Post by BetaWülf on Dec 4, 2015 18:13:41 GMT -6
The Retaking
(Huka's Intro post, written(obviously) by Huka )
Khamûl The Easterling
In the darkness gifted by the shroud of his dark-weaved tent with only the fell glow of his Master’s alter to project the being standing. A Man long dead of body and twisted of spirit, forever forced to wear the veil of morgul cloak to bear shape to his begotten form. Identity mattered little...for he was but one of the Dark Lord’s remaining nine fingers. Dark whispers ate at the flame, causing its holy presence to writhe and bend before the Black Speech’s fell tongue until finally all Light was eaten and the small array of melting candles erupted into a belching pyro. Shaping itself into a naked all-seeing Eye, its flames licking at the servant’s physical bond to this material plane and the Void within it bearing upon him.
“Lord of my Ring, we stand at the edge of the elfwoods ruled by the hiding king. What is thy command?” The whisper questioned from the unpierced darkness’ bowed veil. “Carve the flesh of elf-friends. Twist the mithril mind of Dwarf. Humble the starlight of the Elven folk in my Shadow, my servant. Celebrate the retaking of my foothill in their blood. Let them all know my reach is never severed or risk my punishment.” A voice, once wrapped in sweet honey on their first meeting was naked with endless hatred and constant ambition that crackled like the heart of his One Ring’s forge. There was an odd sensation of the Ringwraith’s melded feel of hate and pure admiration for his Dark Master. Hatred of being a servant while once a powerful king of elven-blood with a great kingdom to call his own and the sad admiration of being gifted with such power that he may never would have discovered as a mere mortal..despite never to love the sight of the beautiful sun ever again.
However, Khamul the Dragon-Lord have accepted his fate long ago. He was his Master’s cunning hunter and the demand of elf-blood will sate the retribution upon the Elven Light Galadriel for her part in their retreat, even if it was planned. “It will be done, Oh Giver of Many Gifts.” The Second of the Nine praised with a passionate place of his plated hand over a dead heart as to pledge success to one’s chieftain, the ring that weighs more than any king’s duty and burns as the constant chain between slave and master from its bewitched jewel and band. This almost seemed to pacify the writhing Eye and as quick as it came, snuffed away without trace or memory.
There is only Khamul again. An audible sniff broke the momentary silence, hooded head turned towards the closed flap of his tent. “Captain, you may enter.” He commands warily. It took a few heartbeats before a woman parted her way in. Presently fit and projecting for her station, dressed in the red-wine trappings with lessened use of Rhunic plate to aid in the wood transverse. Standing in attention, face hidden under her scarf and crest of the Sauron’s Eye raising beyond the Black Mountains, the Captain’s honey eyes kept to their place.
Women were a rare thing to behold in the Easterling military and that alone provoked her presence in this demand. She proved herself beyond the house-wives and priestesses of home, she have slain more men than her peers and no doubt have killed officers who have proved inadequate to their duties, taking their place until finally, her exploits were caught by his eyes enough to serve. The Nazgul could taste the fear properly given and the pain of many battles and punishments oozing from wounds long seals to slowly reopen in his dark presence. He made her stand there, silent and obedient to him in the pain. Her honey eyes remained down at his boots, never to look straight in his nonexistent eyes. It felt like an eternity no doubt, until finally his drowned voice hissed. “Prepare the troops. We march at nightfall, scouts and orcs first, then the rest.”
“As you decree, Lord.” She answered humbly with a low bow of her upper body and quickly retreated by the command of a dismissed gesture. Khamul turning his back when he was alone and her steps silencing in a few strides into the two-leveled camp housing the Host. While his own tent rested far from his servants on a ledge shrouded by the woods, overlooking the organized ranks of tents and the orcs' own variant of organization. The subtle shimmer of the Nazgul's sorcery shrouding them all from the elf-magic and their awareness, it will give them time...and the time to move is soon.
Gonle, Son of Borin
Sergeant of Erebor
Bright Moon Out Tonight
Gonle patrolled the walls of Dol Guldur, though he preferred the old name of Amon Lanc, though that referred to the hill itself and was obsolete since it meant "bald hill" in Sindarin. Not very bald with a fortress on it. The air was crisp and the moonlight was incredibly bright even though the evening was young still, the ground fairly visible in front of him and a ways ahead. He waved to one of the Men in greeting as he walked past them, another volunteered member of the night watch.
Gonle, despite his best efforts, was not in good standing with the Elven commander of the Garrison guarding Dol Guldur. The Dwarven Sergeant would certainly rather be sleeping, but it was not up to him. So here he was, walking the walls along with a few other individuals on the commander's bad side.
He peered out over the walls at the forest, he couldn't see anything, but he still felt uneasy. Never knew when the Giant spiders were going to come crawling up the walls, but they were fairly noisy so he figured any threats would be easily heard. He went back to walking the walls, dismissing his fear of the gigantic arachnids as he patrolled.
Bruzog Undag Bûrgulumau
Captain of Mordor
There's Knife Works Needs Doin'
Bruzog sat in the encampment atop a stump, adjusting the straps on the inner side of his bracer. His helmet sat on his thigh, the Orcs face plain to see for all those around him. His eyes were focused on the task at hand, wanting to have his bracer tight enough to prevent rotation and loose enough to not cut off circulation.
The other Orcs around him were mostly from his own Tribe, as he generally disliked the other groupings enough to avoid them if possible. The others always seemed to clash for stupid reasons, mostly if they shared the same rank as Bruzog himself. During his time as a Captain, he'd been challenged by two others of the same rank, and by three one rank below him. He'd killed all of them with extreme prejudice, as he didn't want his Tribe falling into the wrong hands. He wanted his own son to succeed him, not some overstepping Captain.
Bruzog was in the center of his own Regiment's tented circle, his own tent being in the center, well guarded from throat cutting rivals by a merciless horde of loyal warriors. There was always at least a dozen of his Soldiers patrolling their camp, four patrolling the center, two patrolling the center ring, and six patrolling the outer ring. Bruzog however was not worried about challenges now, their mission was too vital for anyone to be stupid enough to attempt a coup until it was over.
Bruzog stood, an imposing Orc and the embodiment of Sauron's clever breedings. He was the perfect Orc, massive, cunning, fierce, and able to walk under the sun without incident. Gundabad Orc and Black Uruk combined into the ultimate breed of Orc, or so Bruzog and his Tribe believed. "Rally the Regiment Pizbûr, I want every tent empty and every blade and bludgeon brought to bear" Bruzog commanded, directing his orders to a trusted Pizbûr(Sergeant).
