The Horror on the Hill - Sauronic Temple of Umbar (RP)

[Ercassie]

In the year 3261 SA, King Ar-Pharazon of Numenor landed in the bay of Umbar, scattering the servants of the Dark Lord Sauron. The mighty conquerors set up a massive crystal monument to commemorate this victory of light over darkness. But less than 100 years later, Ar-Pharazon himself had been so manipulated by the fallen Maia that he dared attempt an assault upon Valinor itself. To his detriment, and that of his entire kingdom, that armada failed. The Valar gave their grave response and changed the shape of the world, plunging Numenor forever into the depths of the sea.



The Faithful, repentant, founded a new home for their survivors, to reign in the twin kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor. But there were also those who survived in the southern port cities of the mainland and many there did not repent their loss, but avow vengeance. So that these remnants of a ruined power laid their strengths to the now isolated settlement of Umbar. There the King’s Men, who came to be known as ‘Black Numenoreans’, turned to the only god who had ever supported them, inciting in them a wish for freedom from the influence of the Valar and their slaves, the Eldar.



At some point the shining crystal memorial for Ar-Pharazon was torn down. In favour of a new symbol, this time of the resume of darkness. The blood temple as it became known, was designed for human sacrifice in the name of Sauron, promising this dark path was the means to power for mankind. And so it now sits, championing the more recent victor of it’s shores. Upon the highest hill overlooking the entire headland, a new seed sprung from the thought of the atrocities committed back on Numenor. A little piece of the past, unwilling to let the world move into a future without it.

Rules of this thread

- This is an IC-only thread. Please only post ‘in character’ posts here.
- All sacrifices that take place in this temple are to be performed by the Blood Priest (Thread runner – @Ercassie) but do feel free to bring/drag in your offerings and trust that they/you shall be considered accordingly.
- Please respect the themes of Tolkien and refrain from any craziness like time travel or Real world/modern day intrusions, such as ‘Dr Pepper’ or pizza, etc.
- Any OOC questions please take to the local OOC thread, not here.
- And remember, The EYE is ever watching YOU


EDITED - Correcting broken image links.

[Ercassie]

@Rillewen

A recently-returned-home, Pharak Halsad, aided by Jenahda.
Re-opening the Temple, to unveil the body of Blood Priest, Khabodulgar
FLASHBACK - Some years ago. To ‘set the scene’. Cont. from HERE

A carpet of crows hurtled upwards from the bodies they had been abusing, with a raucous chorus of complaint, The remnants of the now abandoned corpses, littering the temple steps, were rather less startled by the sudden procession which snaked up the steep hill. The new arrivals considered the dismembered mess and the congealing puddles of blood with no more remark than the now voiceless dead. Pharak did not even count the dozen or so stains which marked previous attempts to enter. The vast wooden studded doors were still bolted, from the inside. And all efforts to force entry by way of ascending the great heights of the building itself .. well, clearly had so far been unsuccessful. In a gesture of some overwhelming confidence that he might somehow fare better, the burn-scarred man raised both hands, and closed his eyes, trusting that his loyal entourage would keep the crowds back. Where they might witness but not otherwise interfere. Mostly, he trusted that the people of Umbar would be intrigued enough that ‘something was happening’. At last.


It had now been an entire week since anybody had seen the Blood Priest, Khabudolgar. The first day that the temple had been inexplicably ‘closed’ for business, people who had migrated to the now barricaded door with tribute, had meandered back down the way they had come, in various states of confusion, concern, and curiosity. By day two waves of both criticism and condemnation for the apparent failure of the priest to at the very least … explain .. had led for calls and outcry for ‘something to be done’ about whatever it was that was going on, .. to echo from the Warrens to the Souk. And when dawn of the third day arose with no apparent resolution to the mystery, the city guards had bothered to investigate. Mostly because it seemed that the only way to turn the noisy crowd from hammering upon official doors, and back toward some semblance of a productive day. Politicians had harangued the unhappy soldiers into action to save from being harassed themselves; each more determined than the next to be seen ‘doing what they were paid for’. But in reality, the closure of the temple doors did not come under any official jurisdiction but for the Blood Priest himself, and so after the most brave or stupid volunteers had plummeted to their death or at the very least thrown their shoulders out of joint by crashing against the new barricade … rumour had replaced all other responses to the strange state of affairs. And the city of Umbar had shaken heads and dared to wonder if this was a portent for good or for ill.


In the space of time that it took for a large enough audience to gather, Lord Pharak Halsad, a man whom none of his neighbours had seen for several years, decided to make good upon his dramatic return to the city. Known as an emissary who had ventured far abroad, doing the work of the Shadow, people were as surprised to see him, and in such a state as he now appeared to be, but they were satisfied. Here at last was somebody who might be able to quash the rumours that Sauron had abandoned them. Once the din of impatience had quietened, Pharak opened his eyes. He had not yet made work of his tongue, so that thus far those hungry for information would be forced to find what they could interpret from sight of him for first.

The notoriety he craved insisted upon a memorable presentation, and their once typical countryman did not disappoint. His now gaunt but heightened form was drenched in robes as black as midnight, stark to behold against the blood red of his silent cortege. When he opened his eyes, his one remaining brown eye was deep-set. The other, white and blind was not without use, roiling in an eerie attendance that stood him further apart from his peers. Skin as blanched as bone leant further impact to the demonstration, stretched overly tight across bones which seemed to jut out in all of the wrong places. The man he had once been was almost unrecognisable, in that he was as much human as he was no longer. All conscience and the idles of compassion had been eroded by the deeds he had presumably performed, in the name of his liege. He cast no shadow, he was as shadow. And yet there was no doubt, when he raised up his voice, all knew him to be who he had once been. An orator capable of swaying whatever crowd. A master of languages, and student of cultures. He had learned, travelled, experienced, and returned. He was returned. And changed.

And when he laid his hands upon the barricaded double doors, the pair of them swung slowly open, to the hush of a breath-stolen crowd.



The gaping hollow of the temple that so many knew and had set foot in before, now they hung back from, as though it too was altered. For though the gargantuan steeple rose out of the hill as ever it had done, it’s aisle stained red with the blood of uncounted sacrifices which had been witnessed upon the squat bone altar … there was a sense of death now as there had never been before. The lifeless body of the Blood Priest, Khabudolgar, twisted in the wroes of rigor mortis for all to behold. His beard was streaked with an oily sheen, and his mouth was rendered forever now open, in a voiceless scream as unearthed teeth had tumbled from their placings and accumulated to choke the back of his scaly throat. Blackened fingers reached out from bulging, boil-encrusted hands, with accusatory stumps of oozing pus toward the high dome’s pale halo. As though in contempt. The entire bone cage of the dead man’s chest seemed to have crumbled unto itself, as though some invisible foot had stamped a jagged dent through to the stone heart, which festered, black and shrunken like a dried out crab.

The culprit was in fact a poison known as ‘Riddlers Rot’, frequently used by the Jackal Tribe of Harad, which caused every organ it encroached upon to decompose while the unfortunate victim was still alive. Where and how it started it’s cruel path of decay depended entirely on how it was introduced. By consumption, direct contact, by inhalation, or directly introduced into the blood stream via an infected blade. Death was slow and agonising and the riddle part of it’s name came from the uncertainty of where the corruption had begun. Each case might be entirely unique to the next. And the only known cure was to cut out the already ruined ‘parts’, though this would often lead to death regardless in a race against the ravaging disease. None who the Jackals had visited this wrath upon had ever survived. And so there was not a soul in all of Umbar who likely knew which plant the poison was harvested from. None but the depraved individual who had set such a ruin upon the elderly Blood Priest.



Jenahda stepped out from behind the double doors, cloaked in identical garb to all of the Haradrim Guard who had flocked inside, in Pharak’s wake. As soon as the crowds had departed, she would have to see about closing down that secret entrance. The one that only Pharak had told her existed, for his role as emissary to Sauron. The one which had granted her the means to murder Khabudolgar and withdraw, leaving the crime scene utterly confounding to all but her trusted husband.

It took no time at all for the crowds of people to look to Pharak to take up command, and control of the situation. Those city guards and officials who had carried along with the rest of Umbar’s populace were all keen to assign somebody the responsibility. And though hearsay suggested that this was the work of Sauron himself, there were many who had heard of only one other such strange case in the city that could be recalled. The death of a certain Lady Lomiel Hazadazra.


The gathering was put to work, the hue and cry went out .. the whispers spread to remind all of Lady Hazadazra’s husband, a recent harbinger of crimes against the Temple … Jenahda smirked from her place of cloistered camouflage as her husband was proclaimed the new Blood Priest of Umbar. And for his first order of business, the burned man extended his gnarled-skin arms again, and called upon the people, his new congregation … to fetch forth the Lord Zorroth Hazadazra ! For sure as they had found their new ambassador to the Shadow, they had too (at his now revered counsel) identified the only man foolish enough to strike against the great and terrible Sauron.

“Bring him forth !” the calls went out and proclamations rung throughout the city, so that all heard and knew, and were complicent. In the enormous crowd which soon surrounded the home of the accused heretic. “Bring him to the Temple ! He must answer for his crime !”

For every hero recognised, there must be a villain, after all. Whether or not the people determine rightly which is which.

[Ercassie]

@Rillewen

‘Thereafter the fire and smoke went up without ceasing, for the power of Sauron daily increased, and in that temple, with spilling of blood and torment and great wickedness, men made sacrifice to Melkor that he should release them from Death .. ’
- Akallabêth, The Silmarillion.




New Blood Priest, Pharak Halsad, and his wife, Jenahda of the Jackal Tribe.
Taking command of the Temple of Sauronic Worship
Ridding the world of the likes of Zôrrôth Hazadazra. Some years ago now, late Third Age.

The cloaked guard swept down the gargantuan hill, like a widening wound, bleeding their carmine-hued course unto the errand they had been assigned. And a rabble of eyes trailed in wake of the occult host, enraptured in wonder at the sight of strength, and surety, although reluctant to take steps in truth after them. For at least so long as the marbled white orb of the disfigured Pharak seemed to fall on any, or all still at hand.

Still the minds of so many were shrouded in mystery, for the Burned Man had not explained. He had merely performed what appeared a miracle. He had opened a door with mere words that countless stronger men had tried with wide arms and mighty tools to dislodge. He had made with voice and the temple had answered, it had recognised his authority. Now calls and pleas began to hurl out of the crowd, as they sought to behold yet more strange spells and signs. Where had he been? What had happened to him to have a man they had once known so changed ? What would happen now ? Their barely restrained greed for understanding threatened to have any of the all questions unheard amidst the din.

But Pharak knew to not waste time on further theatrics when not all eyes were yet upon him. Slowly the Umbarian raised his two arms, and as though he had rendered their calls all to nothing, silence reigned. Noone wanted to not hear what he might say.


“Spread the word,” he bid them, and his words rasped like a bristled kiss of a cat’s tongue, with a gravity and confidence which ought to have been shook by the presence of so many rich politicians and powerful city mercenaries. Let alone the animated tide of the common people; overlooked perhaps except when presenting in such a mass. Cradled in the entrance of the vast stone foundation, the lone voice was amplified by the building’s acoustic. “It is in the hour of most potent dark that the all-seeing lord shall show us the way.”

And with that, Pharak turned his back on his stunned assembly and motioned with the rise of each hand, on a side of him, for the remaining Temple Guard to assist him inside. Uncertain and muttering, the throng dispersed, but their Priest cared not to ascertain that they would serve his word. There was much to manage before the great show.


“See that raised up,” the Burned man decided of the heavy wooden bar which had barricaded the doors shut since Khabudolgar had died. “We shall have a need of fire. And no temple was ever designed to keep a people out.”

---

The count of heavy feet who now trudged back up the steep hill, sounded as though hammers which sought to see it’s earthy trunk felled. Their errand having been completed, their quarry attained, without any great crash or turmoil back at the traitor’s estate. The Temple’s Blood Guard were ever as a dread whisper in their arrests. A flutter of the veils to suggest some window or door had come somehow ajar. The sweaty glove of a hand would, like a meaty shovel, flatten over all efforts to scream, or even breath, and the press of shadows seeped out from under beds, dropped down from their perch on high rafters, encroaching en masse when candle lights were all snuffed out, They most often employed a sleepers own blankets and sheets against them, masters of smothering and strangulation. Servants would come running to the sound of a half gasp or a lantern knocked from the bedside table .. to find all the room in darkness, all exits flung wide, and no sign of much more of a struggle than the absence of whoever had been took. And a three striped mark of blood to stain the front door.

Sheer panic would befall the house then, as a custom. Upon the recognition that their master was no more, and it would be no time at all before the city came at their marked property, like vultures. Slaves might flee, or try. If they were not caught, cowering in the haunts of the only home they’d known, they would find no solace in the gang-heavy streets. Most would meet who knew what other foul end so that they were left to contemplate, if they lived out the night, whether they had been better off before, or after.


The Blood Guard, the Temple, had no mind for what came of the nameless, the scabs of human society. Save that many in the city would survive solely by scavenging what had been cast off from the sacrificed noble. And for that, the people praised the Dark Lord for his gift and the deliverance of all those preserved from starvation.

The number of the returned cloaks to the temple was not seen, at first, to be any greater than it had been upon departing. What eyes witnessed the Blood Guard now, back from their trek out to the city’s limits, recognised only the addition of a pair of rolled carpets, which were bourne aloft in the arms of a good dozen men apiece. When they reached the threshold, each of these large rugs was so manipulated that it could be unravelled down the length of the mighty aisle, down the very centre of the temple’s length. Toward the altar.

Toward the new Blood Priest, the Burned Man.


The girl, Avalêazar Hazadazra, was the first to be revealed. Her involuntary roll taking her from the immobilising confines of the carpet direct to foot of the carved bone altar itself. The temple’s vast domed chamber was empty of it’s usual congregation, an unusual circumstance, though the space where many knees had been sowed by their keepers in devout and uncomfortable worship could almost be read in the cold cobbled stone floor all about. The aisle she had travelled was dipped slightly lower than the rest of the floor, for it was not stone that made up the unhappy path but a long tongued strong grate of some ancient metal, whereby the blood of the sacrificed could naturally sluice away to feed the lonely hill below. Young Ava’s arms and legs having been pinned to her sides, she had been without the means to struggle or else harm herself, even in the attempts of escape. And before she could rightly regain her balance from the debilitating vertigo, a strong arm at the base of her neck, encouraged the young woman to acknowledge a Guard behind her. Encouraged her to sink to her knees and behold the despoiled form of Khabudolgar which decorated the top of the altar: a fell pinnacle atop of a crude pyre of readied woods.

Once the girl was positioned off to the left of the aisle, her father followed the same trek of derogatory passage, until he too found himself reeling and held off to the right, before regaining proper sense of what was happening. As if the act of being taken by the Blood Guard could have ever signalled any outcome save for one most feared. That the temple was displeased. The temple demanded an audience. The temple was not going to take no for an answer. And the temple had decided, this was the hour that you would die.


The Burned Man paced between his readied audience and the bone-forged atrocity which reared up like a waiting beast behind him. Around the far perimeter of the round tower ran a fence of Blood Guard, three men wide. As Pharak raised both hands, and threw his head back to face the domed canopy aloft, the border of cloaked guards began to tread in their circle. The innermost row of them facing inwards, the middle row facing sidelong, and the outer most row facing toward the thick black stained walls of the temple. Three circles rotated, in a trio of alternating directions and none with any great haste.

Their steps seemed to rouse the clanging of many bells although none would be seen. And the chant they fell to was of the old words, words they did not rightly understand for all the sanctity that they had been taught it all meant. The chant and their tread took them in a three-wayed orbit which cast macabre shadows about the high walls, embodying the temple itself with the appearance of countless souls incarcerated in the stone.

Besides those who stood sentry behind both the bound offerings, it was impossible to see Jenahda all of the time. She circled first around the one vast stone pillar which reached up to the roof on one side of the altar, to circle it’s momentous twin after, which mirrored the height on the altar’s other side. From each of these tall pillars a great chain slunk like a slovenly, metallic snake and the cloaked woman uncoiled these horrific vines, by way of dragging at the single, solid shackle which marked the end of each one. A flaming brand was brandished in her other hand, which lit the sharpness of the smile seen beneath her else cloaked face.


As she circled the twin pillars, as her cloaked brethrin made their occult orbit about the temple’s innermost reaches, all the time still the Burned Man’s lips danced. To form some soundless spell he bestowed unto the dark ceiling, coaxing the great blackened steel dome of the Temple to slowly peel back. A cold enveloping chill crept down the enormous chimney that all present were amassed in, and once the night sky was wholly unveiled above, with the moon peering down like a single unblinking eye, Pharak halted his prayer.

“Zôrrôth Hazadazra. Avalêazar Hazadazra. You have one chance to confess.”


The Blood Priest made it sound as though what words either of the nobles might manage to utter, .. might make the slightest bit of difference to what would happen next. Perhaps he was only granting the condemned a reprieve until a more sizeable audience arrived. For the return of the Blood Guard, the low tones of the cloaked choir's chant, the opening of the domed roof .... all who had seen such a thing before knew what that meant. And those who did not yet, would soon find the memory etched into their mind ever after.

With the moonlight pouring down, a stream of curiosity had begun now to skitter back up the steep, red-paved, path to the head of the hill. The audience expectant. At the Temple's entrance, each might make their pleas to the three lines of sentries, quite why they ought be permitted entry, to see the spectacle for themselves .

[Rillewen]

@Ercassie

|
Zôrrôth & Avalêazar Hazadazra
On "trial" in the Temple

The carpet in which she was wrapped was smothering. Ava wanted to struggle, to fight, and break free. But she was trapped, pinned, and helpless. It was a feeling she did not like one bit. Squirming made no difference, other than to perhaps cause some inconvenience for those who were carrying her. Since she could not physically fight her captors, she was fighting another kind of fight; against a terror that threatened to overtake all her sense.

After what felt like hours, as she was finally spun free of her prison, Ava staggered dizzily as she tried to get her bearings. And came face-to-face with the horrific sight of a corpse, atop the bone altar. She hardly even recognized the priest, Khabudolgar, and she instinctively recoiled from the sight. The awful stench was enough to choke her. The terror that had been suffocating her before now rose in height as she recognized where she was. If she had not known before where she was being taken, there was no question about it, now. Before she could do anything more, a rough hand gripped her at the base of the neck, pushing her to her knees.

Before Ava had even a moment to try and think, they began to unroll another carpet. She watched with horror as her father was revealed, looking just as disoriented as she felt. He was just as helpless as she. Ava felt sick. Swiftly, a part of their conversation, before going to bed, flashed in her mind.

"I do not want to lose you, too."
"Don't worry, Ava. Nothing like that is going to happen. I'll be fine, for no one knows that it is me behind that mask."

She felt as if she were frozen in place. Her stomach churned, terror mixing with revulsion, and she couldn't bear to look at the horrible corpse on the altar. Her gaze locked onto her father, as if seeking some sort of cue, or some empty reassurance from him. He couldn't possibly say that everything would be alright, now, and yet she longed more than ever for him to say something like that. And stronger still was the desire to fight their way out of this terrible predicament. But there was no chance of that. They were vastly surrounded, and even if they tried to fight, what then? They'd be overwhelmed in seconds.

Zorroth, looking around, saw the same thing that his daughter saw. That there was no chance of fighting their way out of this. Especially with their arms bound to their sides. How could this be happening? He had been so careful not to be discovered. He'd been sure that no one would be able to tell who he was. He had been... a little too bold, perhaps, in trying to win others to his cause, in secret. Trying to convince people that this city needed a change. Trying to form a gathering in secret, to host a meeting of like-minded people who wanted things to change around here. But he had tried to keep his identity a secret. Could it be that someone had recognized him, anyway? Had someone reported him?

His stomach twisted into knots, feeling a horrible dread somewhere in his gut. He looked over at his daughter. Only a few hours ago, she had expressed her worry. He had reassured her that she had nothing to worry about. How wrong he had been. And now... now she was going to die for it? That couldn't happen! He turned his gaze toward the man covered in burns, who was uttering prayers. Zorroth knew this ritual, for he had been here to deliver his own sacrifices every month but this last. But... this man was not the priest. Zorroth felt a momentary confusion about this, but one look at the altar explained where the priest was. So... this was his replacement?

The implication of this made all hopes threaten to fade from his heart. Not to mention the realization that he, Zorroth, was about to die. And his daughter... his heart wrenched at the thought that she would also die. No... she mustn't! He thought of his wife, and her belief that Ava was destined to bring about great changes, someday. She had high hopes for their daughter, but now, because of him, Zorroth felt those hopes fading into nothing. He had to do something, somehow. Some last, desperate act, if it would save her, would be worth it. His mind raced in a panic, trying to think of some possible solution. Even as Pharak was making his prayer, Zorroth found himself in a desperate state of mind. So desperate, he did something he had never done before. He... attempted a prayer of his own, unto the gods of his late wife. He had no idea if it would be heard, nor even if there was anything the others could do to help. Here, of all places, in a temple to Sauron. But it was his only hope. He prayed in silence, in desperation, pleading that his daughter might somehow escape this terrible fate. He vowed that he would surrender his own life, if only she could survive somehow.

No sooner had he made such a promise, than Pharak turned and declared that he had one chance to confess. Zorroth stared back at him, his thoughts racing about frantically. And then, as if the thought had come to him from elsewhere, he got an idea. It was a long shot. And it was a big gamble. He would lose any chance at convincing anyone he was innocent of the charges which had seen him dragged here. His vow, made moments ago, brushed his memory. Yes. He had to take this gamble. For her sake.

He turned to his daughter, wearing a look of shock and outrage. "You betrayed me?" He accused her. Play along, he mentally pleaded. Please, play along. You reported me, didn't you?" He demanded, as his head indicated the direction of the two priests.. one dead, and the other taking his place. "How could you do this to me? Your own father?"

Ava was still staring in stunned horror at the corpse on the altar, when her father's words made her turn to him. Inwardly, she was baffled and a bit hurt... for just a moment. But she knew he couldn't really think that. Heart racing, she stared at him for a few heartbeats, while her mind hastened to understand what he was saying. He must know she would not have betrayed him. She watched him closely, seeking to understand whatever cue he was trying to give her. She listened, her heart racing wildly as she tried to understand. He was... trying to make her say that she had done this, wasn't he? She looked, with revulsion twisting up her stomach, at the horrible corpse on the altar, and thought back to something her father had told her on the day he brought her the news of her mother's death.

They had to appear strong in public. No tears, no weakness. Save that for behind closed doors. It was easier said than done, of course, but the girl made an effort to build a wall up around her feelings. To show an appearance of detachment. To appear like she.. didn't care that her father was accusing her of betraying him. He didn't mean it, she told herself. But he had announced it, and had made a bit of a show about it. So... he would not want her to deny it. Right? He knew she hadn't, and would never do that. But this guy... did not know that. So she had to make him believe it, she reasoned. Her father had a plan, and she tried to trust that he knew what he was doing.

Thinking swiftly, Ava raised her chin in a small act of defiance, though she felt like she could begin trembling any moment. "What is the meaning of this?" She dared to demand. She wasn't quite sure what would happen next, but she tried to follow her father's cue. He must have some sort of idea that would get them out of this, she supposed. "I specifically requested that my father would not know that it was I who reported him," She declared with a frown, then hesitated as her dark eyes flicked down to the dead man atop the altar. "He promised.. it would remain a secret, who had turned him in." She swallowed with some difficulty, thinking about what else she might be able to use to her advantage.

People would know about her betrothal to the priest's nephew, right? She forced herself to look away from the grisly sight before her, and turned her gaze to the other, trying to make herself appear as if she were annoyed or displeased, rather than frightened. "I did not wish to begin my marriage to Dôlgubên with Father's secrets lurking in some dark closet, waiting to come out and ruin everything someday." She explained, feigning a dark glance toward her father, while hoping that he would approve of her improvisation. "But I did not want him to know it was me." She added with a little pout. Just like any proper 'spoiled rich girl' knew how to do.

"Avatyara*," Zorroth muttered, daring to use a word of his wife's people's tongue. Then he unexpectedly sprung to his feet, surprising the guard behind him as he shook him off. "I'll kill you, girl!" He declared with an angry voice as he rushed toward her, before any of the red-robed men could halt his progress. His hands were bound, but his feet... one lashed out toward her as he sought to deal just enough harm to render her unacceptable as a sacrifice. It was the only time he had ever struck his daughter, and it hurt his heart to do it, and it hurt even more, hearing her cry out. But it might just save her. It was... a desperate act which he prayed would not be rendered useless.


*(Quenya = "Forgive me")

[Silky Gooseness]

Belzâgar and Silendra. volunteers for sacrifice welcomed

Tap, tap, tap .

“Will you stop that?” Belzâgar snapped, irritation sharpening his voice as he cut a sidelong look at his companion, a louche fair-haired woman of indiscriminate age who was tapping her fingernails on the dank metal of the cages as they passed. He himself was nervously drumming his fingers on his thigh, which he immediately noticed at that moment and stopped. This made him more irritable than ever.

“Oh, sorry,” said the woman, not sounding sorry in the slightest, as she straightened slightly. Unsheathing a dagger from her hip, she began rattling the hilt against the metal bars instead, producing a harsher clangour. Belzâgar winced. She smiled at him, brightly and maliciously.

“Hungover?” she suggested.

“I don’t know how you aren’t,” he groused bitterly.

For a brief moment the green of her eyes was swallowed by a depthless and silent darkness.

“I don’t allow the mortal tolerances of this body to bother me so much,” she declared, rattling the hilt along the bars all the more merrily. “There, here’s a more lively one, don’t you see?”

From within the dank confines of the cage, the wretched of humanity languished; this close to the temple, some of the vendors kept them sluiced down; others prettied them up, oiled and displayed as though they were to be sold for more than meat. Still others drugged them into a listless compliance, but the reek of despair still clung heavily to the air.

“I like it when they wiggle a bit,” the woman confided. “Keeps the priest on his toes, more savour to our Lord, don’t you think?”

[Merewyn]

Sakalthôr: Searching for a Blessing - Pt. I

Life had never been kind to Sakalthôr, that was the honest truth. From the moment he was born to this very day, he had to fight for his place in this world. A sickly infant who only managed to climb to childhood through the care of an elder sister, a runt of a child who only found his way to his teenage years by being quick-footed and handy with a knife, a teenager who only grew to manhood by sneaking, conniving, and resorting to all manner of crime and wicked deeds. He had never had much luck, only a persistent will to survive and the complete lack of morals that allowed one to achieve that. There was no one he wouldn't rob, fight, hurt, or kill, if it meant he made it to the next day and could feed himself and his family. Yes, family. Strange as it may seem, even the most hardened and wicked of men fell prey to the whims of the heart and Sakalthôr was no exception.

Many years past he had met and fallen for a washerwoman by the name of Azruphêl, who reciprocated the feeling, despite the desperate urgings of her family not to join hands with him. And despite their pleas that she leave him and find a man of more worth, they wed and conceived two children, their sons Karbazîr and Bawbuthôr . Life was still unkind to him, even after marriage and the birth of his children, and his run of foul luck never seemed to end, but despite it all he persisted. He lied, cheated, stole, and killed to feed his family. Some years he was away often, sailing with Corsair captains and raiding the outlying towns of Gondor. Others he would remain in Umbar, pilfering and fencing items from the wealthier citizens of the coastal city. Throughout it all he received nothing but hatred and vitriol from his in-laws, never mind the fact that their daughter and grandchildren were well-housed, well-fed, and had enough coin to spare.

But things had taken a rather sour turn lately. The last three times he had tried to burgle a home he was nearly caught and returned empty handed. He had twice tried to find work among the ships of Umbar, but word of his unreliability had spread on the docks, and no Captain would take him. Had he been a sailor for all his years, perhaps they might have. But his reputation as a fair-weather deckhand and thief had earned him a reputation as one who could not be trusted, not when it came down to it. And so, the coin he and Azruphêl had begun to diminish and wither away. Soon they found themselves selling many of their prized possessions, then their very home. Their in-laws took them in, their daughter and the children, but Sakalthôr was unwelcome. His wife and children had a roof over their heads and food in the bellies, while he slept on the street or in abandoned buildings. It was a far cry from what he felt he deserved.

Weeks passed that way, with his stomach rumbling and his hands shaking with anger. He still found no work and what little he managed to steal was hardly worth enough to feed himself. Things had gone from bad to worse and Sakalthôr's mindset grew fouler and fouler by the day. After nearly a month, he turned to darker impulses. More than one wandering citizen of Umbar had a knife put to their throat and their purses emptied, and most of those did not live to tell the tale. But even that was not enough to climb out of the pit he found himself in. As the nights grew colder, he found his thoughts reaching darker places within him. Life seemed to conspire against him and nothing he did could affect it. He was mortal, just a man, and it seemed fate itself was against him. What he needed was a blessing, guidance and strength from one stronger and wiser than he.

One night, as his mind wandered to these thoughts, he looked up and saw high upon the hilltops the Temple of Sauron. He stared hard at it, his mind racing, when a solution came to him. His eyes glinted as a smile crept across his lips, and he tossed his head back laughing aloud. Yes, yes, yes! This is the way. If I can't fix this myself, mayhaps the Dark Lord will bless me. And I have just the offering to make for him.

A few hours later Sakalthôr found himself crossing the threshold of the Temple, carrying a large, heavy sack behind his back. The sack occasionally moved, seemingly of its own accord, but no sound came from it. His back strained under the weight of the sack and his knees bent. When he finally was within the doors of the Temple he threw the bag down unceremoniously, letting out a sigh of relief at the loss of weight, and knelt beside the sack. He briefly untied it, opening it ever so slightly to check the contents. He poked whatever was inside and seemingly satisfied, retied the bag. He stood up then, stretching his arms and legs and rubbing his hands together, as he looked for a Priest.

[Ercassie]

Fair warning - this post may be unpleasant for the average reader. But, what did you expect, really, in a Mordorian forum ?


@Rillewen

The Blood Priest, Pharak Halsad, and his wife, Jenahda of the Jackal tribe.
Bringing down death upon Zôrrôth Hazadazra and his daughter.
Some years ago now, late Third Age. This is a FLASHBACK

The little spectacle was allowed to play out, for a time, drawing on the silenced awe of a curious audience. Pharak regarded the pair of ‘performers’ from atop a crooked neck, as might a cat keep blinkless watch upon a prey who did not realise it had already been severed from all the world it had ever laid trust in. The raucous cackle of laughter had hurtled from Jenahda’s throat when the young girl had raised her shrill voice up as though she held any authority .. here. The vast heights of the ancient walled confines meant it was difficult to know where the woman’s cruel amusement had ceased and it’s mocking echo had taken up the slack. The cloaked guards did not intervene until the man had struck out at his child with a sharp kick. They did not seek to protect the young girl. They sought only to ensure that her parent learnt. He was not the one who would deliver hurt this day.

“A servant of the Shadow has no need of reports to know the truth of a deceitful tongue,” the Blood Priest spoke up, as his aides swarmed Zorro, their weight alone disarming his any further attempts at physical defiance. Without committing injury. “All minds are open books, all secrets laid bare before his all-knowing might from the very moment you birth their treacherous notion into thought.”

He leered down at the pouting little lady and dismissed her attempts at allegiance as though the brave words were flies cast aside by the snap of a horse’s tail. “That is why you are here,” Pharak thrust the words through slick teeth, lending a stare first upon the one and then the other of those bent under strong limbs, at his feet. “And that .. was no fitting confession that would indicate a single shred of remorse,” he condemned their ‘efforts’.


“Let us see what you conceal beneath all that finery,” Jenahda slid a serrated blade out of the belt of a guard who held Ava, and met no resistance from the warrior she’d so undressed. “All those fine oils you drench these pretty locks with, will avail you not, once flames devour every inch …” The Harad woman’s sinewy arm was strong as a serpent as it’s heavy cloaked trappings were cast back. The blade swept through the girl’s dark hair with a lively animation that saw the baiter’s dark eyes gleam.

“The father first,” Pharak spoke up, his interruption summoning his wife’s reluctant attention. “For it is a parent's duty to school their young.” Even as a solid metal shackle was secured around each of the kneeling man’s ankles, Jenahda raised her bare but weapon bearing arm, to direct the girl observe her father .. as the chains that tailed from his fetters slowly but surely dragged him backwards across the grate. The encircling fence of cloaked guards had begun their unholy chant once more, rotating in their alternating cycles, as the unfortunate man was seized up as though a puppet, manipulated by some unseen force. He would not see what was behind him, but all in Umbar who had set foot in the temple knew. By the time his restraints had taken him up from all contact with the floor, he would hear the slow metallic clank of a vast mechanism lurching into place. By the time he was fully suspended upside down, vulnerable to every sway or ungainly shudder of convulsing panic, the slow dropping shadow of the immense saw would force it’s presence even past the most firmly closed eyes.

The oscillating blade dropped a noticeable distance from it’s height with every titan swing that it’s dread cradle rocked then. The voices of arcane rite rose in ever greater volume from the sidelines, as the unprotected human gift was rendered further upward, the searing scythe with all it’s promise of pain and humility lowering to meet it. Until the first singing vibration split the air between Zôrrôth's two legs. Then Pharak’s voice carried above even the chorus of all those others complicit. As the seconds took the horror from inevitable to eventual.


The first slashing assault that tore through flesh, cast rains of life’s blood indiscriminately from it’s source. There was a very functional reason that the acolytes of the temple were cloaked in their garish scarlet hue. The second blow hauled back then in the opposite direction to it’s last, trawling the exposed and ravaged meat first one way, then the next until the still breathing carcass caught in it’s path was rendered unto further courses of agony. And so on, and so forth. The unrelenting blade rove both ways, dropping ever lower as the chains heaved it's meal more firmly upward into grasp, wresting muscle, bone, and tissue without ever snagging once. With each new carry of momentum, the grated aisle below grew ever more bespeckled, and then outright sluiced with blood. The globular garnet river snaked it's way toward young Ava, where strong hands held her jaw in a fierce clamp of Jenahda's fingers so that she could not turn away. The only uncertainty now, was whether the gargantuan saw would cleave through the head of the girl's father itself, before the separated two halves of his leaking torso came apart of their own accord first. Already entrails and worse slumped in wet chunks and bedraggled tendrils both .. upon the altar and the oblivious corpse whose rigor mortis seemed to express a true reaction to the sacrifice his own had guaranteed.