the higher ranking soldiers thes tidbits are treats for services rendered. Expecting a lavish cuisine? Tough, this is Mordor, be lucky if your meal doesn't fight back.

The Ring: Not far from the smithy is a ring, not twenty feet in diameter. It is known simply as ‘The Ring’, and there is often times a fight going on there, two at a time only, and always there is a large crowd cheering or jeering each combatant as the fight progresses. (Feel free to fight someone else in the Ring)

The Black Gate and tower battlements: Except on occasions when the entire army is ordered to assemble in Udûn, there is always a legion of solders patrolling and keeping watch from the massive fortifications which make up The Morannon. Many are those on guard duty, and never is there a time when innumerable eyes are not watching.

Division: As you progress through the ranks you must choose a desired division. This will specialise your character within the army. And this role you choose is simply one to show your personal tastes and better define your character's appearance.

Assassins - Vras - Assassins are trained in stealth, they strike from the shadows unseen and disappear back into them leaving no trace of their passage.

Infantry - Kambasor - The light infantry, typically lightly armoured foot soldiers, from Khandese warriors to orc patrols. Armed with sword and spear.

Heavy Infantry - Rand Kambasor - The heavy infantry, tend to wear plate armour and carry pikes or halbards, armed with falchions or greatswords.

Cavalry - Kalors - Lightly armed riders, who wear simple armour and carry composite shortbows, or spears, and wicked scimitars.

Heavy Cavalry - Rand Kalors - Heavily armoured riders, these typically ride warhorses and wear plate armour, carrying lances, and swords, and shield.

Marksmen - Pushaktar - These archers carry the bows, and their multitude means that many enemies don't get near the forward ranks of the army.

Siege-engineers - Shatorothaum-zongot - Usually comprised of Mountain Trolls and the like, the siege-engineers are involved both in defence of the Morannon or Minas Morgul and attack, when the army is on the move towing their weapons of war.

Ranks: The ranks of the Divisions begin once a member who is conscripted has scored 5 points of Renown. That is when you choose a Division. At the beginning you are simply a Conscript of the Black Host. If you have earned an old rank in the old Mordor Army and you want to keep it, then feel free to use the equivalent here, just make a note in your post how you got your rank. If you earned I really high rank that none of these ranks reflect, then feel free to keep that rank name, however in this thread no one else can gain that rank now. So if you see a rank not on the list, these were earned in the old Mordor Army and all were higher ranked than what is listed here.

Make sure to post your Rank and Name in the top of your post.

Ranks:

Division of Assassins - Vras

Hidoram - Shadowhand - 5 - 10 Renown
Eiturgoth - Poison Master - 11 - 16 Renown
Hisharbtur - Shadow Servant - 17 - 22 Renown
Hirendas - Nightrunner - 23 - 29 Renown
Hidraugur - Shadow Ghost - 30 - 35 Renown
Vajodharfrum - Spirit Thief 36 - 41 Renown
Vadokburzum - Death-bringer 42 - 50 Renown
Vrasgoth - Master Assassin 51+ Renown

Division of Infantry - Kambasor

Kambasor Voshatraum - Infantry Look-out - 5 - 10 Renown
Snaga of the Kambasor - Slave of the Infantry - 11 - 16 Renown
Sharbtur of the Kambasor - Servant of the Infantry -17 - 22 Renown
Kambasorog - Guard of the Infantry - 23 - 29 Renown
Kambasorgirmus - Infantry Scout - 30 - 35 Renown
Ushatar of the Kambasor - Soldier of the Infantry 36 - 41 Renown
Kordatar of the Kambasor - Swordsman of the Infantry 42 - 50 Renown
Drartul of the Kambasor - Sergeant of the Infantry 51+ Renown

Division of Heavy Infantry - Rand Kambasor

Rand Kambasor Voshatraum - Heavy Infantry Look-out - 5 - 10 Renown
Snaga of the Rand Kambasor - Slave of the Heavy Infantry - 11 - 16 Renown
Sharbtur of the Rand Kambasor - Servant of the Heavy Infantry - 17 - 22 Renown
Rogtar of the Rand Kambasor - Guard of the Heavy Infantry - 23 - 29 Renown
Burzkasnok of the Rand Kambasor - Herald of the Heavy Infantry - 30 - 35 Renown
Ushatar of the Rand Kambasor - Soldier of the Heavy Infantry 36 - 41 Renown
Kordatar of the Rand Kambasor - Swordsman of the Heavy Infantry 42 - 50 Renown
Drartul of the Rand Kambasor - Sergeant of the Heavy Infantry 51+ Renown

Division of Cavalry - Kalors

Snaga of the Kalors - Slave of the Cavalry 5 - 10 Renown
Sharbtur of the Kalors - Servant of the Cavalry - 11 - 16 Renown
Kasnok of the Kalord - Herald of the Cavalry - 17 - 22 Renown
Jashatbartomum of the Kalors - Outrider of the Cavalry - 23 - 29 Renown
Bartomum of the Kalors - Rider of the Cavalry - 30 - 35 Renown
Zibartomum of the Kalors - Black Rider of the Cavalry - 36 - 41 Renown
Drubartomum of the Kalors - Dread Rider of the Cavalry - 42 - 50, Renown
Drartul of the Kalors - Sergeant of the Cavalry - 51 + Renown

Division of Heavy Cavalry - Rand Kalors

Prerequisite: Must have earned 51 Renown working with the Kalors.

Bartomum of the Rand Kalors - Rider of the Heavy Cavalry - 51 - 60 Renown
Shatauzur of the Rand Kalors - Lancer of the Heavy Cavalry - 61 - 70 Renown

Hibujar of the Rand Kalors - Shadow Knight of the Heavy Cavalry - 71 - 80 Renown
Drartul of the Hibujar - Sergeant of the Shadow Knights - 81 - 90 Renown
Kritar of the Hibujar - Captain of the Shadow Knights - 91+ Renown

Dagulbujar of the Rand Kalors - Demon Knight of the Heavy Cavalry - 71 - 80 Renown
Drartul of the Dagulbujar - Sergeant of the Demon Knights - 81 - 90 Renown
Kritar of the Dagulbujar - Captain of the Demon Knights - 91+ Renown

Division of Marksmen - Pushaktar

Pushaktar Voshatraum - Marksman Look-out - 5 - 10 Renown
Pushaktar Snaga - Marksman Slave - 11 - 16 Renown
Pushaktar Sharbtur - Marksman Servant - 17 - 22 Renown
Rogtar Pushaktar - Guard of the Marksmen - 23 - 29 Renown
Pushaktar Ushatar - Marksman Soldier 30 - 35 Renown
Pushaktar Kalus - Marksman Archer 36 - 41 Renown
Drartul of the Pushaktar- Sergeant of the Marksmen 42+ Renown

Division of Siege-engineers - Shatorothaum-zongot

Shatorothaum-zongot Shakamubgazogur - Siege-engineer Rockwielder 5 - 10 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongot Voshatraum - Siege-engineer look-out 11 - 16 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongotrog - Siege-engineer Guard 17 - 22 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongot ushatar - Siege-engineer Soldier 23 - 29 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongotzot - Siege-engineer Master 30 - 35 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongot Drartul - Siege-engineer Sergeant 36 - 41 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongot Kritar - Siege-engineer Captain - 42+ Renown



Note: This version of the Mordor Army called the Black Host is new to the plaza, however aspects of this Morannon thread are not. We give our thanks to Turin, for some of the descriptive work locationally, and for finding the top quote which appeared in an archived Morannon thread he created. We give our thanks to Tzu, for some of the descriptive work regarding the Towers of the Teeth and their purpose organisationally. That work appeared in the Narchost and Carchost threads created for the SL forum which are now obselete. And of course a Big thanks to Naith for working on this with me. And thanks to LoTR Wiki for the pic.

[Moriel]

Swiltang
Maugân

Narchost

There were times when Swiltang hated being in charge. True, his chambers near the top of Narchost were a distinct benefit to the situation, but they didn’t make up for the constant annoyances that came with command. The chambers were large and, as the Black Land went, richly furnished; their light came from braziers, rather than torches or candles, creating a steadier glow and a less constant need for replenishment. Swiltang currently occupied the large front room which comprised study, training area, and a large, rough table and chairs. The orc swordmaster paced this room with disgruntled intent, reading an ash-stained letter. He was uncommonly tall for an orc, lean, and twisted. The hand of fate that had deformed his spine caused one shoulder to slightly precede the other, and tugged the right side of his discolored face into a permanent sneer, showing several pointed teeth. It was only the foolish or ignorant that would take the twisted spine and uneven gait for weakness, however: from the earliest days of his youth long ages ago, Swiltang had driven relentlessly against these hinderances, demanding that his body be as ruthless and cunning as his mind.

Yarltang had always been jealous of his brother’s intelligence. The younger of the two sons of Ziltang was taller and broader, a huge, burly specimen of an orc- far smarter than an ordinary orc, and plenty smart enough to realize that Swiltang outstripped him in every way but bulk. Neither of them would ever forget the few years Yarltang was able to use his size against his brother, but for very different reasons. Swiltang’s red eyes- his gift from their boldog father- swept up from the parchment he had been reading, to the table and chairs. They were too large for him, left over from when this chamber had been his father’s, and Ziltang the Maugân of the Black Host. He resolved to have them chopped to kindling at the first opportunity, as he had so many times before. Burning eyes dropped to the parchment once more, and he considered its contents. And its character- though it had picked up a dusting of ash on its journey here from Minas Morgul, the paper itself was remarkably supple, of a quality virtually unknown in the Black Land. The writing that covered it was that of an elegant spider, all loops and eloquence to cover the biting words. And, yes, Swiltang determined as he raised the letter closer to his face and sniffed, carrying the faint aroma of anise.

That wench, Sombelenë, playing games as usual! With a growl of irritation, Swiltang tossed the letter onto a brazier where it flared and curled, and his hand followed through to complete the gesture by fisting in the coarse black hair that sprouted from his scalp, beginning near his crown and confining itself to the shape of an unkempt mane down the back of his head and neck. He rubbed the hand up and down, as though by stimulating the follicles he might inspire a solution to all the problems the letter- and the arrogant, treacherous Avar herself- posed. Unfortunately, no miraculous answers to this ongoing quandary presented themselves, and Swiltang resolved the put it out of his mind for the moment. Striding towards the door, he caught up his sword, already scabbarded and fixed to its baldric, and buckled it about his torso. The resounding slam of the door behind him rattled the torches outside it in their brackets, and sounded the death knell of what might have been a peaceful day.

Smithy/Ring Area

On his way down from the height of Narchost, Swiltang’s mood had not been improved by the necessity of breaking up a fight between three of the more junior officers who were allocated barracks near the bottom of the tower. Apparently being billeted in the tower had given each an overinflated sense of self importance, which each was absolutely sure only he had a right to, and he absolutely must beat out of his fellows. Unfortunately for them, their Maugân had happened to pass by at exactly the wrong moment. After knocking the several heads together, Swiltang had reminded them that the ring existed if they really needed to settle their differences with blood, but it would have to wait until after they had finished cleaning every corridor on their entire floor with the tiny, bristly brushes that the armorers used for removing stubborn grit from the better blades in the armory. At the entrance to the tower, Swiltang had commanded one of the elite sentinels who guarded it to stand relieved from his post, and instead supervise the cleaning efforts- and not to be stingy with the lash. The guard, who had been standing in a slack sort of manner that to the untrained eye would have indicated inattention, immediately straightened with a grin and trotted off to his new task. At least someone around the place was going to have a good day.

Swiltang passed by the smithy. Under normal circumstances he might have paused there to check in on the work being performed, not only because he was interested, but because the smiths of Ostigurth were some of the few beings around here he actually enjoyed talking to. His gaze passed over the various soldiers scattered about the place, training and sparring, though non currently occupied the ring. He could feel them shift and stiffen under his eyes, even those who postured and shouted boastfully even as he passed- a visceral reaction to the Maugân was not to be denied by the rank and file, particularly when he was clearly in a towering temper. But none of them was doing anything overtly wrong and so Swiltang passed them by also. Beyond the ring was a flat, arid length of land, stretching out to the far side of the Black Gate, a space into which training could overflow when many troops were at work. But for the moment, Swiltang had it to himself.

Reaching over his right shoulder to grasp the protruding hilt, the swordmaster drew his blade. It was no crude orc-sword, but a find weapon of folded steel, its blade longer than a man’s arm and tapering outward from the hilt before hooking to a lethal point. While its weight and length garnered a two-handed hilt, long ages of experience made it light and nimble in Swiltang’s hands. He began to move through the basic exercises that were, even now, paramount to training. Blade on the right shoulder, extended diagonal cut down, cross hands into tail guard, rising cut up on the same diagonal, drop hands to hip in tail guard on the right, rising cut on the opposite diagonal, cross the hands, falling strike. Infinite cut. Next. Begin in tail guard on the left, rising diagonal cut, cross hands at the top of the strike describing a horizontal arc above the head, diagonal cut on the opposite line, cross hands, rising cut on the same line, repeat the motion at the top and continue. Ribbon cut. Next. Blade on the right shoulder, center cut down, feint into thrust, launching the blade forward with a lunging step, recover to the left hip, en guard to the left shoulder, repeat on the other side. Cut of wrath. Change sword hand and repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Sweat gathered in all the crinkles and corners of Swiltang’s skin and drenched his hair but he paid it no mind, droplets whipping off to turn to steam in the acrid air as he moved, transitioning from basic drills into more complex forms of his own invention. With a grace uncommon to orc-kind he moved, limbs supple and agile as he engaged in the complex dance of the sword. None watching the crouching, leaping, striking, coiling, whiplike arms and body of the swordmaster would ever guess there had once been days any voice dared to call him cripple.



((OOC: Feel free to approach Swiltang for interaction or training if you want!))

[The Good Hunter]

Úrgarlach
Just Outside the Black Gates
No Renown

The skies overhead rumbled, an ominous, if not distant, threat. Úrgarlach watched the fetid clouds move back and forth. He could see shapes inside them, horrid screaming mouths whose agony was eternal. They stretched and thunder erupted from the clouds as the mouths were torn apart, blow asunder by a fetid eastern wind. The orc took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The smell of the rank bog was behind him, yet it seemed to cling to him, wispy tendrils of rot curling it’s fingers around him, begging him not to go, to stay and decay. He had camped out in the Dead Marshes for two weeks, waiting for a contact that now seemed unlikely to come. Had he been swallowed up by the swamp? Gotten lost in the maze of pools only to be swallowed up and add his corpse candle to the choir? Úrgarlach thought that very likely. He had almost gotten lost himself, and he had grown up in this land.

He followed the tracks deftly, remembering for a misspent youth were not to put his feet lest he get sucked down into frozen mud. A Will-o’-the-wisp had distracted him though, a pale flash of blue fire wandering deeper into the more dangerous parts of the Dead Marshes. He knew better than to follow, more than one companion had been lost to the foolish whimsy of following the lights. Legends said if you caught it, you would be rich beyond your wildest dreams. Úrgarlach had only seen dreams eviscerated and torn apart. Screams of his friends now littered his own dreams. In that moment of distraction, Úrgarlach had watched as the landscape itself seemed to shift and roll about, closing off safe pathways and opening new, portentously quiet ones. That he managed to get out was a minor miracle, he had closed his eyes and used his muscle memory, stepping exactly where he had been stepping ten years. Whatever illusion the swamp had created to trap him had broken that way.

He was out now. A strange feeling of regret and nostalgia washed over him, a longing to go back into the Dead Marshes and hide. But he couldn’t do that, not anymore. There was no life for him in the Dead Marshes. Whatever life awaited him, waited for him through the towers in front of him, the dreadful spikes of obsidian that torn through the dying earth.

“Now or never,” he muttered to himself, and put a foot forward, leaving behind his old life and starting it anew as a soldier.

[Winddancer]

Borfang and Mord
Conscripts - 1 Renown

Borfang was huge. He was literally as tall as any Uruk and about as muscled as them as well. However he was not an Uruk, he was merely a man, though no one knew where he was from, his dark hair and dark skin, as well as his size, often had people guessing. His size and strength had obviously gotten him into many fights, just to test his strength or at times to win a prize. Something that Mord often took advantage of. Mord was the businessman of the two, where Borfang was tall, he was average height. Where Borfang was well muscled and huge, Mord was thin but wiry. Borfang carried with him a huge mace that Mord could barely lift with one hand, though Mord's preferred weapon was his poisoned daggers and his beloved recurve bow. Where Borfang earned a reputation for his strenth and winning fights, Mord earned his with his marksmanship. He could send an arrow right through an apple perched on someones head, while they were riding a horse. Where Borfang won by crushing skulls with his fists, Mord won them with his aim. That and stabbing them with his poisoned daggers.

The pair had just arrived the night before, the shear magnitude of the huge gate not really visible in the dark, though the thundering they had heard when they opened should have been an indication. They could not help but watch with fascination as the trolls pulled the chains to open the gate again, both of them pausing in their tracks. "You sure you want to do this?" Borfang grumbled, scratching at his long lanky black hair on his head. "Yes!" hissed Mord in response. "We have no choice, we have been over this already!" Annoyed at being questioned about his intentions, again, Mord turned and began walking away only to realise he had no idea where to go. "Oi you! Yes, you!" he snapped at a nearby orc who was carrying a dozen swords. "Where do you go to sign up?" The question was followed by a glare, one he could easily afford given that he had Borfang towering over him like some kind of guard and it worked as the orc only took one glance at the huge man before nodding his head towards a long table over one end of the yard with a long line already building up next to it, before scuttling off in a hurry.

Seeing the line Mord growled with annoyance, stalking over to it with Borfang in tow. Mord was not particularly patient, nor was he really ever in a good mood, so instead of heading to the back of the line, he made his way to the front. Without pause, he shoved the first in line aside and gave him an angry glare that all but begged the man to retaliate, however yet again it proved invaluable to have Borfang with him as Borfang stepped up next to him. Furious, but knowing not to pick a fight with a man that size, the man that had been shoved from the line skulked off to go to the back while cursing the two under his breath.

The man behind the table slapped two pieces of paper down in front of them. "Sign! You will train for a week, prove yourself worthy of joining or die. Your choice." He gave them both a hard impatient stare as he waited for them to scratch their mark on the paper. Once done, he whipped the papers away and turned to point out several locations such as the mess hall and where they could get weapons if needed. Lastly he pointed in the direction of where the barracks were, adding "Men tend to stick together with other men, orcs with orcs if you know what I mean. Find a spot to sleep where you can. NEXT!"

"Well there you have it Bor.. we are now in the greatest army Middle Earth has ever seen, if you are to believe what that guy in Umbar was saying. What do you think?" Borfang looked around at the thousands of men, orc, trolls and goblins as they headed in the direction of the mess hall, scratching at his black beard. "I don't know Mord.. this looks a bit out of our league.."
"Nonsense! Out of our league.. PSSSH! This is our opportunity! Our chance at something great! You'll see.."

[The Good Hunter]

Úrgarlach
Around the Sea or Nurnen
2 Renown

Úrgarlach wanted to collapse. His lungs burned and his muscles felt like lead. He had been running at a near full sprinting pace for six hours now. Úrgarlach was slipping, losing his footing, sliding and nearly crashing to the ground at least once every mile. How long was he going to have to keep this up?
He had managed to get inside the Black Gates and had been rushed along, getting poked, stabbed, prodded, and pushed. A beady eyed goblin had taken his name down and told him he’d be joining a new group of recruits that had just been assembled. The nasty little creature then giggled as he told the orc that he was going to have to shave his head to join.
His scalp still burned from the knife scraps and the razorblades. Before he had had a chance to recover though, he was laden with a pack that weighed nearly as much as he did, and ordered to run around the Sea of Nurnen until he was told to stop.
Before he set out, he heard some of the higher ranking orcs taking bets as to which one of the new recruits would die first. He heard his name mentioned along with the price of 50 fifty gold pieces. The initial anger had fueled his endurance for the first three hours, but now he was lagging, his legs were turning to jelly.
He took a deep breath, feeling the air slice into him as he did, but suddenly he was without pain. He could feel himself moving but the pain had vanished. He felt distant from himself, like he was so deep inside his own head he had vacated his physical body. The sensation would have been more welcome if it had not been so abrupt. He could breathe here, wherever that was.
Then, with the same rapidity that it had come, it vanished and Úrgarlach back in the world of pain. His breathing was easier though, and his muscles weren’t so knotted and sore.
Somewhere, up ahead, the leader called a halt. Everyone, Úrgarlach included, suddenly stopped and fell to group, gasping for air like fish.
He did it. He finished whatever sort of test or hazing ritual they had planned and had lived to tell about. At least twelve of the company that set out on the run had not made it, falling down dead in their tracks along the way. It was a brutal reminder to Úrgarlach about what exactly he was doing. He was not joining a social group or a band of scholars. He was in the Black Host now. Weakness of any kind would not be tolerated.
An idea began forming in his head as he watched the superior walking by, inspecting the troops. They capered and japed with each other, looking at the runners with disdain and disappointment. He searched out the voice that had made a wager on his death. It was a squat faced, puke green skinned orc with a squashed nose and fat lip. Úrgarlach stood up and used his remaining strength and resolve to slam his fist as hard as he could into the bastard’s face. He might end up in the Pits for this, but he would be damned if he was going let some pissy little puke faced orc make a profit off of him.

[The Good Hunter]

Úrgarlach
Smithy
3 Renown

An orc with pale blue skin pushed him forward with the head of a spear poking into the center of his back. There was a stream of blood flowing from that spot already, the spearhead glistened with thick black ichor.
“Move!” The voice was high pitched and grating, there was a satisfaction in that voice too. A hidden challenge. Úrgarlach trudged forward, every muscle fiber in his body was on fire. He wanted to turn around, push the spearhead away, and strangle the little wretch, but he could barely move at this point. There was only the fresh wound on his back now but there circular scabs up and down his forearms and legs where they had exorcised skin off him, and a series of angry red scars where they branded him. He was now clad in a urine-stained shirt and horsehair leggings. Ankle and wrist cuffs, at least two stones in weight each, completed the outfit.
The spear pricked his back again, another bolt of pain directly into his spine. His anger and defiance was the only thing keeping him upright. He stood as tall as he could, towering over his jailer by nearly two feet, despite the pain in his legs.
“You’re in for it now boy,” the orc behind him tittered. “You pissed off the wrong officer. If you thought that your little vacation the last few days was irksome in any way, you’ll soon be groveling at my feet to back to the pokers. Do you even know who we’re giving you to?”
Úrgarlach remained sullenly silent, glaring ahead and breathing haggardly through chipped teeth.
“Answer me, swine!” The spear dug into this back.
Úrgarlach bit down on his tongue so hard he was afraid he was bite through. He spot blood.
“No, I don’t,” his voice was ragged.
The blue skinned torturer giggled. “You’re in a for a treat then! Not many come back from this one alive.”
Another jab and they were moving again. They moved through the prison and barracks at as fast a pace as Úrgarlach could muster. Finally, they arrived at the weapon smithy. The heat was almost unbearable. Instead of making him sweat, the heat just seemed to suck the life out of him. They moved through it until they came on a figure dancing and darting back and forth with a wicked looking blade. Úrgarlach’s eyes were so dry he could barely see.
“Hey, Swiltang, up high has a new project for ya. Yeah, says they don’t care what you do with him. Turn ‘im to ash, to puddin’ or one o’ yer special soldiers, don’t matter. Consider it a gift from the head office.”
Úrgarlach gulped painfully. He knew who this was now.

[Moriel]

Swiltang
Maugân

Smithy/Ring Area

“A gift?” Swiltang flowed through the final moves of the form he had been working before being so rudely interrupted by the blue-skinned orc and his prisoner. The swordmaster straightened from his final crouch, and turned to face the ill-begotten pair. The messenger looked entirely too gleeful, and the prisoner looked as if he had been run nearly to death, not to mention the abominable smell. Not that either of these things were exactly unusual in the Black Land, but Swiltang preferred not to have his own training disrupted with trash. “A gift?” he repeated raising his sword arm. The blade he held in reverse grip hissed as he threw it down, its keen point burying itself in the ashy desert ground in perfect alignment, so that it stood of its own accord. With an outward curling movement of his arm, a twist of the waist, and as little effort as crushing an ant, Swiltang ripped the spear out of the orcs’s hands and pivoted around so that the shaft swept his legs from beneath him. The blue skinned orc hit the ground with a cry and a thud, the breath knocked out of him. “Take the cuffs off him,” Swiltang ordered casually, his eyes fixed on the recruit (Úrgarlach), planting the butt of the spear on the ground at his side, “how is he supposed to be of any use to me in this state with those on? Pathetic.” The blue orc complied, wheezing and whining, grumbling as he took the weight of the cuffs upon himself. He opened his mouth to say something, but Swiltang cut him off. “Get out of my sight, and be grateful that’s all.” Not one to push his luck, the blue orc scuttled away. “So,” Swiltang jiggled the spearshaft idly in his hand, looking away from the recruit to study the smoke patterns rising from Orodruin. “Tell me your name, your rank, and what you’ve done to be thrown to the wargs.”

[The Good Hunter]

Úrgarlach
Smithy/Ring Area
6 Renown (Combined from Tower of Might)

Suddenly without the heavy weight of the manacles, Úrgarlach found his strength again. It took a few breaths before he was able to speak, regain the moisture in his mouth in all this heat.
“My name is Úrgarlach. As far as I am aware, I don’t have much of a rank outside of prisoner,” he paused a moment, relishing the memory of the smashed puke green face of the orc captain. “They gave me to you because I punched a superior officer for trying to profit off my death. They tried to say I punched his jaw off but that’s only half true. I broke his jaw, aye, but the infection that set in later was what ripped it off.”
It suddenly dawned on him that maybe laughing about it was a bad idea. He had heard rumors about the orc before him. A legendary fighter, a brutal commander, and one with no tolerance for fools. Úrgarlach desperately wanted to train under him. He was the best, simple as that. Looking at him now, the legend of Swiltang had been entirely accurate. He was lean and muscled, as tall as Úrgarlach but carried himself better, he was light and swift of foot. His eyes, when they had been cast on Úrgarlach for that brief moment, filled him with both terror and excitement.

His heartbeat slowed after a moment. Swiltang was watching the smoke rising from the mountain. He wondered what his commander saw in the smoke. Úrgarlach had always been told while living in the Dead Marshes that the best commanders could see the future in those wisps of ash and smoke. He stood silently, not daring to move. His muscles screamed for a respite, aching from the torture and the march over here. Yet he stood. His knees tried to lock several times, trying on their own to lessen the torture but he shifted each time. Sweat dripped off his forehead, casting rivulets of dust and ash down his face. One drop made its way to his eye and stung. He remained, though, as still as he could. He needed to make a good impression on his new commander, or his new commander might turn out to be his executioner.

[Moriel]

Swiltang
Maugân

Smithy/Ring Area

It was hardly a new story, but the original part was that Úrgarlach had survived to tell it. Assaulting a superior officer (to a certain level of superiority, anyway) was standard fare around here, a convenient way of moving up the ranks. But seldom did fresh meat such as this one succeed at their assault and not immediately face execution, whether casual (likely) or formal. “Hmmm.” Swiltang considered, scraping his fingernails up and down the shaft of the spear with a thing, grating sound. “Infection, eh? Ripped his jaw off, you say? Not likely to last long around here in that state. So what you’re really saying is that your murdered a superior officer, for trying to profit off your death. As was his right, dealing with a filthy snaga like you.” Still gazing at the eddies of ash upon the air, Swiltang grasped the spear firmly, raised it to his shoulder, pointed it at Úrgarlach, and threw it with a whiplike motion. SsssTHUNK! the spearhead buried itself in the ground between the recruit’s feet, the shaft quivering at an angle in the air before him. “You have one chance,” Swiltang turned his head to look at Úrgarlach again at last, his permanently curled lip curling yet further as he pronounced the recruit’s fate, “to replace the office you stole from the Dark Lord. If he was so weak as to succumb to a blow from you, this may be our gain. We shall see.” The lean, twisted orc paced deliberately around the recruit, examining him more thoroughly as he went on, “Should you prove yourself worthy, you will have to choose which division of His host to join. There are the infantry and heavy infantry of course… the cavalry, the siege engineers; the marksmen, whre you would be serving beneath my brother, and” here Swiltang’s red eyes narrowed as he returned to face Úrgarlach again, though it was not clear whether this was due to what he had said, or was about to say, “the Vras- the assassins. Each has their purpose, and you will serve where you are most useful. But for now,” Swiltang turned on his heel and as he paced away from the recruit, grasped the grip of his sword, the motion of his body pulling it free of the ground. With several meters of space between them, he turned again to face the other orc. The sword hung easily in his hand, his limbs loose, at east. The swordmaster pointed at the spear, then at Úrgarlach, and made a beckoning gesture.

“Come.”

[The Good Hunter]

Úrgarlach
Smithy/Ring area
10 Renown

Fear made his gorge rise in his throat as the Maugân dictated what very well could have been a death sentence for him. Nothing had gone according to plan since he joined. What was he expecting though, a cakewalk? This was the Black Host! He bit down on his tongue and pushed the fear back down where it went from a roiling thunderstorm to a drizzle.

When the spear came hurtling out of Swiltang’s hand, he nearly jumped back, the lizard hindbrain told him to run, to hide under a rock and wait for it all to pass, but he stilled that voice with a violent, low growl. Something else came over him, a violent, atavist urge. He could taste the blood in the air. The forges roared and the harsh ding of the hammers filled his ears, exciting him. Off in a distance he could hear the unforgiving voices of drill sergeants, the crack of whips, and the clash of steel on steel. It was musical in it’s own way. He took in a deep, slow breath. His eyes darting back and forth, doing the best he could to familiarize himself with his surroundings. The Maugân beckoned him, sword already in his hand.

“Come.” The challenge rang out and filled Úrgarlach’s ears. His fingers tingled with excitement.

Úrgarlach gripped the spear haft, the wood was rough and coarse, but it was well balanced enough. A flexed hand ripped it from the earth and a twist of his wrist brought the spear over and around in an arc, the blade point forward. He fixed his grip, grabbing the spear shaft around the midpoint with his left hand and placing his right near his hip to help steer the spear. He crouched low, building up potential energy in his legs before he leapt and dashed into action, half feinting to his left before pivoting and pushing his weight onto his right side, thrusting the spear in a straight upward motion.

[Moriel]

Swiltang
Maugân

Smithy/Ring Area

He was not unfamiliar with the spear, Swiltang would give him that. He would even have called Úrgarlach’s movements confident, if not for the initial burst of fear that had radiated off the orc like an acrid wave. Such fear was not unnatural, and could at times be useful, but it was not the first thing Swiltang wanted to feel from a conscript. If Úrgarlach wanted to amount to a soldier of any consequence, he would have to master his fear. The swordmaster stood relaxed still as his trainee grasped the spear and hefted it into a short-form guard, his crouch showing that he did at least recognize the value of a low stance, and Swiltang wondered idly just how long Úrgarlach could hold such a stance in the blistering head of Orodruin’s slopes. The feint was an interesting choice, if perfectly obvious to Swiltang’s eyes. He shifted to his right as if deceived, but kept his sword low rather than attempting to commit to the parry which would have spelled his doom, so that when the thrust came to his left, he was in position to act. As the spear extended towards his abdomen, Swiltang twisted the right side of his body towards Úrgarlach, allowing the wicked point to slide harmlessly by, simultaneously with the checking motion of his left arm against the upper part of the spearshaft to ensure it continued in that direction. The twisting motion of his body continued into a long step, bringing Swiltang well inside Úrgarlach’s guard, taking advantage of the orc’s charge to close the distance as he himself shifted through the low stance, throwing most of his weight into his front leg as he arose from it. Swiltang’s right arm was folded so that his elbow protruded and it connected with stunning force to the underside of th trainee’s chin. A second twist of the body and a second step took Swiltang behind Úrgarlach, where he lashed the orc across the lower back with his sword as his own body unwound- not with the edge, but the flat. A third step, and Swiltang resumed his relaxed posture, blade all but dangling from his hand, as if the instants of violent action had never occurred.

“You’re dead.” The swordmaster stated flatly, studying Úrgarlach’s reactions. “Again. Come.”

[The Good Hunter]

Úrgarlach
Smithy/Ring Area
16 Renown

His thrust failed. It was inevitable that it would fail though. Deep down, Úrgarlach knew that this fight would go exactly the way it was going, but that knowledge didn’t lessen the sting he was feeling. His thrust went wide, Swiltang lazily dodged the effort, then used a series of quick steps to get within the spear’s reach, keep it moving forward so Úrgarlach was defenseless against the armored elbow that slammed him hard in the chin. The blunt force sent him back a step. He had had no time to prepare for the attack, his reflexes hadn’t been fast enough to evade or deflect the blow. The ugly sound of cracking bone rung in his ears. He was seeing stars for a second, tiny points of flittering light. He was distracted momentarily, the speed of his opponent had caught him completely off guard. He tried to take a step back, regroup and get back into a stance but it was too late. Swiltang’s footwork was masterful; Úrglarlach lost sight of him, he was about to turn when he felt the slash across the middle of his back. Thank to night it had been with the flat side of the blade or the pain he was feeling would have been increased ten fold and Swlitang’s words would have rung more true.

“You’re dead. Again. Come.”

Úrgarlach rubbed his chin, the pain splintered through his jaw and deep into his skull. He cupped it with a dirty hand and snapped it back into place. He would have grunted if he were alone, but he was well aware the he was being watched and being evaluated. His kept his face placid and his expression neutral. Still, for a second he wondered what exactly he had expected. It had been a life long dream to join the Host, but the more he thought about it now, the more he realized there was no substance behind his desire, it was just that, a desire to join the Host. He had hinged his life on joining, set his ambitions and goals on it but the more he thought, the less he understood why he wanted it. Orcs were just supposed to want to join. That was their lot in life, wasn’t it? That’s how most of them ended up dead. They had no reason to want to live, to want to fight other than the idea that it was what they were supposed to do. If he continued, Úrgarlach knew he was going to need to find a reason to survive. What was that reason going to be? Right now, all he could think about was lasting more than five seconds in a fight with Swiltang.

None of this played out over his face, the brief moment of introspection and debate played out behind expressionless eyes, eyes fixed on their target. With a deep, rib cracking breath, Úrgarlach reset himself. He bent at the knees, feeling the muscles contract. It was hot, the ashy air was alive and throbbing with residual heat. There was something beautiful in that. He fixed his grip, opting to keep his hands shoulder length apart near the bottom half of the spear. He tightened his grip and dashed forward. Instead of a feinting thrust like the one that had failed so miserably last time, he tried a sweeping blow, swinging the spear out just above Swiltang’s thighs at a right to left angle. Knowing Swiltang would see it coming and evade, Úrgarlach leapt backward, holding the spear out as he landed on his back foot. He immediately went back into a crouch, holding the spear out in front of him at a slight upward angle. He leapt again, using his powerful thighs and calves to carry him into air. At the aphelion of his leapt, he switched the grip in the spear, relaxing his hands of a heartbeat so his hands slid down to the bottom of the spear, giving him better reach. He thrust hard at Swiltang but instead of aiming for the orc himself, struck out at the Maugân’s blade, aiming the spearhead to push the blade away from his body. He landed, but used the remaining momentum to slam his body into Swiltang’s. The commander was much bigger than Úrgarlach but he hoped the force of his momentum would be enough to push him back a step. He lunged backward, not allowing himself to be left open to an attack at close range where his spear would be useless. He danced back several steps, the balls of his feet barely touching the ground. He ended several paces away, his chest heaving from the burst of energy. He brought the spear back up and crouched in a defensive position, turning his body to present less of a target with his right foot forward and the spear held in both hands across his body at an angle.

[Moriel]

Swiltang
Maugân

Smithy/Ring Area

Úrgarlach chose a slash with his spear to begin this time, an unwise choice given his inexpertise and the grip he had chosen- if it had been a real attack. This was a chief failing of so many beginners in the art of combat, particularly with weapons to which they were unused: the telegraphing of feints. Swiltang scarcely bothered to respond, merely taking a step back and raising his fist to bring the sword up in a point-down parry to defend his leg, on the off chance the other orc changed his mind and followed through. Such was not the case of course, and Úrgarlach bounded back the way he had come- he was not unagile, Swiltang would give him that. Almost as soon as he had gathered himself back into the crouch Úrgarlach sprang forward, propelling himself into a leap that allowed him to gain and advantageous angle with the spear. It came directly at Swiltang’s center, directed at his blade. With a twist from the shoulder, the swordmaster performed a swift counterparry, knocking the spearhead harmlessly to the outside of his body.

As Úrgarlach’s body descended onto Swiltang’s, he allowed his free arm to arise and his knees to bend, rounding his upper body and sinking his center, so that the earth absorbed the brunt of the impact. The twisted orc compressed under the weight of his trainee, and then straightened explosively, propelling Úrgarlach from him. As the spear, trailing behind the orc, passed overhead, Swiltang reached out to grasp its shaft, just below the head. Continuing the momentum of his movement and taking advantage of Úrgarlach’s on the other end of the spear, he twisted to follow it, traveling with the other orc, dancing along with him, so that when he ended in his defensive crouch Swiltang was right there with him- inside the guard of the spear. But the Maugân did not halt, stepping low towards Úrgarlach, turning his body as he did so so his chest faced the shaft of the spear. With a sharp, outward rotation of his body Swiltang arced his sword up from below to chop at the spearshaft with its false edge, while simultaneously pressing down with his grasping hand, a lever that ripped the weapon out of Úrgarlach’s hands. Lifting his front foot to extend the lunge, Swiltang thrust to the center of Úrgarlach’s throat with his sword. But he diverted its energy at the last moment, so that the blade lay along the side of the orc’s throat, having sheared a razor-thin cut in the skin. It took a moment for the cut to part and bleed.

Swiltang stepped back, lowering his blade. “You’re dead. Again.” He drove the butt of the spear into the ground and resumed his former posture, jiggling it idly in his free hand. Red eyes fell on Úrgarlach, considering him in the same manner they had considered the ashen clouds of Orodruin moments before. “But you are not completely incompetent, though you clearly have little skill with the spear. Tell me, Úrgarlach: should I decide to let you live, what division of our Master’s host would you most desire to join?”

[Elenhir]

Maegwath
Where Conscripts Go
1 Renown

There was a call. It had echoed across the bare places, taken up by many voices, sung through the hills and the plains and the copses. Under the moon it was sung, in the night winds, and even into the broad of day. Maegwath had heard it and rejoiced. He was alone when the call reached him, and this was good, for he did not have to share. Not with his brothers, as he ran to a large stone shelf free to the words on the air. Not with his sisters, as he listened carefully to each note, each rise and fall, devouring the message. He danced under the stars and wept, and then he gave his voice to the call, sending it on, ever, deeper into the hard-cut valleys, over the mountains proud and tall. There was a call, and it was for him, and in him, and of him. And for one triumphant moment, he was for it, and in it, and of it, and then it passed. The emptiness had been both pain and relief.

And so he heeded the call, as did the others. Many had gone to the place beneath the shadow of the eaves, to the hill where nothing grew in the midst of the great forest. There had they been bid, in the service of the Great Lord, as they had before, in the days of their sires and dams. And as they slunk beside each other on the trails, paths converging in two and threes and packs entire, they had shouted in their terrible joy. Old grudges were set aside that day. Foes who had moons before been at each other's throat over a scrap of hare padded along, if not side by side, then with less space between their hides than they would see on a skinner's racks. It was a glorious display, Maegwath had known. And he could have been content, had the Great Lord been there, in his haunt of old.

Now the trees and the forest were gone, days and days and more past, and he missed them, and so the hills, and the mountains as well. There were mountains here, it was true, but they were hateful things, small and more hideous, yet cruel. The ground was hard like it was long since it had felt the softening touch of rain. The air held a dry wind, and it was dust and a heat with bitter, foul taste. Surely this was not the home of the Great Lord, who had fashioned Maegwath's kind out of dumb beast and high thought? Surely not.

Finding his place was simple enough. There was a set of doors, propped open, into a chamber of a flanking tower where many stood about in lines. These amassed folk were less strong than those who ran about outside the tower, out on the wide plain. They had worse gear, or less gear, or no gear to speak of. And they smelled more of piss and fear. Yes, the wolf had found the proper place. He took his place at the end of a line and waited. For the Great Lord, he could do such things.

It was a long while before he made it to the front of his line. Shadows waxed as the sun cut her dim arc across the sky outside. One less faithful than he might have chosen not to wait. One less faithful might have pushed ahead. Oh, one less faithful may have lied to themself, taking in mind that service to the Great Lord could not wait. That the Great Lord sought the strong and the forceful, and the weaklings may be cast aside, the line a test to be overcome. And indeed, Maegwath saw a test, but a test of patience. And he could be patient. Had he not, for years? He had. Yes, he had. He plodded forward.

'Hail, Taker of Names,' he said.

'What's this, then?' The orc behind the slab of rock looked down at him. Eyes narrowing, the clerk raised off his seat and peered over at the massive creature. He was scrawnier than he had seemed, fully sitting, oddly proportioned as so many of the glamhoth were. He was missing a finger on his left hand. A hideous smile broke over his face. 'Is this a joke? Whose beast is this?'

'Beast?' Maegwath snarled. Patience was one matter; disrespect was entirely another. 'I have more wits than you, spindle-legs.'

'Shoo!' The clerk waved him off. He addressed the crowded lines. 'If this is your hound, take it!'

Hound? Worse than beast, hound was. With another flailing shoo, the orc brought a hand too far out from the safety of his perch. He screamed as he clutched it back. Maegwath chewed thoroughly and spat the ruined finger out. It had been the smallest digit left on the hand; by the clerk's protestations, one would almost think he was dying. Maegwath left him to it and stepped out of line.

'Hey, you. Wolf,' came a voice. A different clerk, from a neighboring line, beckoned him over. Another orc, but this one with a more familiar accent. 'You do that every time someone around here doesn't understand your language, you'll blunt your teeth.'

'It was the disrespect that owed me his blood, not his ignorance.'

'Don't care. Name?'

'Maegwath. I have come to heed the call of the Great Lo-'

'Don't. Care.' He scratched something down. 'You're in the army now. Go out and impress someone. Don't bite too many people. Not a rule, just advice.'

'Is that-' Maegwath looked down the line, out to the open fields. What did that mean, impress someone? Impress who? He flicked his attention back to the clerk. 'What-?'

'Next!' the Orc yelled.

[The Good Hunter]

Úrgarlach
Smithy/Ring Area
17 Renown

Even as Úrgarlach moved backward to move into a defensive position, Swiltang was on him. The orc tried to hide his dismay as he tried to shuffle backward, away from the blade that Swiltang skillfully wielded. The actual movements did not take him long, but Úrgarlach felt like he was watching the attack in slow motion. Fatigue hit him as Swiltang swirled around, ripped the spear from his grasp and took a slice at his neck. He felt the pressure of the slice long before he felt any of the pain. Pain was a distant thing. He could feel it, but at the same time he couldn’t. The associations that pain brought with it, the stink of fear, the knot in the gut, the desire to escape, to run away, were all missing. What did that mean. He stood there, wavering, his body limp but unwilling to topple over. There was still some strength within his limbs. He reached up to his neck and felt the cut. It was superficial, barely a scratch, but there was a thin trickle of blood nonetheless. The wound stung and itched, but still there was no pain. He heard the Maugân speak, but he might as well have been a hundred miles away. The orc could not hear him. Vaguely, he felt frustration, a sense of failure and impending doom, but those sensations, too, felt far away. There was a sense of triumph too, a bright light in contrast to the darkness that was creeping in on the edges of his mind, he had succeeded in not falling to Swiltang so quickly. He had been able to hold his own, if only for a brief heartbeat. Despite the myriad advantages Swiltang was able to employ against him, he had not fallen, not physically at least. Swiltang was hundreds, if no thousands of years old, well trained, and well fed. Úrgarlach had not eaten in seven day, had spent the same amount of time chained to wall, and before today had never truly picked up a spear with the intention of fighting with it. Swiltang had taught him more than one lesson it would seem: in Mordor, press every single advantage you have, no matter how unnecessary it is to do so.

He turned is attention the spear. He sneered at it. It was a stupid weapon. How could he be expected to wield such an unwieldy weapon. It was naught but a stick with a pointy end. Sure enough, there are those in the host that could employ such a device, but he was not and likely would not be among them. For better or for worse, Úrgarlach decided that he hated the spear. Then again, maybe it wasn’t all spears he hated, maybe it was just this particular one. The point of the fiendish object had already been coated in his blood before the combat even began. It was bad luck to carry blade into battle that had already tasted your blood. Perhaps then, he mused, he had been the bearer of his own misfortune, knowing trying to wield a serpent that was more interested in him than his opponent.

He cast off these thoughts and looked straight forward. His limbs ached, his joints were stiff and screamed at him in protest with every minor movement down. His muscles threatened to spasm and contort beyond his control at the barest hint of weight. He felt like he was going to pass out, he could even see the black spots flash across his vision, crowding around the edges until his sight was full of flies. Yet he remained still, showing none of fatigue or consternation that plagued his exhausted mind.

“Should you let me live,” he began with a hint of sarcasm, “I had thought to join the infantry, but it seems that my spearcraft is not up to snuff. If it is all the same to you, Maugân, I would chose the assassins.”

[Winddancer]

Borfang and Mord
The Ring
Conscripts
Renown: 2

The sickening crunch of the skull imploding filled the air moments before the jubilant cries and the jeering ragefilled insults took over, the outcome of this fight definitely clear. Wiping away some of the brain matter from his face, Borfang stepped over the corpse of his opponent and headed straight for the giant mug of ale that was his reward, Mord already collecting his winnings and stuffing them away deep in his vest under the hatefilled gazes of those that had lost to him. Though they were still earning with these fights, their winnings were definitely decreasing as word got around. Downside to being as notorius as Borfang now was. But when it came to hand to hand combat, there really was no winning over him, his brute strength easily and quickly disposing of any and all opponents, even Uruks fell against him. He was also smart enough to not take on the challenges that involved weapons or animals, knowing that those fights were harder to win.

Shoving an orc back who did not like losing all his earnings, Mord stuffed the coins into his coin purse deep in his vest and turned to his partner, raising his own beer in a silent toast. This was likely the last fight for a while as tomorrow after dusk they were going on their first excursion. Having been here a week already, he knew it was time to get going before too many were ired by their loss of funds and thought to team up and take them out in a cowardly manner and he had therefore quickly volunteered them both for this mission, thinking it would allow for those who were angered to cool off.

"Where did you say we are going again?" Borfang grumbled, hating any kind of change.

"I already told you! A raiding mission! We are being sent out to cause some fear and chaos. Apparently we get to keep what we find, unless it is weapons. They want all the weapons. And the women, we get to keep those as well.." Mord leered wickedly at his partner, who frowned and instead chugged the last of the ale, letting out a mighty burp as he finished.

"What!? You don't want a woman!? We haven't had any for over a week now!"

"They will not be willing if we are raiding.." Borfang grumbled as he looked around for another ale.

"So!? That's the beauty of raiding, you just take what you want!" Slapping his large friend on the heavily muscled arm, Mord let out a leery chuckle as he gave his friend a look and a waggle of his eyebrows.

A flinch of disgust passed over Borfang's features, but he was luckily faced away from his partner and thereby avoided the insults and ridicule that look would have elicited. Not for the first time in knowing Mord did he want to do to him what he had just done to the stupid fool whos skull he had just crushed, his meaty fists clenching.

"Here! Drink up! We got a long trek ahead of us tomorrow!" Laughing Mord passed another ale to Borfang, who reluctantly took it and drank it in one gulp, tossing the mug aside, heading off to get cleaned up first.

"Don't you worry Borfang! I will make sure to find you a nice big fat woman you can romp around with!" Mord shot after his partner, missing the glare the large man sent his way as he turned back to continue drinking with the few croonies that always seemed to hang around Mord in hopes of free drinks.

[Hoglorfen]

Graznikh
1 renown

On the road towards Udûn

Graznikh could easily recall the last time he had been this angry, because the higher ups seemed bent on pissing him off at every turn lately. Now they had yanked him up by the neck hairs and sent him packing to the Teeth for a, as they called it, 'training assignment'. Training? He? This had to be a set up, and whoever had tripped him would answer to his knives once he returned. But for now he had no choice; when the Tower commanded, you obeyed, there was no way around it unless you were willing to take a lashing and more.

The troop had been marching hard throughout the night. Once they reached the gate at Isenmouthe, the grunts were given a brief rest while the taskmaster worked out some detail or other with the guard. Graznikh took the opportunity to grab the gorget of the soldier behind him and pull him close. "Keep trodding on my heels and I'll be using your tongue to clean my boots when we stop next! Without your head attached!"
"Then march faster so your dainty little heels don't get chafed!"
That would have been enough to start a proper fight; both Orcs began to snarl and shove each other to test the other's strength before the first blow.
"Oi!! Break it up and get a move on; we march!" A few cracks of the Uruk's whip over his head and the shoving of the other soldiers was enough to make Graznikh swallow his fury for now. I can wait, he thought. After all, he has to sleep at some point.

Orc-holds

In through the Isenmouthe they marched, then they turned right and followed one of the many paths up the mountainside until a large cave opening became visible around a bend. Here the path sloped down into the Orc-holds where they would get their lodgings.
"This here cavern's where you'll stay," the taskmaster barked. "And I'll have none of your bickering tonight! This isn't Morgai where you lot can run willynilly as you please!" Then he looked around. Graznikh crouched near the entrance and waited patiently for him to take note. The sulphur-like yellow eyes narrowed as they tried to focus on him. "You there. Get over here!"
He stood and took the time to stretch before sauntering over. "Aye? Out with it."
"Don't get cute with me. You're to report to the War Room, so hop to it! Further orders await you there."
"Of course they do. It's not like I take orders from you, you Top Ones' lickspittle!"

The Uruk looked like he was going to have an apoplectic fit. Graznikh suppressed a grin; fielding the subsequent lambasting was almost exhilarating after the monotony of the road, even more so because he knew that he was in the right and the threats were toothless.

[Winddancer]

Borfang and Mord
Inside the Gates
Conscripts
Renown: 3

It had annoyed Mord to no end that their departure had been delayed until the evening as half their raiding party now consisted of orcs. Why were they even taking the stupid things if they couldn't move during the day he grumbled for umpteenth time to Borfang, who yet again ignored him. Patience was definitely not a virtue of his, but then he did not have many virtues, if any at all.

He had been pacing around the area where they had been waiting since morning, constantly returning to where Borfang sat calmly sharpening the edge of his axe. Of course there was no point in sharpening the edge of his huge mace, it lying on the ground next to him. The axe he would keep strapped to his back when they set off. Unlike Mord, Borfang was not looking forward to this mission, his partner's words still ringing in his head. He had done many despicable things, most of them since he joined up with Mord, but they had never forced themselves on women. At least not that he knew of. He was pretty sure all the women they had, had been paid prostitutes. Though he had left the payment to Mord as he was the one that took care of their finances. His thick brows knit tightly and the strokes of the whetstone became more angry as he began to doubt whether or not Mord had actually paid them. While he never noticed any angry complaints when they left a place, that did not mean there weren't any. Afterall Mord often used Borfang's physique to silence complaints.

Brows still knitted tightly together, Borfang shot Mord a glare as the wiry man yet again stalked past, still grumbling about having to wait. All any of them had been told was that it was a raiding party, needing to sow some dissent and create some fear and chaos. Though it was also a for reconnaissance to see how well equipped and how quickly the smaller villages could muster. The actual orders kept changing. First they were to collect all weapons, then it included bringing back slaves. All old and infirm were to be destroyed. And then they were to be left alive as apparently that would then tax the nearby villages when they sought refuge. Whatever it ended up being before they left, Borfang knew there was going to be a lot of innocent blood spilled.

He was by no means an angel himself, he had definitely earned his reputation as a ruthless killer. Though more and more lately he found he tried avoid random killing and stuck with just killing those that were foolish enough to try and kill him. However working with Mord, that seemed almost impossible as he had a knack for finding the most gruesome and violent missions he could. Where Borfang only killed when he had to, Mord on the other hand loved killing. It did not matter if it was someone trying to kill them or just some innocent bystander, he lived for the thrill of taking someone's life. He was mostly a ranged killer, though at times he felt the need to see the light go out of his victims eyes or watch as they died in horrific agony of the poison he always coated his daggers with. The thought of being stuck with one of the daggers made him shiver, having seen even huge Uruks succumb to the poison. Once cut, you were as good as dead. And not a quick one..

A loud trumpet blare yanked Borfang out of his morose reverie, the sound of footfalls growing louder as a large group of orcs could be seen heading their way. "Finally" Mord cried out and grabbed his bedroll and slung it over one shoulder. Quiver full and bow slung across his back, he was already ready to head out. With a sigh Borfang strapped his axe to his back and picked up the huge mace and rested it over one shoulder. He did not bring any comforts, other than a long cloak made especially for his hulking frame, one he would remove before the fighting began so that it could not be used to hinder him.

OOC ALL: Feel free to join! Don't have much planned other than raiding either a smallish Gondorian or Rohirric village. Lots of killing and enslaving though! Will be doing this in the free rp thread: The Lands of Shadow. You will earn renown for posts! Also let me know if you want to rp the other side!

[Lady of Shadow]

Naelia
Inside the Gates
Renown: 1

Naelia often thought of rejoining Mordor's Army, but didn't think this was the time to do it, but once she heard that a bunch of minions were getting together to raid a couple of villages in Gondor and Rohan, she thought that she might as well take part. After all, it may give her the incentive to want to enlist again. "I just have to remember not to take on too many responsibilities." the minioness thought to herself as she viewed the minions that have already answered the call (or heard word, such as Naelia had) and were already gathering outside the gates. Naelia noticed that there were many Orcs there, and wished she could have talked her very own Orcish helper, Orngor, to accompany her. Not that she needed protection or anything like that (though she might have at one time, but the minioness was trying to put those days behind her), but she was often confused as to why Orngor refused to enlist, even though it had been suggested to him many times over. True, one of his Orcish brethen managed to get himself killed during a previous raid, but when did any of Orcish origin cop out when there was a battle to be fought?

Orngor claimed he didn't want to enlist because unlike Naelia, who hailed from the Dark Tower of Barad-dur, he didn't have a "home base", since he often divided his time between the Dark Tower of Barad-dur, Minas Morgul, and more recently, the northern kingdom of Angmar, but Naelia just thought that was some sort of ruse as to why he really refused to enlist. "Is he afraid of being thrown out?" the minioness often wondered, since she herself had been thrown out a few times (mostly due to neglect, since Naelia had a habit of taking on too many responsibilities at once, which meant that one of her duties often got overlooked, and it just so happened to be her Army responsibilities, which she was trying to rectify with this mission), but she kept trying to improve each time she re-enlisted.

"Can I be of service?" the minioness began. "I know I haven't been exactly loyal to the Black Guard in the past, but I'm trying to rectify this." Naelia concluded, hoping she didn't sound too desperate. "I would have brought Orngor along with me, but he's busy elsewhere." which wasn't that far from the truth.

OOC: I can bring in Talina for Gondor, if need be (she's a Ranger in training).

[Moriel]

((Úrgarlach = Sarghêst now, for anyone watching!))

Swiltang
Maugân

Smithy/Ring Area

Though pain, frustration, and exhaustion clouded Sarghêst’s eyes, there was still a glimmer of fire, even intelligence, in his countenance. The last was an uncommon trait among the legions of orcs over whom Swiltang ruled. Not that orcs were, as a general rule, stupid- they were simply bred to obey and be expended, and a high degree of critical thinking was not required of the majority. Sarghêst had not exhibited much skill, but he had displayed reasoning superior to many of his fellows. Skill could be taught. Potential could not. And one of Swiltang’s duties as Maugân was identifying those with potential from among the general fodder, for they could be useful to the Eye in days to come. “You would not be speaking if I had not decided to let you live,” the twisted swordmaster’s response was equally wry, as he thumped the butt of the spear down onto the hard ground. This application of force caused the weapon to bounce into the air, and Swiltang caught it, whipping it swiftly to shoulder height, before snapping his arm forward to launch it at Sarghêst. As it had prior to his trial, the spear stuck, quivering, in the ground at the orc’s feet. “And you will have to improve with the spear if you wish to rise through the Kambasor. I grant you the rank of Sharbtur, and remember that you are just that- a servant to the Dark Lord. Draw a sword from the armory. There is a raiding party setting out from the gates on the morrow. You will join them, and should you return, we may have further use of you.”

[The Good Hunter]

Sarghêst
Sharbtur of the Kambasor (18 Renown)
The Smithy Area / The Gates

Sarghêst breathed a heavy sigh of relief but remained silent. It was done. He was in. The goal he had set for himself had been achieved. Other than a sense of belonging though, the orc felt no different than he had a moment again, no less exhausted, no less drained, no less hungry or thirsty. He saluted the Maugân and made his exit. He could feel his strength ebbing from him with every step he took but he remained upright, pressing his shoulders back so that he walked as tall as he could.

“Sharbtur,” he said aloud as soon as he was alone, letting the word roll off his lips like honeyed wine. It didn’t have the greatest of flavors, this wine, but it was better than the bitter, sour dregs he had been forced to endure for most of his life. The word tasted like a beginning, like a foundation. He would not remain in this rank for long, he assured himself. It would only be a matter of time.

A wicked smile formed at the corners of his lips. His incisors peaked over his gums like razor sharp tusks. Absently, he rubbed the corner of his mouth. He’d managed to keep all his teeth through his torture and through Maugân’s test. He spat out a globule of blood. It landed with a hard thunk. He closed his pale eyes, savoring the small moment before he moved off. His first task, as the commander had said, was to get a sword and get ready for a raid tomorrow. He would have preferred rest, but this would be an opportunity to show off exactly how capable he was.

He made his way through darkened, mold encrusted tunnels until he came to the barracks he had been assigned previously. The activity was like a kicked ant hive: troops came in and out, marching to the shouts of drill sergeants and officers, roving groups of orcs looked Sarghêst up and down appraisingly, but each time they moved on. He wasn’t going to be a part of their little gangs and they could see it in his eyes. He was making enemies in here hand over fist, he knew. A refusal to join in with any of the gangs would mark him as prey for all of them. He welcomed a shot to prove to all of them they were his prey, not the other way around.

“If some animals are good at hunting and others are suitable for hunting, then the Eye must clearly smile on hunting,” he said to himself, staring down a trio of limber, sinewy, but smaller orcs. Their leader looked like he was about to start a scuffle with Sarghêst, but realized to his peril, that he was the only one of them stepping forward. He spat, snarled and turned away.

“You’re lucky, scum. I’ve got better things to do than paint to floor a new shade of red.” He and his fellows hurried off.

Sarghêst breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been bluffing. He was still in so much pain that it would not have taken more than a few blows to knock him over. He snorted a laugh. If he was this intimidating to these coal biting lay abouts in his current state, he would dominate them when he was at his full strength.

He landed hard on his cot, nothing more than rotting animal hide stretched over a large, smooth stone. It was hard and uncomfortable, but in that moment he didn’t care. Rest came quickly to him. He closed his eyes and opened them an hour or so later. He didn’t remember falling asleep, or dreaming, but he felt more refreshed.

Not wasting time, the orc changed out of his bloody, ripping clothes, and made his way to the armory where he was fitting with the bits and pieces of armor. There were a dozen or so different styles represented from breastplate to greaves to pauldrons but at least it fit. He could scavenge some better material on the raid and make a better fitting, more cohesive suit when he returned. What he really needed was a sword.

There were dozens of styles and scores of blades in various states of decay and disrepair. Sarghêst tested them all, moving through several different guard positions, thrusting, swinging, and stabbing the empty air. Ultimately, he found a sword with just a few spots of rust near the top of the blade, a massive two-handed thing with a broad fuller cross section. The blade itself was not overly wide, barely wider than the grip (bound in leather that was beginning to rot away). On short notice, it was a good blade.

He found a scabbard that fit it and made his way to the mess hall where he ate something that looked like it could have been stew. It reeked something foul. There was a thick greasy film that covered the top. He ate it quickly so as not to taste whatever it was, then made his trek to the gates.

“I assume this is the place we’re meeting for the raid?”

[Winddancer]

Borfang and Mord
Inside the Gates
Conscripts
Renown: 4

Mord stopped in his tracks as he saw the woman approach him. A woman? In the Army? A goodlooking woman? In the Army? A slimy sneer lifted his lips as he openly and rudely ogled Naelia. "Be of service? Well I am sure a pretty little thing like you can service us!" He chuckled out harshly, turning to those around him, who immediately joined in.

"So, how would you like to service us then? One at a time or all at once?" Again he turned to those next to him, sniggering rudely as he elbowed the one next to him knowingly. Several of the men shared Mord's disgusting disposition and moved in closer in hopes of getting in on some of the action as well, though Borfang growled and remained in the background with a disgusted grimace on his face.

"You can service this!" One of the men said as he cupped his crotch lewdly while aiming at Naelia and sending the gathered men into a raucous laughter.

"ENOUGH!! GET BACK IN LINE AND MOVE OUT!"

The voice boomed through the group, several of the men looking up in surprise tinged with a healthy dose of fear. The huge Uruk stalked over to the gathered men and eyeballed them all, daring each one of them to disobey his order.

"GET. IN. LINE!"

Scrambling the men moved away from Naelia and did as they were ordered, though Mord shot the Uruk an evil eye for the disruption, giving Naelia another lewd look before he slid into his spot. There would be a stop at some point. He would make sure to visit her then.

“I assume this is the place we’re meeting for the raid?”

"Aren't you the clever one?!" The Uruk bellowed, his patience ending. "Get in line or suffer the whip!"

Stalking off the Uruk yelled out "MOVE OUT YOU FILTHY MAGGOTS!" briefly eyeing Borfang and his massive hulking form before sending the whip cracking into the group to get them moving.

@Lady of Shadow ooc: I tried to find you on discord to ask you first, but couldnt see you there?? If their reaction to you is too much, then let me know and I will remove it! If you are ok with it, feel feel to kick the shire out of them (you are even welcome to kill the really offensive one) or just ignore them. If you have any questions or want me to remove/change something feel free to use the OOC thread or find me on discord #Tanae9119 <3

[Lady of Shadow]

Naelia
Inside the Gates
Renown: 2

It didn't surprise Naelia how some of the men in the army responded to her, since this wasn't the first time she was ridiculed (though it may have been one of the first times within her native homeland that she could recall). She may be the daughter of one of Barad-dur's greatest lieutenant's and highly respected by those that knew her, but every once in a while, one tried to mock her, especially if she was the only female member that answered the call to a particular raid.

Going over to the worst of the scum, she grabbed him by the throat and threatened him: "Watch who you insult, you scum, or else I'll have you fed as food or fodder to one of the Fell Beasts, or even my pet dragon, who goes by the name of Drinch, that I often like to use in interrogations when prisoners don't tell me what I want to hear. I even tortured my very own half-sister that goes by the name of Lathana, that is now living the rest of her born days in the Pits! You have my permission to make her life miserable, but you don't want to get on my bad side, since the last person that did that came to a very bad end!" the minioness sneered at him before throwing him back down next to his companion. "Does anybody else have a problem with me being the only female minion to answer the call?" Naelia challenged, putting on the face she liked to wear when she was interrogating prisoners, which even caused some minions to shudder, and she hoped the same would be the case here. She would have gave them more of a lecture, but didn't think the minions that were trying to give her a hard time were worth the effort.

Deciding to ignore any more ridicule directed towards her, the minioness got in line with the others, but made sure she put quite a bit of distance between herself and the minions that thought that they could get away with making her life more miserable than it was already. If word got back to her father about what they were doing, they would possibly be getting a talking to anyways, so that was another reason that Naelia wanted to keep her response to their reaction to her presence at a minimum, since the last time that happened, those that were responsible were probably dealt with in a similar fashion as to what happened to her mother (who was later killed for her misdeeds). If the minioness wanted to pick a fight with someone, she would simply torment Lathana further, since at least that's something she enjoys doing, which proves to that nuisance Elven half-sister of hers that she should have been allowed to stay in Northern Mirkwood rather than being sent to live with her only surviving family member (that she knew of, at least) in the Land of Shadow (which would only end up getting herself killed or captured, especially if she tried to escape, which is exactly what happened).

OOC: I'm not on Discord (since I rarely use any kind of messaging service on any email service, so I don't see the point of joining up. I kind of wish we had PM service on the NuPlaza, since I'm more familiar with that), so feel free to tag me in the OOC thread. Don't worry about any of your characters not treating Naelia the way she might expect, since this isn't the first time that someone has tried to make her life miserable (the "rogue" Elves as she likes to call them in Northern Mirkwood come to mind). Last time I enlisted in the Army, there were a few more female minions, so they were probably targeted instead of mine, so let's see how Naelia deals with this kind of discrimination (which she hasn't had to deal with much, often coming late to the party, due to the fact that she often takes on too many responsibilities at once).

[Winddancer]

Borfang and Mord
Several long horrible miles away from the Gates
Conscripts
Renown: 5

"Garrrgh!" Belak gurgled as the grip around his throat was tightened. His hand instinctively went to grab at the arm that held him, his eyes bulging as his breathing was cut off. His face began to take on a blueish tint as the woman before him yelled in his face, panic beginning to rise in his mind as he slowly began to realise he was being strangled. However before he could lash or kick out to free himself, he was shoved backwards into one of the other men who had been standing around watching this go down and both of them stumbled to the ground.

Sneering at the woman angrily, he hissed out a venemous curse at her retreating form, though for some reason kept it quiet enough that she would not hear. Slapping away the offered hand and staring down the men that were left laughing at the two who had been taken down by a woman, he angrily moved into the line and started marching. His narrowed eyes were locked to the woman who was a few bodies ahead of him and he hissed out under his breath "I will make you pay for that.." as he ducked the incoming whip, barely avoiding having the thick leather rip his face open.

A small grin played on Borfang's lips, quite satisfied with how the woman had stood up for herself, though quickly hid it as Mord stalked over and began to rant under his breath as well. Mord only spoke loud enough for Borfang to hear, but the human giant was ignoring the rant. "We will see how able she is to defend herself when there is not an Uruk with a whip to aid her!" Borfang rolled his eyes at the comment, knowing the Uruk had nothing to do with it, though also knowing Mord he was not going to let this go. Sighing softly, he rubbed at his temple and for not the first time wished he had never met Mord.

The large group of men and orcs moved at a frantic pace, harrowed forward unrelentingly by the Uruk with the whip. The pace was enough to steal any residule anger from those that still harboured it and left most of them huffing and puffing as they struggled to keep up. It felt like years to Mord before the call for rest was finally made and with an exhausted sigh he dropped down and leaned against a large rock as he tried to catch his breath. Borfang, despite his large body, seemed unperturbed by the rigorous pace and found a spot a litte away from Mord, knowing Mord would just follow him eventually if he went too far. He left the cave they had reached to the orcs, knowing they would need the shelter from the rising sun and instead took off his cloak and laid it on the ground.

For some the rest was not imminent as the whip-wielding Uruk pointed out several to set up campfires and start making dinner, though as he reached Borfang he stepped past the huge man with nothing but a sneer. They were still far enough away from any settlements that the fires would not attract attention, though this was going to be the only night they would be getting a hot meal as another march like the one today would quickly bring them to the borders where the settlements were scattered around.

As the meal was finally prepared, Borfang got his bowl before returning to his chosen spot, that the other men had steered clear of. Of course at the insistance of a glare. It only took three huge mouthfulls before Borfang had emptied his bowl and with a loud belch he lay down on the cloak, one huge arm slung over his face to hide the sun from his eyes.

"Where is that witch?" Borfang did not stir at the whispered words, pretending to be asleep and hoping Mord would leave him be.

[The Black Serpent]

Hidraugur - Shadow Ghost - 30 Renown
Draugan Nuruhuine
Training Area

Draugan grasped his composite bow as he strode towards the training area. His face wore a neutral expression, although it may be due to not wanting the disgusting ash-laden air. As he walked resolutely towards the training area, his light leather armour swayed slightly with the movement, as did the various pouches containing all the things he felt necessary to teach the new "maggots" the art of assassination and stealth.

He was told by Maugan to train some new recruits in the art of marksmanship. He was deemed worthy enough to teach the "maggots", as the Maugan put it nicely. Indeed, Draugan's skills with the bow were not to be trifled at, nor his skills in moving about unnoticed. His knowledge of various poisons, and survival in the wild was strong as well.

As he entered the training fields, the dust and heat of Mordor hit him. Sure, he came to Mordor years back, yet he still remained an elf, although a corrupted elf. Even though he was mentally indifferent to the air he was breathing in, yet it was still smoke, ash and dust. His elven physiognomy still revolted at them. As he walked swiftly now, the various sounds of training increased to a crescendo. Beings like orcs, goblins and even some trolls were in some form of training or another. Some were working with bows and arrows, their marks either falling wide lifelessly away from the mark, while some did hit the mark perfectly. Others were training with variously bladed weapons. Others yet were busy murdering each other, even though the training was for unarmed combat.

Sure enough, he found his group: a mix of swarthy goblins and broad-shouldered orcs.

Draugan took one look at the group and sighed. That one look was enough to tell him how much experience they had. If some of them had a thread of prior knowledge, they just might survive. If they fall behind, only death is the reward. And the Mordor is never short of recruits.

[Troygan]

Mauren - Shadowhand - 1 Renown
Carchost

At the discretion of his Mother, Mauren sought to train to hone his skills as a scout. Uthurg, is orc companion by default escorted him into to the main door. Uthurg knocked thrice on the door and two large uruks greeted him.

"He is here!" Uthurg glanced aside, revealing the young Proclaimer behind him, dressed in his cloak. The boy looked upward to the meet the gaze of the tall, broad black uruks, who stared at him with grimace while the boy's face lacked any sort of definitive emotion. "Is this Galuren's lad?" One of the big orcs asked "Aye" Uthurg answered "His mother, Morlreth gave the pardon to let him come here." "To train?!" one of the big orcs questioned "He's a midge, he looks like he can barely hold his own against sprite, not much moreso." Mauren nudges Uthurg a side and answered with a stern but calm voice "If it doesn't look like I can fight then why do you think I came all this way here?

One of the orcs suddenly was tempted to engage the boy physically, gripping an axe by his side. Mauren focused his gaze on the large orcs still, and Uthurg stood wincing his eyes between them.

Mauren swayed back his hair under his cloak. "Not that I can't fight of course, but it it would do me wonders to improve."

The two big orcs glanced at each other... then sure enough they gave Mauren his way.

[The Black Serpent]

Hidraugur - Shadow Ghost - 31 Renown
Draugan Nuruhuine
Training Area with Mauren @Troygan

"So you lot want to become assassins. You want to be one that strikes from the shadows unseen, one who moves unseen. You want to be the elite of the Army. For that, you'll need a whole lot of discipline, courage, savagery, stealth and some luck. For that, you maggot" he turned on one of the orcs "you need to stop picking your nose when I talk. Am I clear?"

There was some mumbling amongst the group. Sometimes, orcs and trolls need to be shouted at a bit to be heard and understood. Without that happening, they just shift around nervously, or pace impatiently like beasts, or just stand there mumbling to themselves.

Draugan raised his voice, understanding this.

"Today you'll learn discipline…the hard way. If you learn the lesson, you can escape with your slimy hides. Not learn the lesson, and you may not."

This was when a boy came up to him and saluted him curtly.

"My name is Mauren. I want to join the training."

Draugan took a brief glance at him and nodded. Well, this one was just a boy, but if the higher-ups have picked him to be trained, he'll have no truck with their decision.

"Now then, let your first lesson begin. You must learn Discipline, no matter in which branch of the army you are in. I have in my hand a bow and arrow. I will shoot it straight up at an angle, and it will come down to you. If you run too early, you fail the test. If you stay too late you may die. But if you obey my command to know exactly when to move away, you'll pass. Because when you are an assassin, you need to know when to keep still, and when to move at a moment's notice."

With a smirk on his face, the elf said "Now, let the games begin. Come forward one by one!"

[Troygan]

Mauren and Uthurg
Training Area with Draugan @Draugän Nuruhuinë

After having presented himself, Mauren watched Draugän as he addressed his lesson, eying his bow and arrow. He knew he had to time it just right if he wanted to pass.

Mauren was the first to volunteer, making himself known he flung back his cloak revealing a mop of dark raven hair, some of which covered his left eye. "I'll go!" the boy said; and sure enough he stood front and center before the rest.

Some of the orcs laughed, perplexed at the boy's tenacity. "Oi! What's his deal? Who is this Morgul brat?" someone asked to which Uthurg replied "That's Mauren, son of Galuren! I knew his father." Another orc asked "Was his pa a black captain?" Just the same!" Uthurg replied. "His mother Morlreth was the one who pardoned him to train here." That little fool is gonna get himself killed!" One orc said "Mordor is no place for morgul rats, not much less a human child." Mauren can look out for himself just fine!" Uthurg grunted "He's the Proclaimer, the heir to his father's sword." Which he will have to earn... if he can!" One orc added.

Mauren stood front and center, his eyes fixed on the elf and his bow, never heading the commentary of the orc grunts in the background. "I'm ready!"

[The Good Hunter]

The Kvitrafn
Along the Morannon

Author Note: while I’ve designed this little arc to be a solo mission for Sarghêst and Zuriaake, I would welcome anyone else’s involvement. There’s not much in the way of formal structure in the army anymore so I’m just giving myself a mission to carry out to give my army boys something to do.

He was up before the reveille. He’d left the barracks, crowded and smelling of piss and body odor, and ate his meal of fried sausage (don’t ask where the meat came from), fish heads, and Núrnen rice in the mess hall before the rest of the idiots arrived. It was nice and quiet. Aside from the occasional squawking of crows and vultures fighting over the carcasses of failed soldiers, stone grinding grumblings of trolls, and the sounds of duels being fought here and there (but sanctioned and unsanctioned), the whole of the Morannon was silent. At first, having been bombarded with the sound and fury that signified nothing, this tale told by an idiot was overwhelming. The silence felt unnatural and alien. Sarghêst grew up in the bleak silences of the Dead Marshes, but when he came south to enlist, he had been forced to content with the eternally cacophonous miasma of sounds of Udûn. The silences in the early morning were palpable things. He felt as though he could touch the silence as it clung to stone and metal and wood.

He rubbed his fingers together. His skin was dry and cracking. The heat of Mordor was a rumor in the Dead Marshes, an exaggeratory expression used to convey something unbelievable. It was not unbelievable anymore. Mordor was taking some time adjust to. Sarghêst was not enjoying the growing pains. Yet he was still making his way through the ranks. Monotonous exercises and training demonstrations filled most of his days and avoiding the too close company of his fellows filled his nights. Despite knowing what he was supposed to be doing here, learning from the very best, he felt more and more that he was wasting his time. It was impossible to rise to a station of real importance here. There was turn over yes, dozens and dozens died every day in fact, but moving up to a position that would afford him authority and notice was still out of his grasp. How long had he been here now? It felt as if he’d been stuck like a fish in a barrel for over a year. He was getting tired of this.

Volcanic thunder boomed overhead; the sky filled with an orange light that spread like a pool of blood across the skiey vastness. A burst of heat flew by Sarghêst like the waves of heat from an open oven. It lasted just long enough to become very uncomfortable. He took a deep breath, breathing the bellicose vapors. He coughed. He wasn’t sure if this ritual was actually doing him any good. Each time the volcano sent off a wave of heat, he tried to breath it in, hold onto the power of the volcano as long as he could. He assumed that, over time, he would be able to hold more and longer. Thus far he only felt like he was breathing in an inordinate amount of ash.

The heat passed. Sarghêst listened to the horns blast, signaling the start of a new day. He sighed and leaned against the stone parapet. He took a small booklet from a hidden breast pocket on his shirt. It was a book of poetry, or an attempt at that at least. He was not a very good wordsmith, not when he compared his writing against those of the books he and his brother had found. Rhetoric and poetry and epic descriptions of morality and strength of will. His own attempts paled in comparison. Still, writing down his thoughts cleared his mind of clutter.

He was about to set pen to paper when the sound of iron shod footsteps came up behind him. Hastily, he put away his literary endeavors and turned. It was Zuriaake. There were not many female orcs within the Black Host. Whether it was a design flaw or a feature he wasn’t sure yet. Zuriaake was one of the few. She was hard, sadistic, manipulative, and sneaky. One would be hard pressed to find a more seasoned killer than her, despite her age. She was surgical with her violence. She was wicked and intelligent.

“Sarghêst,” she said, not looking at him but at the great red clouds moving north above them.

“Zuriaake,” he responded in kind.

“What is it you do up here every morning? What is it you find in the great red clouds of ash that assail you?”

He took a deep breath. What on earth was she up to? Small talk? Didn’t exactly seem like her style. “I like watching the shapes the clouds take. It helps calm the nerves before the day begins. Helps me focus.”

They stood in silence for some time. Sarghêst began to absently touch his tusks, very conscious of the woman standing beside him. He saw she was wearing a sword at her hip. He had left his spear in the barracks. It was effective in battle but cumbersome outside it. He could feel his agitation grow the longer she was there, saying nothing. What was she doing? He started to grind his teeth. She was intruding on his private time, stealing what little time he could find to himself. And for what? What was the baggins playing at? He gripped the stone, felt its rough edges begin to cut into his flesh. He was about to burst, about to rage and scream at her when she finally spoke, still refusing to even look in his direction.

“I’ve been given command of the eighth legion. Their commander, foolish prick, got himself decapitated in their last mission. They lost their kvitrafn. I want you in the squad.”

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He hadn’t been assigned to a legion yet. He was hoping for the ninth, the legendary legion with a history that stretched back into the Second Age. It was unlikely he’d get in, but that had not stopped him from trying. At least, he’d thought, he would not be assigned to the eighth. They were as lackluster and disorganized as the ninth was orderly and disciplined. He let out his breath. His heart sank.

“Why do you want me?” was all he could manage to say.

“I’ve been watching your training. You had your ass handed to you the first few days, getting thrown in the pits then having to duel old Swiltang, but you managed to get your act together. You have more potential than most of these cockroaches.”

“Am I being punished?”

She laughed, a hard iron sound that didn’t jive well with the stern look on her face. “Maybe. Maybe. Either way. You and I are both being tasked with turning the legion around and making it at least appear respectable.”

“Great. I assume when we do, we’ll be given fell beasts to ride into battle?”

“From your lips to the Master’s ears. Your first mission, one I’m giving you personally, is to retrieve the kvitrafn. Can’t have a legion without it.”

He cracked his knuckles. “So where did the fools leave it?”

Renown: 19

[Romeran]

The Kvitrafn
Conscript Daethir with Sarghêst and Zuriaake
Along the Morannon
@Sorceress

In retrospect, Daethir was lucky he was alive. But that didn't make him any less irritated at his current situation. Daethir's hood was pulled up over his head so far that his face was practically a shadow, a shadow which reflected both his mood and the darkness of Mordor. He had only recently returned to Mordor itself and he already wanted to leave, why the Dark Lord preferred somewhere so wretchedly hot was beyond him. The heat of Harad paled in comparison and Daethir had found Harad pleasant. He grimaced as he marched up the Morannon.

Some upstart named Zuriaake had requested his presence on the Morannon that morning. Ordered his presence, Daethir mentally corrected himself. He had been busted all the way to conscript, after all, because the fiasco with the kvitrafn and the death of the eighth legion commander. Daethir hardly thought the failure was his fault but after one of the other legion officers argued about being busted to conscript and had been promptly executed, Daethir decided it was best to hold his tongue. Deathir hadn't met this Zuriaake and he wondered why she had chosen such a peculiar meeting spot and at such an irritatingly early hour. He had half a mind to reprimand the new commander for her presumptuousness, before he remembered, again, his current position.

And so, highly irritated but thankful to be alive and resigned to his fate, Daether marched up the Morannon in search of this Zuriaake. As if being instantly reduced from a diplomatic officer above the legion level to the lowest possible conscript below the legion wasn't sufficient punishment, Daethir was confident that whatever reason he was ordered here for it was likely some other form of torture. The heat of being here was practically enough abuse, he thought. Eventually, Daethir sighted two figures in the distance, he wondered if more than he were being requested -- ordered, he corrected again -- here.

"You must be the new commander of the eighth, Zuriaake" he said, sweeping up on the pair of orcs, his long cloak waving in the motion but his cowl remained in place. He soon realized that he had spoke as if he were in his former position, above the commander of a legion, he decided not to correct himself. Daethir stood an average height for a man and was of an average build. His dark black hair was flecked with grey and spilled out from his cowl. A short cropped beard covered most of the bottom half of his face and dark, deeply set, eyes, nearly black in color, peered out from beneath his hood. Due to the great size of his cloak, he bore no obvious weapons, but at his right hip he carried a simple but much used and razor sharp dagger, at his left hip an elaborate ancient looking short sword which Daethir carried but never used. He had a wicked recurve bow which he kept in his quarters -- wherever they were at the time -- but which he didn't carry here.

Daethir looked at the other orc who was standing there. He nodded at him. "Daethir." he said, both as introduction, as he had not met this particular orc, and to confirm to Zuriaake that it was him. His request for this meeting had come by runner as the commander hadn't deigned it worthy of her immediate presence. Having an orc runner order his presence was something that Deathir was sure was going to take a lot of getting used to. His only hope now was to perform whatever inane duty this Zuriaake was sure to demand and try to recover his old power and position.

Renown: 1

[The Good Hunter]

The Kvitrafn
Along the Morannon
(Open to All)

He was really hoping to work on his own; Sarghêst had learned during his length soft exile, that he worked quite well by himself. At the very least, he could rely on himself not to screw things up acting like a bloody lune and get himself killed. He’d left Hoopla in his kennel this morning and the warg was going to be staying there for the previously expressed purpose of keeping himself alive. The animal wasn’t quite up to “not acting a fool in the more dire of circumstances.” He didn’t need the animal yipping or bounding off toward the enemy because he thought they might have something for him to eat. Those hopes were dashed as soon as the human showed up. The man carried himself as if he were descended from kings and pissed gold. His shoulders slumped as the man ignored him first and began addressing Zuriaake. He listened in silence as the man spoke, eyeing him with a curious look. The way he spoke, too, enforced the uruk’s opinion that this man believed himself far above the two of them. The commander, if she was affected by the affronting man’s disrespect, didn’t show it. She watched him silently, her yellow eyes looking at him with no more interest than one might give a passing worm in the mud.

“I am,” she said, responding to his question with an even tone, a tone that made Sarghêst nervous. There were stories about the woman’s temper, about how it could flare up like a storm at sea. She looked deadly calm now, almost bored. He could feel the air around them all charged with electricity. “Welcome back to the eighth legion, Daethir. I hope your new stint with us ends less ignobly. So sorry about the loss of your position.” Sarghêst couldn’t help but smirk a little, the corner of his lip just barely teasing upward. “I’m sure you’ll be back in Âsh’s good graces in no time.” She gave him a perfunctory, almost dismissive nod.

Now it was Sarghêst’s turn to introduce himself. He wasn’t sure he wanted to though, looking at just how scrawny and weaselly the man looked, or at least he assumed he looked, being wrapped in a cloak and all. Cloaks were the fashion of the day, following the trend of the Nine. Sarghêst didn’t understand them, humans were odd creatures, but they seemed to be constructed for just that purpose, a feature rather than a flaw. The man gave his name, Daethir, and waited. What was he waiting for? Recognition? Sarghêst had never heard of him before, he was just one a hundred thousand blank faces that passed through the gates of the Morannon. Sarghêst didn’t pay attention to any of the deeds of the men and women of his barracks either, he didn’t engage in their bloviating stories about exaggerated deeds.

“Sarghêst,” he said at least, not extending a hand or bowing. He crossed his arms and nodded. He inhaled deeply, catching the scent of “breakfast” getting ready to be called. All of the sudden he wasn’t very hungry.

“Well,” Zuriaake said, feigning a poison smile. “It looks as though you two have some planning to get to. I won’t keep you.” She grabbed each of them by the shoulder and pulled them closer to her. She was wearing spiky iron nail guards and they dug into the flesh of Sarghêst’s shoulder. Her smile never changed as she looked from uruk to human and back. “I expect you two to get along and get my kvitrafn back,” she gave the man a very dark look before looking back to Sarghêst. “If you fail, it would go better for you if you ended up in the ends of your own blades. I will not accept failure from either of you. Understood? Get. My. Kvitfran. Back.” Her smile was sickly sweet as she released their shoulders. “Get going lads.”

Sarghêst rubbed his shoulder, grimacing. She left without another word, disappearing into the hubbub of the reveille’s calling. “Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more; or close the walls up with our dishonored dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes an orc, as modest stillness and brutality: but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the boar; so stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, you man, we have a standard to find. Get your things. I will meet you down at the gates once we’ve broken our fast. You know where to start looking, I assume?”

Renown: 23

[Romeran]

The Kvitrafn
Shadowhand Daethir
Along the Morannon
@Sorceress

The other orc did not appear to hold Daethir in particularly high regard, he noted. Although this was typical, in his experience, few orcs cared for Daethir's particular talents, and only a few thought them valuable. Orcs were a powerful but, essentially, blunt instrument with value in dealing death and intimidation. Daethir was more like a dagger, or better yet a plague, silent, unseen and unexpected, infecting a population and bringing them under the veil of the dark lord. While the armies of Lord Sauron had a large contingent of orcs and uruk-hai, and for good reason, there was a also a large contingent of men and men were less easy to sway into service than orcs, but there lay Daethir's talents. Talents that he expect this orc likely would little appreciate.

Zuriaake's remark made it clear to Deathir that he was being re-assigned to the Eighth officially, precarious though his position may be. He bowed his head slightly in a meager attempt at humility. She was clearly trying to get a rise out of him with those comments, and he felt sure that she would not hesitate to ensure that he was certainly not 'no time' before he was forgiven. The dark lord brooked no failure and it was a testament to Daethir's potential value that he was still alive at all. Daethir remained silent, not wishing to say anything lest he reveal is particular disdain of his current situation.

Sarghêst was the other orc's name, at least he knew that now, he supposed. He appeared to be one of the uruk-hai, which was not unusual in Mordor, for he was larger than an average orc. Daether regarded Sarghêst, he looked fairly typical for his kind, Daethir thought, assuming that he knew when to speak and when to hold his tongue, which was atypical for his kind who tended to think everything was resolved at the tip of the sword, then he would do fine for whatever inane task Zuriaake was about to unload on them.

Not more than a moment later did Zuriaake pull both of them in by the shoulder. Her nail guards dug into Daethir's flesh and he held back a grimace, he had learned not to show weakness among the uruk-hai. Apparently they had a lot of planning to do, about what, however was still a mystery and Daethir scowled despite the sharp nails digging into his shoulder even through his thick cloak. But there it was 'get my kvitrafn back' Daethir could have groaned if he wasn't disciplined enough to know the sort of lashing -- both physical and verbal -- he would likely have received for expressing his displeasure. The threat of death at the end came to no little surprise to Daethir, as if the mission itself were not close enough to suicide. No sooner had she spoken her last words than she left, even before either of them could reply. Daethir let out a nearly audible sigh and brushed off his shoulder, picking at the new strands on his cloak which the nails had cut, he muttered.

Daethir raised an eyebrow when Sarghêst spoke. What an eloquent orc, he thought, perhaps he would do much better than Daethir had anticipated, although such speech would likely not get a terribly warm reception amongst the barbarian hordes of Rhûn. "I see you stand like a warg in the slip, straining upon the start. The game's afoot, Sarghêst, Rhûn is our destination." With that, Daethir turned and his cloak spun behind him. His quarters were nearby and he brought only little, his pack with supplies and tools for writing and his bow in addition to the sword and dagger which he always carried. Daethir ate a little, although he was not hungry, he found that he was so rarely hungry these days. It was for these reasons that he was first to the gates below and he stood waiting darkly in the shadows for Sarghêst.

Renown: 5

[The Good Hunter]

The Kvitrafn
Along the Morannon
(Open to All, with Rome)

Just as he was turning to go, Sarghêst heard the man say something. He stopped and looked at him with a quizzical eye. He’d finished Sarghêst’s quote with suitable flourish. It was so rare to find someone here that knew how to read, let alone quote the works of the Black Bard at the drop of a hat. Had his misjudged this Daethir fellow? He squinted and twisted his mouth into a frown. No, no he hadn’t. There were more dimensions to him for sure, but he was still an ass of a human. He turned to go, moving counter to the crowd all heading toward the Mess Hall. He smirked as he did, like as not, he had surprised the human with his own quote. He did that with most people he met. Anyone who has an education beyond the rudimentary basics looked at him as if they’d seen a ghost when he quoted from the books he and his brother had stolen all those years ago. He was glad they were still working.

He received more than a few challenges and dirty looks as he oved against the grain. He wasn’t hungry and he didn’t feel like standing in line with a bunch of foul-smelling recruits looking to do anything to gain advancement. There were only two groups that did that sort of brutal ladder climbing, those at the bottom and those at the top. Those at the bottom were stupid enough to think it worked and were usually thinned out and turned into a tomorrow evening’s stew meat; those at the top want to lick the Dark Lord’s asshole and claimed they could do it better than all the rest. He was having none of it this morning. If he weren’t about to go on a mission, a potential suicide mission yes or a chance for Sarghêst of the Dead Marshes to show his quality, he would have broken a few snagas’ jaws or noses. Today, though, today he was focused. He could hear the outside world screaming at him and trying to rip at him and pull him off course, but it was nothing but a drone, a bit of background noise he could filter out and ignore. He returned to the barracks and gathered up his things. He thought about leaving his notebook behind, a journal of his thoughts and observations, musing on the life he was living and how he was going to change things, but as he flipped through it, he realized what a bad idea it was. As soon as he was gone, his things would be rifled through and any idiot with half a brain would be able to use this against him. “It shows dangerous independent thinking and malicious, subversive intent” he could already hear them say. There was no practical use for it, but into his pack it went. He took flint and tinder, hempen rope (something rare in Mordor it seemed), climbing pitons, a water skin (made from the hide of an alligator he’d killed, cleaned, and tanned), and a bedroll. The mission should, all things going well, only last a week. He stood at the fore of his bed and scratched his beard. He was sure there was something missing, but time and tide wait for no uruk. He left the barracks and made his way to the armory. Zuriaake had already been there, and a spear was waiting for him, a decent spear too, not one of the raided castoffs or stolen booty. The shaft was light and tough, made of a wood he couldn’t identify right away, the blade was newly forged steel, sharp and black, it reflected his solemn look as he took it from the administrative orc. He tested it with a few thrusts, switching hand grips from narrow to wide, testing the balance of wood and steel. It was good. It would serve his purpose just fine.

Finally, he stopped by the Mess Hall once many of the orcs and other miscreants had cleared out. It seemed almost deserted. A few were still at tables, boisterously yelling, recounting details of deeds they most certainly hadn’t done, and drinking as much grog as they could and as fast. Sarghêst forwent the grog. It wasn’t time for that this early in the morning, not with what he was going to do. He did fill his waterskin. The water was suspect and smelled like there was something more than water in it but growing up in the swamps had given him an iron gut. Five days of rations. Zuriaake had made sure there was enough for him and the human, Daethir. Only five days. They were going to have to a spot of hunting or scavenging. It was a less than subtle message from the commander, they had five days and that was it, any more and they’d be assumed to have deserted. He loaded up the rations and ate a small breakfast. He wasn’t hungry now, but he would be in a few hours and he wanted to make good time to wherever it was Daethir had lost the kvitrafn. His stomach accepted the food but it was tasteless and boring, he had to consciously sit and chew rather than just shove it all in and leave. Hastiness was not going to make him any better at this mission. The mysterious stew with bits of meat, oats, and root vegetables was suspect, it would have gone down much better with a mug of wee heavy, but circumstances were what they were. Some bacon would have been nice too. Alas!

He finished and made his way back to the gates. Daethir had better be here, Sarghêst was ready. His fingers twitched with potential energy and his legs were warm and restless. It had been along time since he’d had a good run, since he enlisted in the army and got thrown into the pits for attacking an officer. He smiled grimly. How things had changed. “Once more unto the breach,” he repeated, mumbling to himself.

Renown: 25
<Frost Edit: Fixed Renown count>

[Romeran]

The Kvitrafn
Shadowhand Daethir
At the gates of the Morannon
@Sorceress

The crowd of orcs that plowed away from the mess hall had thinned now and Daethir stood re-organizing the gear in his pack. His cloak doubled as a blanket but he brought an oilcloth tarp which doubled as a rain cloak if necessary. He rolled this around his bedroll and had it attached to the outside of the pack. A tinderbox and whetstone which he wrapped in some leather cord, he kept had tucked those into a pocket in the front. He put a metal canteen of water with a metal cup on top, both of which could be used to boil water, at the bottom of his pack and his notebook and writing instruments in the middle in case the bag got wet. A small metal knife and fork, he wasn't an animal after all, slipped neatly down the side. On top he put a small bag of rations of mostly hard cheese and dried fruit, neither of which he found were terribly popular in Mordor and so he had to seek them elsewhere. Daethir had alternated between putting the food or the water on top before deciding he would rather not squish the food too much and so kept it on top.

By the time Sarghêst came towards the gate, Daethir was done packing and re-packing his gear. He nodded at Sarghêst "I suppose I ought to tell you where we're going" Daethir said with a grin.

"Rhûn is a large place, as I'm sure you are aware" he continued, possibly presuming about the uruk's geography however he had recently quoted literature to him so Daethir considered it wise not to assume too little of this particular orc. "We make for the Sea of Rhûn, the North Eastern bank so it may be fruitful for us to travel by boat when we get there" he said, looking at the orc as if to say 'I hope you don't have a problem with boats'.

"There are a people there, Easterlings of course, but they refused the call of Mordor" he paused to emphasize the point "They are a particularly wicked people in the North for violence and warfare across the northern coasts of the sea are ceaseless. Underestimating them was the mistake of the last commander" he looked again at Sarghêst pausing to emphasize the point "for thinking he could intimidate them into servitude, and for that arrogance, he lost his head" Daethir said this last bit almost with glee, as if he had recommended that such an approach not be pursued and that his counsel had completely and irresponsibly been ignored. It's possible Daethir could have argued his point more forcefully and it's also possible that Daethir didn't particularly like said commander. Daethir hadn't expected that final outcome however including his subsequent demotion and for that he would ever be more cautious with his manipulations.

"While our primary mission, as stated, is to recover the kvitrafn, which in and of itself would be a small miracle, we may take as implied task of succeeding where the former commander failed: convincing the northern clans to bend the knee to the Dark Lord" it was unlikely that they would be able to achieve this task. But if they could do so, their gain in renown and prestige would be all the greater, and selfishly Daethir wished to redeem himself for his failures before they had been unceremoniously, and forcibly, removed before Deathir he could even meet the clan leaders. Deathir had little in the way of coin on his person, not nearly enough to bribe them in to being mercenaries, so they would have to settle on the promise of gold, a brilliant persuasion, or something else.

"And so this is why Zuriaake sends only few, because then we cannot use threat of violence to subdue them" he explained, "she is quite smart that one" Daethir seemed genuine with his complement, an unusual thing for the Easterling. "But do not wish for another" he said with a grin and continued "If we are marked to die, we are enough to do Mordor loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honour. Zigûr's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more."

Renown: 7

[The Good Hunter]

The Kvitrafn
Along the Morannon
(Open to All, with Rome)

Patiently, at least on the face of it, Sarghêst listened as Daethir outlined what he thought the plan should be, along with all the tasks he thought needed to be involved. He wasn't an idiot, Sarghêst could give him that. He might be an arrogant son of a bitc.h, but then again who wasn’t? Arrogance got people far, but it wasn’t the only way to get things done. People didn’t trust arrogance, and Sarghêst didn’t trust Daethir. While they occupied different career paths, there was something about the man, Númenórean presumably, that made the uruk’s skin crawl; he had the look of a man that would sell off a child to three different parents then watch them tear one another apart, only to take the child to the next three people and do the same all over again. There was far more to the events leading to the previous commander’s death than he was telling. He was dismissive of the old commander, belittling, and flippant. From everything Sarghêst had heard about the uruk, he’d been unremarkable at best, and dangerously inept at worst. He suspected the truth was somewhere in the middle. The men, orcs, and trolls of the eighth were disorganized and chaotic, whether that was a symptom of the commander, or their own foolishness remained to be seen. Sarghêst had never spoken with them, not wanting to associate himself with soldiers with ill concocted reputations. And yet, here he was. “I’m from the Dead Marshes, Daethir. I know more about boats that you and your prissy types will ever understand.” He smirked. The comment about the boats aside, the plan did seem sound.

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men / Gang aft agley / An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain / For promis’d joy he thought grimly. Sometimes the poets were a little too close to the mark on when the described the conditions of living. He wondered absently if they knew something more than he did. Probably. Otherwise, he’d be living in peace and quiet, not slumming through Mordor with the dregs of the army and associating with a man with no reputation whatsoever. There was nothing more dangerous than a man about whom no rumors swirled.

“The Sea of Rhûn, you say?” the uruk narrowed his eyes at the man, “and a tribe of Easterlings? Did the commander, and you by extension, have any idea which particular tribe it was? They’re vast and varied in the lands out to the east, and none of them like being mistaken for one another. The same as you getting conflated with a Dúnedain ranger. Insulting, no?” Sarghêst did smile a little at that. In his experience, Númenóreans from Umbar hated being confused for their distant cousins and adding a little dig at Daethir at the same time didn’t hurt matters. He suspected that the man did, in fact, know which tribe they were trying to communicate with, especially with the amount of detail he was giving. Did he give the same to the old commander? Did Zuriaake know as well? Sarghêst hated feeling like he was out of the loop. If there was something he ought to know, he better bloody well know it! Was this some sort of test? Zuriaake wasn’t known for mind games, but rumors and reality are oft not good bedfellows.

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,” Sarghêst echoed another quote from the famous speech and chuckled. “Would a man so noble as you, call an orc brother? Or mayhaps you mean my happy memory to which no doubt you will expound might and glory to my name? Proclaim that you fought upon St. Sarghêst’s Day? There trumpets sang both long and loud, and challenge rang unto the cloud that lay on Morgoth's northern tower, while Morgoth redeemed for his hour.”

He chuckled, adjusted his pack on his shoulder. “Come along then, dear boy. We have a lot of running to do, and the Lady of the Lake of Corpses is not a patient woman.”

Renown: 26

[Romeran]

The Kvitrafn
Shadowhand Daethir
At the gates of the Morannon
@Sorceress

It was clear from the start that Sarghêst did not think much of him. It wasn't that unusual, for uruk-hai to think this way, but it seemed that Sarghêst held a particular, immediate, disdain which was beyond the usual xenophobic disgust, he wondered why. He was a peculiar orc, perhaps if Daethir could win him over he would be of use to him. Daethir held back a grin when Sarghêst conveniently declared he knew how to handle boats "excellent, that will make our journey considerably easier" he chose to leave the insult without remark and continued with his explanation of the plan.

"Well I suppose I ought to know" Daethir said, pulling his hood back. He revealed a face dark of skin, though not dark enough to match his hair but from his complexion he was obviously an Easterling himself "the shores of the Sea of Rhûn are where I was born, where I cut my teeth as a child" he explained. Daethir grinned and pulled his hood back up over his head. Truth be told, Sarghêst had not guessed too far from the mark. While Daethir was mostly Easterling, his family could trace back to an intermingling with a Black Númenóreans of Umbar. Daethir's hand went to the ornate hilt of the short sword at his hip as if to check if Sarghêst had seen it. Distant though the relation was, Daethir still carried the sword which was his sole inheritance. But he had indeed grown up among Easterlings, though not the particular tribe in question. A great deal of the tribes of Easterlings around the sea had fallen to the sway of Mordor in part due to the honeyed words of Daethir, for which he had been greatly rewarded, and of course had recently dashed away.

This certainly would be a test, he thought, no matter how skilled this Sarghêst was, and despite Daethir's calm and confident demeanor, he sorely hoped that Sarghêst was indeed skilled. At least, he thought, he would be with someone who appreciated literature. Daethir was a self-educated man, something which might have come to a surprise with some of the company he kept as part of his duties. At first it had just been advantageous to be versed in order to help convince lords and nobles who considered themselves 'refined' to bend the knee. Eventually, Daethir began to enjoy reading for its own sake. He would have to ask this Sarghêst about how he learned of these things, but not now, probably not for some time yet he thought.

"Noble eh?" Daethir chuckled slightly "I long ago learned that there are no true bonds of racial kinship and that one can be judged only by their deeds" Daethir said honestly, he had come from humble beginnings, his family having pissed away any fortune they might have had acquired from the Númenórean ancestry, and was under no delusions that his own people would stab him in the back just as soon as an orc. On the othe rhand, he had learned too that an orc, when aligned in motivations of course, can often be a most reliable partner. But truly Daethir believed this must be so for otherwise he would have been forever destined to a life of destitution, something which he could not bear to agree with.

As they made their way through gates and into the marshes, Daethir turned to Sarghêst and said "I should be so lucky to be guided through the Marshes by a native" he said it with honesty but did not say anything further, wondering how Sarghêst would take the compliment. The Dead Marshes were notoriously difficult to navigate and it would go by considerable faster with someone who knew them well.

Renown: 9

[The Good Hunter]

The Kvitrafn
In the Dead Marshes
(Open to All, with Rome)

He’d been wrong about Daethir. It had happened before, and it would probably happen again at some point, but Sarghêst hated being wrong. When the man corrected his assumption of lineage, the uruk only offered a swift grunt and a nod. Apologizing wasn’t an uruk strong point. Usually, it was seen as a sign of weakness and a reason to get ostracized from the clan. Apologizing never made anything better anyway. Things happen, people get thinks wrong, so just move on. That was how Sarghêst dealt with it.

Their run was nice. It took a mile or two for him to get used to the constant thumpthumpthump of his pack, but once he was able to put that out of his mind, he was able to relax and fall into an easy pace. Most of the way to the Dead Marshes was flat ground and the mountains filtered out a lot of the bad air of Mordor. The air wasn’t clean by any stretch of the imagination, but his lungs noticed a considerable difference. After his first run to exhaustion as part of his training, the same run that nearly left him dead, Sarghêst did all he could to build up his strength and endurance. He realized just how out of condition he was after that run and vowed never to be caught off guard like that again. He ran every day, even on days when training took up most of his day. When there was a surprise marathon called down from the higher ups, he was ready. The rest of the idiot rabble gasped and gagged for air, but he was able to last. Slowly but surely, he began to last uruk standing. It was all the more odd, then, that he was placed in the eighth legion. Hadn’t he shown that he deserved to be in a better one? In one that would benefit from his talents? Briefly, he toyed with the idea that he was so good that he was placed with the eighth to be an example to them, but if that were true then his “example” would likely get him hanged or worse. He found that running in the flats without the choking ash-filled air of Mordor was quite enjoyable. His lungs didn’t burn as he breathed and his legs, he found, had more than enough endurance to last from the gates to the edge of the Dead Marshes.

It did not take long for the smell to come back to him. The smell of the marshes was something no one ever forgot. It was the aroma of rot and ruin, with fungal growths stretching like tentacles from pond to pond. The Dead Marshes were named so because of the massive number of graves the swamps had swallowed up, but that name did not extend to the fauna and flora of the place. The smell, while foul and nauseating, was full of life, green and violent. The air was heavy with the scent of decay and drooling foliage. The air was thick with the mustiness of rotting cypress tree logs, peat, and spider lilies. The smell brought back all his childhood memories in a flash. As if it was yesterday, he could remember all the times he nearly died in a bog with a deceptive reflection, getting stuck in a log and getting rolled into a crocodile’s hunting ground. He remembered how he used to think that was the height of his life, the times he felt most alive. Now they felt like what they were: childish approximation of warfare. There were good times too, hunting alligators and giant frogs, searching for legendary monsters the elders said lurked around the edges of the camp at night. He had Horna and proven the truth of at least a few of their tall tales. They once killed a giant black swamp snake that had been stealing away people in the night. They were feasted and celebrated for a fortnight after that, and they were barely adolescents at the time. The next thing to hit him after the smell and the nostalgia was the heat. The Dead Marshes were very much alive with humidity and heat. It was an utterly different heat from Mordor. Instead of sucking one dry of any moisture, the Dead Marshes actively tried to drown anyone that stayed too long without protection. Once the land started to feel spongy under his feet and the air became thick with moist residue, Sarghêst pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it over his mouth. It was not the greatest filter, but it was going to have to do, it helped with the smell too, which, for one reason or another, never went away; there was always some new nasty smell that erupted and started the entire process of nose-blinding all over again. He’d instructed Daethir to do the same. He didn’t need to man drowning before they even made it to the High Green Road.

Most people assumed the Dead Marshes were a vast bog without any infrastructure or development whatsoever. They were only partially right. While the marshes themselves tried to reject any form of long-term structure by subsuming it with creepily vibrant funguses and mosses, there was some structure to the place. Roads were never permanent, but pathways could be made and maintained with some sense of permanence. Within the swamps, there were dozens of pathways in and out of the swamps. Most of the orcs growing up here knew them by heart, Sarghêst was no exception. When he was still with his clan, one of his responsibilities was overseeing the maintenance of the roads. The swamp crept in slow and fast at any given moment. He'd seen bright yellow fungus appear at the lip of a pond that, within a few hours, devoured everything living and nonliving thing within a hundred feet. And that did not even factor in the carnivorous plants, everything fly traps and pitcher plants that ate insects and small lizards to the giant sundews that could trap and devour an orc or a man.

The marshes were quiet this morning, sleeping off a night of cacophonous symphonies of scores of different insect and bird songs. The only sound he heard over his own heavy breathing was the breathing of his companion. The man was light on his feet, and he was able to keep up with a very brisk pace. Sarghêst put a mental tick in the positive column. So far, the man was even. It was, however, unnaturally hot and humid. Had his time in Mordor softened him up and lowered his tolerance for humidity? He swept a hand over his brow; it came back soaked with sweat. His clothes, too, felt damp; they clung to him like hungry moss on a tree. It made him feel claustrophobic. He did not miss this part of the marshes. Somewhere off the marked pathway, a blue light appeared and vanished, just long enough to be seen before disappearing. He growled. A will-o’-the-wisp was the last thing he needed to deal with today. They were a menace to his people, bright blue flashes of living flame that could draw even the most wary and cautious traveler away from the right path and lead them to their doom. Some of the books he’d read suggested these lights were nothing more than expelled swamp gasses. Whoever wrote that never lived in a swamp. These things were more than just gas, they were mindful spirits of malevolent trickery. That one was following them already was not a good sign. However, will-o’-the-wisps were not the most dangerous creatures to stalk the swamp. Aside from giant crocodiles and frogs who could eat a man whole, there were schools of carnivorous lamprey that devoured anything that set foot in the water; there were direbears, boars, badgers, panthers, turtles, and a whole host of birds that could swooped down of the sky and drag off a full-grown orc without a sound. They stopped for a breather once and Daethir, had it not been for the quick eyes of Sarghêst, nearly got his hand bitten off by a hungry alligator snapping turtle.

Sarghêst really didn’t like the quiet. He was sure he would have run into a clan of nomads by now, but there was not a sign of their moss and bramble covered wagons or the raucous sound of orc song. Something didn’t seem right. They weren’t far now from the High Green Road, the only truly permanent road through the Dead Marshes. Once they were there, they’d be relatively safe. Camping, at any rate, would be easier there than out here in the midst of cattails and swamp roses. The quiet was unnerving. There wasn’t even the sound of bird or insect. The more he heard the silence, the more he felt it. The silence clung to him like slime. Even the water didn’t make a sound as their boots sloshed in and out of the stagnant water. No flies, no mosquitos.

“Something’s not right,” he dared to say, half afraid to be the thing that awakened the swamp back into life. “This place isn’t supposed to be so silent.” The hairs stood up on the back of neck. “I think we’re being stalked,” he whispered hoarsely.

No sooner had he spoken that something stirred in the water to his left. Something growled, low and ominous. Sarghêst looked toward the sound and found himself staring at the eyes of a dragon, not a dozen feet away. “Well…”

Renown: 27

[Romeran]

The Kvitrafn
Shadowhand Daethir
In the Dead Marshes
@Sorceress

Running had always been a strong suit of his. Daethir was not the largest Easterling and he certainly wasn't the strongest. He was lithe and wiry but with a deceptive strength. It had started when Daethir was a child when he would be chased by the larger and older children, sometimes purely for a show of power, but more often than not because Daethir had made some cutting remark or undermined them in some subtle way. Deathir had learned from a young age that he was never going to overpower them and that his best bet was simply outrunning them. Eventually Daethir had grown out of an age where bullies chased children but he did not abandon running. Instead it had become a habit of his, one which he used to clear his mind and to work over any plans he was in the process of laying. It had become almost an addiction, without which he often felt that he was in a perpetual sour mood for the day and could get no real thinking done. At times he became concerned that he had developed such a crutch. This was not one of those times. The uruk kept a swift pace and did not stop for many leagues. Deathir was glad for his addiction now that he was being put to the test.

The heat was somewhat less than inside Mordor, but the humidity was more like murder. It was only shortly into their run when Daethir had removed his cloak and cowl, wrapping it and attaching it to his light pack. He tied his hair back out of his neck with a strip of leather. Sweat dripped across his forhead and down his arms. He kept his sleeves down in a futile attempt to keep the bugs from drinking him completely dry. Daethir had spent some time in Far Harad and there it had also been hot and humid, but it paled in comparison to the Dead Marshes. Only a half a dozen times prior had Daethir had the misfortune to be in the marshes and each time he had sworn that he would never return, knowing how likely it was each time that he would have to break such an oath. He muttered under his breath that he would never come here again. When Sarghêst covered his face and instructed that he do the same, Daethir removed a cloth of clean linen which he used in case he had to bind a wound. It was not clean for much longer and he only hoped that there would be no need for it otherwise, but he was glad for the cover for his mouth and nose.

It was clear that Sarghêst knew the marshes like it was his home and Daethir was thankful for that. If it was not for the orc and Daethir was on this mission by himself, although then it surely would have been suicide, he likely would have gone around, for miles, to avoid the marshes. For anyone other than a native, the marshes alone was practically a death sentence. When they had stopped for one of the few rests, Deathir had leant his arm on a hanging branch as he reached into his pack for his canteen. Sarghêst's quick eyes had caught the movement while Daethir had been looking away and had warned Daethir not a moment too soon. Snapping his hand back to his side the turtle's mouth cracked down on the branch where Daethir's hand had been not a half a second prior. Daethir nodded to Sarghêst "thanks" he said. There was no reason to waste any breath and energy on a longer reply, it was acknowledged that Daethir's hand (and due to infection quite possibly his life) had been spared this time and Daethir did not like to leave himself indebted for long.

The sound of the marshes were almost as bad as the heat, almost. The creaking and chirping of bugs and the buzzing of flies and other air born insects was a droning sound that could only be enjoyed by the insane. But Sarghêst said that it was quiet, too quiet. He was right, of course, the silence hadn't been sudden but now that he realized it, it was eerily quiet when it had not been so before. But like a frog in slowly boiling water, Daethir had not noticed until it was too late.

The dragon was a young one, less than a century old at best, but still nothing to be attacked with impunity. The dragon hissed and the reek of acid spewed from the dragons maw. Its growl was almost a laugh and it looked between Sarghêst and Daethir like a predator who had caught its prey and intended to toy with it before eating it. Black dragons were known for being the most cruel and sadistic of dragons and one likely not to be convinced otherwise.

"What do we have here?" the dragon hissed, well aware of what he had found "a man... and an orc" it said darkly. The dragon kept its head low, the dark black scales on its back were thick and those on the top most of his head came to a sharp and sudden end. The beast's eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them and it licked its lips mockingly, acid drool dripped to the ground and singed the grass as it did so. The dragon raised a claw and pointed it towards Sarghêst threateningly.

Daethir knew a bit of dragon lore. Gold was coveted by most dragons, Black dragons were not excluded from this trait. While Deathir had a few gold coins on him it was hardly enough to bribe a dragon let alone a black dragon who would take more pleasure in torturing and eating them than he could get from even a chest of gold coins. But he knew also the at dragons coveted certain ancient relics, particularly those from lost civilizations. Daethir was loth to enlighten Sarghêst that he had such an item but he wished to put them on a winning position when facing this dragon.

"One moment." Daethir said, interrupting. "What if I told you that I have an ancient Númenórean blade that I might trade for our lives".

The dragon's head snapped to Daethir and it grinned wickedly "Well then it will be easy enough to find on your corpse, fool" he replied and this time took a step towards Daethir.

"You would be the fool to do so" Daehir said quickly, he had to risk insulting the dragon to keep its attention "for the men of Númenor cursed the blade" he said quickly "and death will come to any who take it by force." the dragon did not seem immediately convinced "For the men of Númenor were like that, weak and prone to traditions" he explained as if the men had to curse their swords so that stronger men could not simply take them.

"And so I will torture you until you yield" the dragon countered with a cruel grin, let's see the man get out of this one.

"If I am to die I would see you die with me" the Easterling with the Númenórean blade said in rebuttal and with such a tone which made it clear that the man knew that black dragons never let their prey go and promises made by a torturer were the last to be trusted.

"Show me this blade then" the dragon said, his interest now piqued. Daethir had packed the sword in his cloak so as not to wear it openly. It was likely enough that Sarghêst had seen it when he had done so, and so it was of small enlightenment that he learn its origins -- although Daethir was clearly lying about the curse if one knew anything of Númenórean lore.

The ancient blade was sheathed in a black leather scabbard capped with silver. The handle was short but big enough for even a large man's hand and the pommel was silver and elegantly carved. The collar of the sheath was also silver and had Númenórean designs inlayed in the metal. Daethir began to draw the blade slowly revealing a steel that was almost too bright for such a dim place. The dragon leaned in curiously, within striking range. Daethir risked a quick glance to Sarghêst to ensure that he was ready, their eyes met.

In a swift and dangerous motion, Daethir drew the blade completely and stabbed it forward into the dragon's eye. The beast reared back in pain and his claw swiped forward and knocked Daethir back into a tree with a thud. But the dragon, in its pain and anger, had lifted itself up, revealing its soft underbelly. Daethir went to yell 'Now!' as if to spur Sarghêst to impale the dragon with his spear, but he found that the breath had been knocked out of him.


Renown: 10

[The Good Hunter]

The Kvitrafn
In the Dead Marshes
(Open to All, with Rome)

One never knew what one might find in the inner reaches of the Dead Marshes; the further in one went the greater the chance that something nasty would be encountered. Knowing this, Sarghêst had done his damned to keep to the edges, where the waters were less likely to be filled with carnivorous lamprey schools and, well, dragons. The scaled tyrants were rare in the Dead Marshes. Very rare. However, there was a chance that the data itself was skewed. One in a thousand scouting parties or foragers might come across the lair of a swamp dragon, but then of those thousand, only one might actually make it out alive. In truth, as it was with most of the Dead Marshes, there was no telling what was real and what wasn’t. Truth, reality, and a firm grasp on one’s sanity were not always found in large quantities. Sarghêst assumed (and the old adage about what assuming does) that keeping to the edges would keep Daethir and him safe from the more rapacious denizens. The universe was a cruel mistress, as liable to step on you as please you.

Sarghêst had never seen a dragon before. Sure, he’d seen artist renditions, sketches, and read a few theoretical treatises on how they operated biologically, but seeing something up close like this, well it was an experience he wasn’t soon to forget, assuming (that word again) that he was going to live through this encounter. Despite himself, the uruk found himself drawn to the eyes. Every single text he read, thesis or poem, said to avoid looking at the eyes of a dragon. Yet when he saw the golden, serpentine eyes, glowing like acidic embers in a fog of pale green, all he could do was stare. They were hypnotic, suggestive, hungry. Sarghêst could not tear himself away from them. Those eyes, those eyes! They called to him in a most profane and indecent way. He was vaguely aware of the world around him. He could feel the leeches swimming around him, hurrying past as the dragon disturbed the ecosystem with its movement, he could feel the slow lap of the cold, murky waters. He could feel the heat of the air around him, attempting with every moment to strangle him and bring him down into the unhallowed waters.

He couldn’t say what it was that drew him back, some sound or smell or sight perhaps that distracted him just enough to break the hypnotic gaze of the dragon. Whatever it was, he was grateful to it. Focus, Sarghêst, focus. Focus on your breathing, focus on your heartbeat, focus on anything but those bloody golden eyes. His hands shook with the effort to maintain his own focus, to establish the will to not gaze blindly and stupidly into the waiting eyes of a hungry, sleep-disturbed dragon.

By some grace of the swampy gods, Daethir didn’t seem to be affected by the dragon’s powerful eyes, or perhaps he’d already come out of his trance. Sarghêst had no way of knowing. He was only dimly aware that he was not alone in the swamp at all. He could hear the man’s voice, but it felt as though it were being shouted from a great distance away rather than spoken right beside him. He could only make out a few words his traveling companion was saying. Either he was still sluggish from the effect of the dragon’s eyes, or he was speaking a language Sarghêst hadn’t encountered yet. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sarghêst made a note to ask the man what languages he knew. He squinted as he watched the interaction between dragon and man. It was more than surreal. What the hell was Daethir doing? The uruk, beyond his best contemplation, couldn’t make heads or tails of what was going on. Was the man giving the dragon something, a token to let them pass? A bribe? Whatever it was, it fit in his hand, and anything that fit in one’s hand was not enough tribute for a dragon, no matter what esoteric or occultic power that object held. He thought to warn the man, but the thought was slow in coming, slogging through the mire of Sarghêst’s dragon-addled mind. Keeping his focus was costing all his mental strength.

Then, in a heartbeat, that all changed. Daethir was not, as it turned out, offering whatever was in his hand to dragon as a tribute. It had been a trick, something to lull the dragon into a daze, just long enough to… One of the terrifyingly luminescent eyes went dark. Sarghêst’s wits came back to him in a flash, like the snapping of a leather cord. The world, which previously had begun to take on a grey-green hue, reverted back to the ashy green and brown world of the Dead Marshes. Sounds and smells returned. Sarghêst could feel his limps again. He felt the spear in his hand. It was heavy, but the balance was perfect between shaft and steel head. The dragon reared back from Daethir’s quick, serpentine strike, tearing out a massive weeping willow tree in the process. It was not a large dragon, barely a century old if anything. Another vague thought of the power of a young dragon compared to an ancient crept into the back of his mind, something to dwell on and obsess over later. For now, Sarghêst sprang into action, hefting his spear into a ready position. He charged through the muck, nimbly moving through the stagnant waters. He thrust the spear forward as the dragon was still reeling back and scored a shot on the exposed chest. The spear sank deep into the scaled hide and the dragon let out a roar of pain that nearly deafened the uruk. He roared back. In for a penny, in for a pound. He wrenched his spear free and just as he was prepared to make another strike against the dragon, something like scarlet and emerald fungus poured from the creature’s jaw. It caught Sarghêst in the chest and burned. It stuck him and began to eat through his leather and hide jerkin. He stumbled back, tripped, and soon found himself submerged in the water. Though as soon as he did, the burning substance that had bubbled out of the cauldron of the dragon’s mouth ceased to burn, spreading an acidic touch through the water.

He stood up, but before he was able to get his bearings again, a massive claw sideswiped him and sent him and his spear flying in different directions.

Renown: 29

[Romeran]

The Kvitrafn
Shadowhand Daethir
In the Dead Marshes
@Zeal &amp; Ardor

Everyone knew not to look directly into the eyes of a dragon, Daethir included. He had only managed to converse with the dragon by not looking directly at it, conveniently looking at the ground or the dragon through the reflection in the sword when he pulled it. The urge to look into the dragon's eyes were strong, but this was no Glaurung the great nor Ancalagon the black and Daethir was old enough and wise enough to resist the temptations. Daethir had thought himself exceptionally clever, that is until he had been clawed by the dragon and slammed into a tree. It was quite possible he had cracked a rib or even two, but there wasn't much he could do now. Several precious moments past as he tried to catch his breath. Luckily for them both Sarghêst had escaped the dragon's trance with just enough time to strike. Like a true warrior the uruk had charged forward and scored a devastating blow.

Now was not the time for him to remain prone against a tree if he wanted to survive he had to grit through the pain. Daethir rolled over and grabbed the recurve bow from the back of his pack and the string. In a practiced motion, Daethir held the bow down against his foot and used his body weight to compress the bow to string it. Despite the small size of the bow its construction was such that the draw weight was deceptively heavy and the arrows would travel far and fast even with their short length. Just as Daethir had finished stringing the bow, Sarghêst had pulled his spear back and was aiming for another blow, for a moment Daethir thought that they might taste victory. But just then the dragon spat its acid on Sarghêst who stumbled and fell submerged into the water. Daethir cursed.

The arrow notched quickly into the string as Daethir pulled into place. Fluidly, Daethir drew the arrow back while pushing the bow forward. The weight of the bow was too much for him to spend even a moment at full draw and so he had to aim by instinct. The arrow flew out and struck the dragon just above where Sarghêst had impaled it, but not until the dragon swiped at the uruk and separated him from his weapon. The spear flew across the marsh and landed, driven point first, into the base of a willow tree nearby Daethir but he would have to travel in the dragon's path to reach it. Daethir drew back another arrow and shot, but this time it flew wide as Deathir had already begun moving towards the spear and, in his haste, had not compensated for the movement.

The dragon was wailing now and spewing his acidic spittle everywhere but it was not dead. That the dragon had survived thus far was a terrifying testament to the might and durability of dragons and Daethir wondered whether it was best for them to try to fight or rather to run. But black dragons were spiteful beings and now that he had been tricked, injured, and lost an eye for it there was no chance that the dragon would simply forget about them if they ran. They would have to try and finish the beast, or die.

It was a daring scramble that Daethir endeavored as he attempted to cross the space between him and where the dragon was now facing. But there was no chance for Daethir to take out the dragon alone and Sarghêst would be a far more effective tool with his weapon and so he ran for it. Gobs of acid licked at his heels as he dove towards the spear and pulled it out of the tree. Quickly, Daethir turned and immediately ran back in the opposing direction. It was luck which saved him as the dragon had guessed incorrectly and the base of the tree on the other direction that Daethir had run was burned away by the acid. The dragon let out another roar in anger, but its lifeblood was dripping from the wounds in its chest, its movements had slowed but the dragon was wrathful and so perhaps even more dangerous because of it.

Only half way between the spear and Sarghêst did Daethir trip on a root which stuck out from the ground but under the low level of water. Daethir was inexperienced in navigating the waters of the marsh and even their running earlier had not taught him well enough. Sarghêst had also likely taken the most efficient paths, which did not suffer from such dangerous terrain, and Daethir had simply followed in his tracks. Daethir swore again and the dragon turned towards him, crashing through the branches as he came. With a great effort, Daethir hurled Sarghêst's spear, butt end forward, towards the uruk hoping that he wasn't yet out of the fight.

With the spear thrown, Daethir scrambled to reach for and nock an arrow, but it was too late. The dragon had been faster than Daethir had expected he was near upon him now and the acid drooled from his mouth even more freely than the blood from its wounds. Without thinking, and in great folly, Daethir had looked into the dragon's other eye and for a moment he fell into a trance and helplessly dropped his bow.

Renown: 13

[The Good Hunter]

The Kvitrafn
In the Dead Marshes
(Open to All, with Rome)

There were very few points in Sarghêst’s life that he could say he experienced peace. Peace was rarer than gold in the Dead Marshes. Life was short, brutal, and filled with wrath. Right now, in the murky depths of green pools of the marshes, Sarghêst felt peace. As soon as he touched the water, as soon as the sound and fury of the battle around him faded to dull thumps and washed-out colors, the uruk felt something akin to peace. He’d read about it in the books he and his brother had stolen, but the words Gondorian poets used to describe it, to explain it felt so alien to Sarghêst that he might as well have been reading a completely different language. However, however, now he felt like there was something to all the flowery words and sharp turns of phrase. Under the water, as things started fading and darkening, there was a sense of something, of serenity. His last thoughts could be an ode to Obliviana, the great mistress of the End. Uruks in the Dead Marshes had very little pomp or circumstance to their burials, they weighed the bodies with stones carved with runes and symbols and let the bodies sink. They thought that the runes and symbols would guide the soul of the orc to their afterlife, a place where they’d be free of powers dark or light. Sarghêst thought it was all a load of superstitious nonsense, or at least he had. Now that he was on the brink, on the edge of the precipice with the whisper to “Jump!” ringing in his ears, he was not so sure. Maybe there was something to it. The world was slowing down. The orc could still hear the sounds of battle above him, but every moment the roar of the dragon was growing dimmer and dimmer, the world was moving slower, the colors were fading to a dull grey. He was ready. It was going to happen whether he wanted it to or not. He was going to die in this muck, bereft of guiding stones or songs. His life boiled down to nothing and no one would even recall that he was. His brother in the north would go on, his tribe would continue to make the endless knot, and he would wander aimlessly, another shade of the swamp, a hazard to be avoided.

He closed his eyes and saw, saw something. Amidst the shadows dancing over him, something tangible reached out to him, something calling him back from the ledge, countering the voice that told him to leap and let go. It was, it was his spear, the spear Zuriaake had had made for him. He’d only held it a few hours before he’d been forcibly separated from it, and yet there was something in it, something about it, that called to him. The more he thought about the spear, the less he thought about death and dying, the more he concentrated on the spear, moving like a blunt knife through raw crocodile, the more he felt the pull of reality tugging back at his soul. He wanted so desperately to let go, to find a semblance of peace, serenity, or oblivion or whatever it was that he was feeling. It was addictive, this feeling, and he did not want to let it go. This was the thing that he’d spent his life, that all uruks and orcs and goblins spent their lives, searching for. It was the thing that Gondorians, Rohirrim, and Elves all took for granted.

But he couldn’t go. Not yet. Not yet. Reality was a stained-glass fixture window, beautiful and malignant and easily broken, yet it was all some people had to look forward to. Reality, warts and all, was all Sarghêst had. Reality was a dragon vomiting acid and tearing across the swamp in a petulant rage. Reality was a spear crafted from old, hard wood with a blade atop that could sheer off the head of a troll in a single blow.

No. He was not going to die just yet. Sarghêst of the Dead Marshes was not going to die, drowning in a puddle of fungal muck. He was not going to die battling some unimportant skirmish with some unimportant dragon in some godforsaken spit of swamp that no one cared about. Sarghêst would die someday, fighting or philosophizing, he would find peace in some other corner of the world, in a place that wasn’t going to strangle him, where his peace would not come with the added expense of worms and leeches using his body as a feast.

He rose from the water. Roaring back to reality. He rose from the sea, a scarlet beast, a leopard, a bear, a lion, with blasphemous poison on his lips as he roared his defiance against this would be dragon, this savage, feral wyrmling. He rose like a great megatherion, a horned devil, a beast from ancient days long thought lost. Sarghêst was not yet done with this world. He would cast his mark upon it and this beast would have it known that he was here, that he would not bow to some dragon, he was no servile, slinking worm. No man owned Sarghêst. No man can own a savage monster and live to brag.

He picked up the spear, felt the weight in his hands, and grinned. His lower bicuspids framed the smile like the tusks of a wild boar. He could feel a madness running through him, a madness and a zest for life. There was savagery to be done here, and he would revel in the blood and mayhem. He was an orc above all things, and an orc loves violence and pain as much as he loves his fellows. And so, with mad grin and wild eyes, Sarghêst ran forward, shouting his depraved bars of blasphemy and heresy. As the dragon turned and spat red globs of poison like a red algae bloom, so did the orc spit insults.

Daethir was alive, but only just. Sarghêst spared enough of a moment to look at him, slack jawed, as his bow fell from his hands. He looked a mirror image of Sarghêst before the mad bloodlust overcame him. He would be alright, his senses would return and, if Sarghêst was anything of an example, a bloodlust would fill him too. Sarghêst ran on. He closed the distance with terrible speed. Even though he didn’t know this patch of swamp, his steps were guided. Each bound was met with solid ground, his footing had never been so solid as he charged the dragon.

The beast roared and the dragon roared back.

Sarghêst leapt into the air and felt a wind beneath him, carrying him toward the dragon’s black, glistening scales. He laughed as he grabbed the chromatic scales and tore up the monster’s back. He jammed his spear into the thick hide of the dragon once, twice, thrice, each blow going deeper than the last. The dragon bucked and tried to tear at him like a maddened bull, but Sarghêst was too secure to be thrown now. He climbed to the dragon’s neck and whispered. “You should have stayed asleep dragon. I’m going to make a wonderous pair of boots from your hide, your skull will decorate my wagon and tribes will come from all over to hear the tale of Sarghêst, Dragonslayer.”

The dragon roared once more and reared back. Sarghêst lost his balance and, in his desperation, flung the spear around the dragon’s neck like a bridle bit. He pulled and the dragon’s neck strained. This was it. He had the beast trapped. His arms were still wild with strength, and the dragon was too wounded to keep fighting for long. He remembered his companion, and his bow. Another wicked smile crawled over Sarghêst's face.

“Daethir! Shot her! Shoooooot heeeeeer!”

Renown: 30

[Romeran]

The Kvitrafn
Shadowhand Daethir
In the Dead Marshes
@Zeal &amp; Ardor

The cool sea air whipped across Daethir's face as he stood staring out at the Sea of Rhûn. The wind was cold on his face and Daethir's hand went to his mouth whereupon he discovered his beard was gone. His black hair grew still long but there were no signs of grey. Daethir was young again he realized suddenly but the shock of which was strangely dulled. He could hear the chanting of his people behind him and the crackling of the fires beneath the setting sun as the moon and sun sat in the sky together. It was a special day in his tribe for the festival held only when the sun and moon were both in the sky and the moon was full. As with most important ceremonies of this type the day in question required sacrifices. Daethir had stood staring into the sea then even as he did now, in whatever strange dream this must have been, for it must be a dream Daethir had already reasoned.

The sacrifices were to be sent out into the sea, on burning ships, where they would go, screaming into the night, to satisfy the gods. Much had Daethir learned since that time of the misguided nature of these sacrifices, but at the time this had been a day of great triumph for young Daethir. A rival of Daethir's had acquired a slave of particular merit. He had been a lore master of Gondor, a middle aged learned man who was frail and weak, but nevertheless of great value to the few 'diplomats' (mostly the advisors and seneschals) of the Easterlings as a man of letters with such lore was invaluable. Naturally it had been particularly irritating to Daethir and his other colleagues that his rival had acquired such a slave. Stealing the slave for himself was out of the question, it would be too obvious, and murdering his rival and taking the slave would have been too obvious as well. But his rival could not be allowed to have such an advantage and so Daethir had seen that this particular slave would be coincidentally chosen for the day's sacrifices. The result of this was that Daethir had become pre-eminent among his people as the lore master and advisor to the chief, held above all others who would contest his position. Much of his success he held to the downfall of his rival, it was a fond memory.

As suddenly as he had entered the dream he was yanked from it. The visions of the Sea of Rhûn faded and merged with the dark and black vision in front of him. The swamp overtook his reality and the cool and refreshing sea air was instantly replaced with the hot and oppressive humidity of the Dead Marshes. The flies had already gathered on him and some of the smaller insects were drinking their fill of Daethir's blood. The dragon's eye was no longer on him and Daethir regained his faculties. A dark rage overwhelmed him and it was all he could do to prevent himself from screaming in anger. He had known the danger of looking at a dragon and he had fallen victim to it still. It was a miracle that he was still alive. How was he still alive? Daethir's blurred vision suddenly faded and he saw the dragon. Its was reared on its hind legs, pulled back to full height. A pole was crossed its neck and an uruk hung on relentlessly to the back of the dragon. Blood, or whatever substance which acted as blood in a black dragon, spilled from myriad wounds, more than had been there when Daethir had fallen victim to the dragon's glare.

Finally Daethir heard the words of Sarghêst. The echoed in his ears at first, distant, like an overheard conversation but suddenly he realized that it was not another vision and that the uruk on the back of the dragon was Sarghêst the same dragon who had attacked them and they were still fighting. His senses were finally back, and he looked down to where his bow must have fallen. Quickly he crouched and picked up the wicked recurve bow. In the same action he drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it in the string. Because of the tension of the bow, Daethir was forced to aim before pulling it. The dragon was swaying now but its neck was clearly exposed if he timed it well then it would be a killing blow. He pulled back the arrow holding his breath and as soon as it hit the maximum length, he released it immediately not able to hold the bow at full extension for too long. Before he even saw where the arrow landed he immediately nocked a second arrow and shot at the same target.

Twice the arrows struck the neck of the beast. The dragon let out a gurgled wail as air and blood poured from the fresh wounds on its neck. At first it seemed like the dragon might struggle, but the wounds were deep and the blood loss was finally catching up to the beast. It fell, crumpled to the ground like a sack of meat, its long neck slapping the ground not but a few strides from where Daethir stood. The weight of the dragon hitting the ground suddenly caused the ground nearby to shake and Daethir nearly lost his footing. Black blood combined with the acidic substance was expelled from the dragon as it landed from its mouth and the several wounds across its body. Deathir let out his breath finally.

Hesitating a glance around his surroundings, Daethir didn't see any other signs of beasts or animals curious about the commotion. That was good, he supposed, the noise and wailing of the dragon likely could have been heard from a great distance, although the marshes were dense and the constant buzzing had a way of drowning out other noises. He took as step towards the dragon again and looked around for his companion.

"Sarghêst?" he called.

Renown: 14

[The Good Hunter]

The Kvitrafn
In the Dead Marshes
(Open to All, with Rome)

For a moment, just a moment, Sarghêst thought he was going to die. It wouldn’t be a bad death, as far as deaths go. He would go out fighting a dragon, riding the back of a monstrous reptile until he fell off and was devoured. If anything, it would have been heroic. Well, heroic in an orkish sense at least. However, the uruk found, as he was maintaining his grip in the spear keeping said dragon from devouring him, that there was nothing really heroic about dying here, or dying in general. Songs weren’t written about orcs eaten in swamps by monsters hiding under the water. They were written about orcs that slew dozens and dozens of foes, made mountains of corpses, made the riverbeds run red with the blood of the saints and the blood of the holy. Sarghêst was not there, not yet at least.

He was thrown from the dragon’s neck when the arrow hit and the death throes began. Orcs are not meant to fly, by natural or mechanical means, and yet here he was, flying through the air like a lopsided egret. He crashed into the murky, slimy, cold water. However, unlike the last time he’d been summarily submerged the uruk rose almost immediately. His chest heaved as his breath was ragged and uneven from the exertion of the battle. The dragon was dead, or dying, and he and Daethir had survived. Now that would be a story to tell. Two men happening to come on the nest of a young dragon, taken at unawares, and despite each of them temporarily being hypnotized by the dragon’s deadly gaze, slew the beast and triumphed over their foe. The battlefield was a mess of disturbed, cloudy waters and broken foliage. The dragon had nearly ripped the place apart in its attempt to get at them. Seeing it lying dead, half submerged, Sarghêst almost (almost) felt a stab of pity. Dragons were rare these days and getting rarer. The higher ups in Mordor would most certainly have wanted them to bring the breast in warm, but the higher ups weren’t here and, in Sarghêst’s mind, a living uruk was better than a dead dragon.

Inexplicably, he began to laugh. He heard his companion call out to him, but for some mad reason, that only made him laugh louder and louder until all he could hear was the clanging bells of his own mirth. Life was absurdity, a tale told by an idiot. And now, Sarghêst was the idiot, volley’d and thunder’d and into the mouth of Hell he’d gone. And here he was still, absurd and alive beyond all reason.

It took a moment for him to get a hold himself. It seemed cinematically wrong for him to have lived while the dragon was dead and beginning to rot. Still, absurd or not, he was alive. His blood was still flowing through his veins and his heart was still beating. His laughter died as he exhaled. He spat a mouthful of phlegmy blood and sighed.

“Daethir,” he said, finally returning his companion’s call. “You made it. Well shot.”

He stared at the dragon for a moment, contemplating the decaying therion. He produced a knife from a sheath on his belt and began to savagely cut into the dragon’s flesh, severing the flesh from the horns just enough that he could pull the horns from the skull. There was a monstrously loud SNAP as each one came off that echoed sickly across the now serene waters. He presented one of the horns, then, to his Easterling companion. “Not many can say they killed a dragon, fewer still deserve the horns of the beast.”

If they’d had time, Sarghêst would have gone about butchering and carving the dragon up, removing scales, meat, and ivory, but they were sorely pressed. Not only did they need to be far, far from here in just five days, but the din of the battle itself will have carried and alerted many unsavory characters Sarghêst didn’t want to deal with just now. Still, he looked at the dragon’s corpse longingly. Allowing carrion feeders and scavengers to have anything of this would be a great crime against nature, a crime against orcs and men.

“Quickly, help me drag the corpse under this willow here and hide it. We can come back this way after our mission and get the rest of our reward. This little scuffle is going to bring out all the finest people and we need to away before they get here and start looking around.”

Renown: 31

[Romeran]

The Kvitrafn
Shadowhand Daethir
In the Dead Marshes
@Innlandshjarte

The corpse of the dragon was already beginning to smell, although Daethir wondered if perhaps the reek was constantly emanating from the beast and that in the adrenaline of the fight he had simply not noticed. Either way he quickly pulled the cloth up back over his face which had fallen during the battle. There was a scent of fresh blood in the rag and Daethir could tell that it was his own. He had bit his cheek at some point and the taste of blood was in his mouth still. The smell of blood was better though than the reek of the rest of the marsh and the dragon so he accepted his fate. Daethir approached the dragon closer still and peered out at its head.

The eyes of the dragon, even when dead, seemed to have some semblance of their original power. The dark and red eyes, though lacking now in the spark of life, still had an entrancing quality and Daethir found him staring at the dragon's dead eyes when he heard Sarghêst's voice calling his name, and he shook his head to dismiss the remaining hold the dragon had over his senses.

"Well fought yourself" he said in reply, while the deathblow might have been Daethir's it would not have been possible if not for the valiancy of Sarghêst. The uruk was growing on Daethir with each passing encounter. It wasn't that Daethir had anything against his kind in particular, he just was a generally misanthropic individual having learned how easily most can be twisted and their morals purchased in one way or another.

Daethir watched as Sarghêst began to remove the dragon's horns. He was not sure, at first what the uruk was doing, but it quickly dawned on him what the purpose was. Dragons were rare beasts and parts of dragons made for rarer trophies or ingredients still. It would be a shame not to butcher and salvage as much of the dragon's parts as they possibly could. But they needed to move quickly and their path led northwards and eastwards and they did not have time to return yet to the Dark Tower. But the horns at least, as Sarghêst had clearly already divined would be easy enough to carry and would fetch a great value in coin or renown. He accepted the horn gladly "'valiant like a uruk-hai eating his breakfast on a dragon's back' they will say henceforth" it had been a wonder that Sarghêst had held on as he had and long enough for Daethir to nock and loose his arrow.

"Indeed, 'all hell shall stir for this', I fear and we should move quickly" he agreed and helped Sarghêst move the heavy dragon corpse. There was a reason for the phrase 'dead weight' with no life to assist in moving the dragon's bulk it was difficult to move it and they were forced to drag the beast through the marsh to hide it under the willow. Daethir was unsure how they would find this spot again among all of the other willow trees in the Dead Marshes, but decided that Sarghêst wouldn't have made the suggestion that they could return if he hadn't already thought of that. Perhaps to him the marshes were not the repetitive maze-like lands as they appeared to Daethir.

"How much further until we leave the marshes?" he asked as the finished the task of hiding the dragon, as best they could. Daethir had placed the dragon's horn inside his bag after doing his best to clean the blood and gore from it and wrapping it inside a leather pouch.

"As soon as we escape from the marshes we should" he paused "acquire some horses" while Daethir had the coin for a horse for himself at least if he could avoid spending the gold he wasn't averse to stealing or 'finding' the horses.

"There are cattle ranches East of the Emyn Muil, in the direction we are going and where there are cattle there are horses" cattle needed large plots of land and it was far more convenient to herd them on horseback than on foot or with dogs, if they could find such a ranch there would certainly be horses. Daethir wondered if Sarghêst could ride, or if he would even be willing to do so, but Daethir saw little other choice if they were to travel such a distance in such a short time other than finding some form of mounted travel.

Renown: 17