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PostPosted: November 11th, 2009, 12:11 pm 
Maia
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(Great charries, Tuveren :-D

Alrighty Will! And I’ve put you down on the list, Nauriel. :-D )

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PostPosted: November 11th, 2009, 2:56 pm 
Balrog
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(And, at long last, the bios are finally coming... :P

Name: Krugmuk
Gender: Male
Age: Unknown
Race: Uruk-hai
Appearance: Are you sure you really want to know what this gnarly fellow looks like? :P Well, to make him sound nice, black dreadlocks, teeth fairly unmangled as orc-teeth go, lovely hunchback, bow-legged, and of course with perpetually filthy attire...
Personality: Krugmuk has as much personality as your typical orc, no more, no less. This entails general nastiness, hatred of all things lovely, love of all things gory and disgusting, and slavish obedience to his superiors.
History: Bred and raised in Mordor, he has known no other place. Obedience to his masters, and above all, his Master, are all that he knows. The other orcs don't mind him too much, and think he's rather decent as Uruks go, but then they still wouldn't mind killing him (or anyone else, for that matter) to save their own hides or advance their position.

Name: Bremeard
Gender: Male
Age: 30
Race: Men (Rohirric)
Appearance: Shaggy, unkempt blonde hair, brown eyes, rugged facial features. Of slightly above average height and of average build. His clothes, which are more like rags, are varying shades of brown and other earth tones. His face is most often bent into a scowl.
Personality: Before his captivity, he was a rather pleasant, average sort of guy. However, now he has a tendency to be more sour and stubborn, always bitter toward his captors. He is still willing to do much to escape, and depending on the day, his mood toward others might be nicer.
History: He had a normal life growing up in Rohan, in the country. When he was in his 20s, he began growing concerned with the state of affairs over Mordor-way, and trained for a while to be a soldier, along with his two brothers, Aredhelm and Ceorl. While on a trip in Gondor at the age of 26, he was waylaid by orcs and taken the short distance to Mordor, instead of being killed. There, he has been interrogated and kept in confinement for nearly four years.)

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PostPosted: November 11th, 2009, 4:31 pm 
Vala
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Okie dokie, here's my bio!

Name: Daeron
Age:36
Race: Man (Gondorian)
Appearance: http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs40/f/2009/ ... xshado.jpg
Daeron is tall and rather skinny.
Personality: Sarcastic, and at times a bit caustic. He's learned to hold his tongue somewhat around the guards, namely as a form of self preservation, but his aptitude towards biting comments has still earned him more than his fair share of scars.
Towards his fellow prison mates he has much the same attitude, although his sarcasm is meant more for entertainment than to be mean.
History: Raised in Gondor, Daeron became a ranger of Ithilien. He and his group were attacked by orcs one day. Caught be surprise and outnumbered, all of the men were either captured or killed.


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PostPosted: November 11th, 2009, 5:30 pm 
Maia
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(Brilliant, guys! Okay, now we can start! :-D )

Will wrote:

"You're wasting your breath girl." A voice sounded from one of the cells opposite to Luthien's. The man, to whom the voice belonged, was invisible for Luthien as he'd remained in the shadow of the back of his cell. "The more you talk, the more you expose yourself." His voice sounded emotionless and calm as if he'd resigned himself to his fate. "It is no use."


Luthien heard the male voice drifting over to her from the opposite cell. She could not see him, as he kept to the back of his cell, sitting in the shadows. She shrugged her slim shoulders. “I will fight them even if I die here,” she said flatly. She knew that she was captured, imprisoned in this monstrous land; but she would rather have died here fighting till the last than to have given in. She imagined becoming like the young woman who had come to her cell to interrogate her; she was sure she was Gondorian, like her. Arawen had obviously become their servant to survive. How could she bear to lead such a life? Contemptuously, Luthien threw away any sympathy she might have for her; she was an enemy. Hugging her arms around her knees, she rested her head against the rich fabric of her gown, which was now stained with blood and dust. She’d put up a bit of a struggle when they’d captured her.
Gazing round at the walls of her tiny cell, she remembered her home in Gondor. She had made a small garden there, as beautiful as any garden could be. Luthien took great pride in the flowers she grew. A while ago, she had come up with an idea. Full of spite and a deep sense of vengeance, she had gone to the borders of Ithilien, dangerously close to enemy territory, and had planted some of her flowers, carefully taken with her in trays brimming with fresh soil, in the earth.
On reflection, it hadn’t really been any sort of proper revenge, not really, against Mordor. But she’d known that Mordor was a horrible, barren sort of place, and had decided it was rather funny. Trust her – she scowled now thinking of it – that she had picked a day when orcs were on patrol. They might have just killed her if she hadn’t spoken (well, yelled, really) in such a… ferocious… manner. Luthien was a well-brought up young lady, but she knew some rather horrific language.
In Elvish, too.
And it hadn’t pleased them. The Elvish tongue was uglier above everything to the ears of orcs. And obviously they understood the common speech, too, which she had used to insult them, as one drew a sword on her, in none too polite terms. Now she was here.
Sighing, she buried her head in her lap, her mind on Gondor. If anything, the thought of her country and her people would get her through this ordeal. It had to. It was Gondor, or death.

Arawen strode down the corridor, no expression on her features; a cold marble statue, unfeeling as winter. She gazed straight ahead of her, and it was unfortunate for the orc scuttling round the corner that Arawen was in a particularly icy mood when it collided into her. It squawked and stepped back, recognizing her for the Mouth of Sauron’s servant; his most violent, disloyal servant.
It bowed it’s head in a hideous form of salute. Knowing who she worked for, no slight would be forgiven. “My lady… I’m sorry, I weren’t lookin’ where I was goin’…”
“Be quiet,” Arawen said, simply. “I don’t care, quite frankly. Kindly get out of my way. You know who I’m going to see.”
It almost squeaked in terror, ugly features contorting into an anxious expression. “Yes, yes…” it edged around her, remembering the tale of the rebel uruk-hai who had dared disobey orders. No fingers left, was the tale, and she had left him like that until finally he’d got one of his fellow uruks to finish him off. Shuddering, the orc all but ran down the corridor.
Arawen wordlessly continued walking until she reached the chambers of her master. Strolling in without knocking, she found that the chambers were empty. In his place, scribbling at the ornate black desk, was his poor tortured clerk. The clerk looked up and visibly paled. “Master’s away, Lady Arawen. Important business.” Shivering, he ducked his head, avoiding her gaze.
“Very well.” Arawen shrugged it off. “I shall report to him later.” Whatever business was at hand, it was none of her concern. Leaving the room, she wondered where her work should next best take her.

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PostPosted: November 11th, 2009, 10:16 pm 
Ent
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Rayelin moved to the front of her cell, adjacent to the new prisoner's, so the light, what there was of it, shone on her face. "I swore to fight as well," she said softly, "but I hold my tongue now in the chance that I may one day escape with a whole skin from this pit of horror. They hear nothing from me, so they do not hurt me, but neither do I serve them, so they cannot break me. I am whole," she tapped her head, "in here, at least. For months I've languished here--there's nothing else to do, really. Just sit, and think, and eat what crumbs they may remember to throw you, or not, and hope there's a chance for escape--or death."
She ran her hands down the place where a sword would hang, missing the feel of the weapon in her hand. One day she would have one in them again, and fight her way free of here or die with as many of them dead as she could take. She knew it was futile in the great scheme of things, though, knew that they would be spawned evernew to replace the old. But at least it would bring her some satisfaction. She sighed and retreated back to where she could lean against the wall, covered in grime as was the rest of her. Everything decayed here, untended to. The prisoners no less; she had seen, or rather heard, some prisoners die screaming, some in a glazed silence of brooding as the months went by. But she was still there, kept preserved by the thoughts in her mind that refused to give in. Even if the rest of her decayed like the prison, that place in her mind would remain intact. She closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable.

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PostPosted: November 12th, 2009, 11:38 am 
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[ I finally decided what turn the character of my charrie will take.. so he might be somewhat different from my first post :P ]

Bëor stretched himself in the dark corner of his cell. He'd snorted loudly at the words of the two ladies. "Women.." he groaned under his breath. His entire life had he been trying to avoid them and now, he was locked up with them all around him. Even here they couldn't keep themselves from behaving foolish and non sensical. He couldn't even enjoy his captivity by their irritating blathering.
Bëor had been imprisoned for such a long time that he'd lost track of time. And probably lost track of his sanity as well.
The man heaved a deep sigh when they had stopped talking. There was no use of speaking when the silence was not improved. He grinned. Women...

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PostPosted: November 12th, 2009, 4:18 pm 
Vala
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Daeron glanced at the newly made prisoner, smirking as he watched her attack Arawen with all the verbal ferocity she could muster. She'd learn very quickly that mere words contained no power compared to the enemy's horrible physical weapons. Still, he had to admire her spunk. A fresh face, a fresh spirit, in this hell hole, was more than welcome. Down deep in this musty dank cavern any new sign of life was a blessing. Any change from the terrible, cold darkness, from the never ending dread of torture, was akin to comfort.

Pulling his gaze away for the girl called Luthien, he turned to the man named Beor, who at this moment had a very strange, childish grin plastered on his face. "Women" he muttered.

"Very good" Daeron replied sardonically, in a babying tone. "Those are women. Would you like to learn colors next?"


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PostPosted: November 12th, 2009, 6:18 pm 
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Emanon is in her early years on a warm summer day. The sun light is slanting through the leaves of the tree she is standing beneath. Emanon hears her name being called and she starts to run through the wind blown grass, her chestnut tresses streaming behind her. She soon sees her father waiting for her in the distance, smiling and holding out his arms. She runs into his embrace, hugging him close. Suddenly, she feels her clothes dampening and her father releases her from his blood stained hold. Terrified, Emanon looks from his bloodied hands to his tear spattered face and hears him say, "I am sorry, Emanon, I am so sorry."

Emanon stares into the lightlessness that is her cold cell, involuntarily trembling from the recollection of her most recent reverie turned bad. Many of her cherished memories, the only things that she had remaining in this place, had ended thus - in blood. She starts as she sees the scarred countenance of the man responsible for these gruesome changes leering at her through the bars of her cell.

"You are frightened of me." The man said lamely; not as a question but as a statement of fact. His presuming manner maddened Emanon, yet she tried to conceal her feelings of anger, for she knew that they had pleased him in the past. She would grant him no pleasure, no matter how small.

"I am not afraid of you." She stressed the last syllable, but her voice faltered as she eyed his scarred face once again.

"I see, you need not be afraid of that," he says softly, almost tenderly, "A countenance can veil or unveil the character of its host. It can veil treacherous hearts and unveil hearts that are truthful. The face before you is a truthful one, it is a reflection of the deformed state of its soul." He related this mechanically, as though he had told this to others several times before. "I do not attempt to hide behind a false face." His lips arched into the beginnings of a malicious smile; he had a knowing look as if he had read her previous thoughts. "Are not the faces that try to conceal the ones that are to be feared? Would you rather cast your eyes upon a beautiful face that conceals a treacherous heart - a face of deceit -or would you cast those self same eyes upon a hideous face that reflects its hideous heart?" He had been pacing but he now paused. "It is such in Mordor. There is truth here; truth that is not found in the sullied state of Gondor." He raises his voice. "You hear that? You attempt to defend the honor of an already honorless state. Gondor is nothing but a country of treachery and deceit."

Emanon could not respond, the words would not come, and when they did he had already disappeared again.


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PostPosted: November 12th, 2009, 7:01 pm 
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"I do not believe that I asked you anything" Bëor replied coldly. Still from the corner of his cell he gazed, with his piercing glare, sharply at Daeron. Bëor's eyes had always been remarkable, as they were bright and amazingly blue. Even now, with his blond hair wild and almost reaching his shoulder and a full beard on his chin, they stood out. But only those who came close enough could notice it.
"But please play your little game to train your own mind. I, to be sure, do not remember any." For a moment he paused, but then he smiled maliciously. "Perhaps you can learn them then to that filthy scum when you see them. They do come to see you often don't they?"

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PostPosted: November 12th, 2009, 8:56 pm 
Ent
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Rayelin tossed her head angrily as she heard the derisive comment. "And what would you have, stranger? Would you languish here with no thought of escape as the world dies around you? There is battle being waged outside on the fields of war as we speak, or preparation for it, with the free and honorable of the world struggling against the greater menace, while such as you would rather sit and wait patiently for your days to end. Is that it? I cannot remain here without thoughts of my land and my people, but maybe you have forgotten what it was to be among them, to see the spark of life in the children, to watch love blossom and wisdom grow."
She drew breath angrily and subsided. Any more would probably be lost on him anyway. She clenched her fists and thought sadly of her home and her people. She wished she knew the fate of her family, for in the months that had passed their duties in the Guards could have brought them to injury, maiming, or death, with her trapped in this ever-dark hole. In these dark times, with the menace that was strongest here at its stronghold almost strong enough to be physically felt, anything could happen. Maybe the city had fallen, and Sauron's forces were scouring and rending the earth in fire and blood. Maybe the world was falling apart out there.
She shook her head, filled with sorrow. Even prisoners, who should be on the same side, instead engaged in petty squabbling in their dank cells, simply lingering remnants of what they once were. She wondered who her fellow prisoners had been, what they had done, whether they had family, and what had brought them to this pass. What indeed...

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PostPosted: November 13th, 2009, 2:29 am 
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Mab sat curled up in her cell. She too was fond of the corner, but for reasons undoubtedly different that Beor or any of the others. She just wanted to hide. The girl bit at her lip and thought about saying something, but no words would properly form. Everything was a jumbled mess in her mind, so she didn't say anything. The only sign that actually heralded her actual attention was the raise of her head when someone spoke.

It had been a long time since Mab had seen someone new, or maybe it hadn't been. She could be wrong. That was probable. She was wrong a lot these days. Things didn't stay straight in her mind. While the others hardened themselves against mistreatment Mab seemed to be completely lost now. She wasn't very spirited to begin with, not defiant. But now it was seldom that anything from the girl made sense. Most words were babble or dissembled and even she knew that it was ridiculous. So she found it best to keep her mouth shut lest someone make comment on her being.

Maybe they didn't even know she was here. They all might be new. Who could say? She couldn't and she didn't think she'd ever be able to again.

------------------------

Shan snorted derisively from his side of the cell block and called out in a distinct voice. His voice was surprising it didn't contain malice or amusement, it sounded normal.

Shan was a man to live and let live after a fashion. Everyone was entitled to their own lives and he'd be a hypocrite to tell the girl to give in. It was evident that he had yet done so. The Gondorian man was so certain of his country that he had even taken to a few exercises when the guards were not about to watch him. He was sure if they caught him doing such things he would be shackled down and unable to walk.

They all thought they broke him. Shan was a model prisoner and as such he found he remained less injured and that was how he liked it. He would suffer a bit for the greater good when it all came down to it.

"Let the girl keep her spirit while she may," the man said with a small smile. "It is no crime to have them. You all will be as bad as the enemy if you dampen her spirits with your words..." his words were cut off by a scream from down the hall and a distinct slam of the door at the end of the cell block.

He quickly took a seat, just in case.

-----------------------------

Maethoriel's need to make an impression never failed. It was part of her pride. Not that it was always necessary, she tended to make an entrance even when there was no one watching. It was as if she was determined to leave a bit of herself every time she walked by. So...a decent entrance was something the woman had down to an art form, and it was so perfected that it had become a near habit, edited only by circumstance.

And in Mordor the circumstances always called for at least one brutal and completely needless death by her hands. She grinned at the door and pushed it open, listening as it pleasantly slammed into the brick and mortar wall with such force that some of the brick chipped. The guard at the end of the block was the unfortunate whipping boy, but the orc's death was relatively quick - it was a signal that the woman was pressed for time and that even habits had to be mitigated to some extent. But...Maethoriel still indulged in a bit of gore.

Her gauntlet clad hands tore into the hapless creature neck and it gurgled and screamed in pain. The pitiful thing's cry was cut short when the woman took a short step to the side swinging the creature's body with her arm, it's head colliding violently with the already abused wall. It's pate split and she dropped it to the floor while the body spasmed in throws of death.

The woman was not unknown on the block, but she was not really feared. Her violence was normally geared towards things she knew her employer would find replaceable. For, although Maethoriel was clever enough to escape, should Mordor win the war she would not be able to escape the world. Some care was required. Sauron would forgive the little deaths she caused as they would more than likely have happened in the living quarters of the orcs anyway - they squabbled so much.

The woman's rough, alcohol and smoke stained voice spoke out along the row searching for an answer from any.

"I seek your master. Or his brunette dog. Either will suffice," she said to the prisoners in general, giving a small nod to the nearest cell.

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PostPosted: November 13th, 2009, 12:58 pm 
Maia
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Luthien could barely hear the other prisoners as they talked amongst themselves. Soft sound drifted past her without much effect, as her mind was engaged elsewhere. Strands of her tangled dark blonde hair covered her face, and she had closed her eyes against the dark. She needed to find some refuge within herself, for now, to gather new strength to her. She was not defeated; she had never been defeated in her life. She didn’t flinch as she heard a loud bang from the end of the row of cells, the squeal of the cut down orc; but her eyes flickered open slightly, making her look like a resting cat, more alert than it looked. Slowly, she uncoiled herself to lean against the cell wall, the woman’s harsh voice making it impossible to retreat into her thoughts.
“What fun,” she exclaimed. “Another lovely visitor.”
She wondered what twisted form of alliance the servants of Mordor gave to each other, that they could go around killing each other and not think there had been much of a loss. In truth, she did not want particularly to look into the twisted souls of those, she felt, were traitors through and through. She was sure that the ugliness went deep.

Arawen had been walking towards her chambers when she heard the sound. The sound of a madwoman pushing her way through into the prisoners’ row of cells. She did not need to guess who it was, really; she had become used to Maethoriel’s games, and the sound of the orc guard falling to the floor did not kindle either anger or laughter in her. Walking back down the corridor again, she stepped over the corpse and strolled past the other woman, glancing briefly at the prisoners. Her eyes rested on the defiant Luthien for a single moment, before flickering her gaze past, finally to rest on Maethoriel. “The master has important business,” she said coolly, ignoring the added insult, regarding it as petty and of little worth. “Matters that do not concern us. Certainly not you.”
Her head tilted as her icy gaze wandered past the captives once more, as if considering.
She walked down the line, her footsteps smooth. Her dark red gown might have once been fine; it was still beautiful, in a worn way, the skirts tattered. Arawen herself, despite the years of life in Mordor, had maintained her wintry looks; her skin was pale, her hair dark against her white shoulders. She did not carry any weapon, but she maintained a threat as she walked along the row. Her master always wanted her to inspect them; check them, read their faces for any sign of further brokenness. And over the years she had become somewhat expert at the skill. The Mouth of Sauron had kept her not only to torture; he liked her ability to read people.
She stopped in front of Luthien’s cell. The girl looked back at her with no hint of fear in her eyes.
“You again,” Luthien said coldly.
Arawen laughed; an empty laugh that echoed in the block chillingly. “Yes. Worry not. You’re not going to be brought up before him, yet.”
“He will get no more words from me than I have spoken to you.” Luthien shrugged.
Arawen smiled her cold, perfect smile, before turning away. She let her attention rest on Maethoriel again. She walked away from the girl’s cell. “I expect he will be busy for some time; he has much to occupy him. I will be sure to let him know that you wished to speak with him. In the mean time, you can speak to me.”

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PostPosted: November 13th, 2009, 6:33 pm 
Vala
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Daeron's slight smirk curled upwards even more as Beor growled his angry reply. "You seem disgruntled. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the floor this morning?"

Beor's grin then turned cruel. "Perhaps you can learn them then to that filthy scum when you see them. They do come to see you often don't they?"

Daeron returned Beor's glare, meeting the man's bright blue eyes with his own pale grey. "Those brutes?" He asked, laughing dismissively. "They're dense as a rock and only half as sentient. I'd do better to "learn that filthy scum" to a lamp post." He flashed his teeth in a wide, sarcastic grin, desperately hoping that any sign of anger or fear were disguised by his attempt at haughty indifference. It was true that the guards took a liking to doling out punishment to him, mostly because he couldn't keep quiet. It was his sharp tongue that gave the orcs the rage they craved to fuel their attacks.


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PostPosted: November 14th, 2009, 9:24 am 
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"Fools.." Bëor muttered to no one in particular although he thought them all to be fools. Daeron with his big mouth who only pretended to be tough, the other haughty Gondorian who seemed to think that his life depended on doing excersises or that girl, he didn't quite recall her name, with her melodramatic ideas of honour.
Bëor let out a growl of annoyance when Luthien made a daring remark upon Maethoriel's entrance, yet he did not respond to the latters question. Soon another woman appeared and started a quarrelsome conversation with the half-elf.
Bëor now moved closer to the bars of his cell, light fell on his wild appearance, and a crooked smile lay on his lips as he, with some amusement watched the scene.

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PostPosted: November 14th, 2009, 12:38 pm 
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Maethoriel lazed back onto the wall, one foot resting against while the other kept her standing. She watched the woman walk towards her and smirked. The girl was a silly pet, trying to act as though she had some sort of grace about her. There was no grace in this world and her appearance just cast into light that even in such a dark place vanity would rule her. Pathetic. The only sense in a land ruled by immorality was to give it one for and show it up. It was something Maethoriel had mastered.

The woman's jaw set when Arawen said that The Mouth could not see her and she kicked off the wall her heel make a few sparks of red as she cursed under her breath.

"His work may be dammed, when someone calls me I will be seen and your Master is no exception. I am no slave, and I have other people to speak with on more important matters. Tell him that he will speak to me or I shall immediately take my leave and then he will be up a creek because we all know that he lacks the head for planning and anything he conjures will be for naught."

The woman, with her scars and matted braid was more disturbing now, her voice was not so loud as before, but it still retained its gravel. Her words were true enough, she was not afraid to cancel on one who did not show proper respect. The half-elf's dark eyes flicked in annoyance and she stood straight again. She was not as tall as the other woman, but in such a place it was amazing that she was not swallowed by the shadows. Instead the seemed to bounce dramatically off the stern angularity of her back making her stand out in the one place she should have been able to sink into the background.

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PostPosted: November 14th, 2009, 1:08 pm 
Maia
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Ararwen gazed at Maethoriel unwaveringly. She had a shrewd idea of what the other woman thought of her; whatever notions she reserved, Arawen knew that she was wrong. That the twenty-one year old had kept her human form, too human, one might say, for such surroundings, was proof, if anything, that she had been clever enough to escape from the mutilations that prisoners and servants often suffered; she had been a prisoner once, like all the others in this cell. Her survival instinct had ruled her for a long time now. She watched Maethoriel’s jaw set and shrugged.
“You should know where the Master’s work takes him, and on this occasion it is by far more essential than keeping to his schedule of meeting you. A schedule, I’m sorry to reflect, which now seems to be broken.” Her tone was flat. Her implication was not missed; something was stirring in Mordor. For long weeks past now a sense of planning had hung thick in the air, but nobody knew what. Arawen had an idea. It was something to do with the war, and the Mouth was needed. The Eye had turned. Now that Saruman the White (now hereby referred to by everyone as Saruman the traitor) had proved both cowardly and no longer of use to the Eye, the Mouth was spending far more time in counsel with the former. Schedules could be arranged, and they could be flung aside. Arawen was sure that her master thought it an amusing oddity.
“However, if you wish to see him I can take you to him. He will not be pleased about it though.”
Arawen’s features carried no smile, nor any glare. As one of his senior servants, she had more access to him than most. Her authority was undeniable – though some saw her merely as one of his toys, or his assassin when he wanted an expert. She was important to her master, and in these days he spoke to her very often about matters of “policy”; something which did not particularly please her. Although she had the mind for it, she did not often want to hear about the advancements of war on Gondor and suchlike. He probably spoke to her about it to remind her of her origin.

Luthien watched from behind the bars as the scene unfolded. She found it quite tedious; two servants squaring up to each other. She had no cause to like Arawen, but neither did she feel any fondness for Maethoriel, who seemed to be challenging the dark-haired woman’s authority. She leaned against the wall, surpressing a sigh with irritation. Glancing at the other prisoners, she wondered how they stood what was probably a regular occurrence; Mordor’s playthings coming in here and chattering whilst they languished in this squalid prison. Still, she did not envy either of the women; obviously bound in servitude to the enemy. Luthien had meant what she said; she would rather die here than give in.
Closing her eyes, she blocked out their words, both bored, frustrated and briefly wondering if she would develop cabin fever during her stay here.
What a stupid question, she thought suddenly, I’ll probably either go completely mad, or turn into a raving imbecile.
Folding her arms, she opened her eyes again and gazed at the wall opposite her.

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~~Siggy by Lembas~~


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