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PostPosted: November 14th, 2009, 6:28 pm 
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Rayelin settled back in annoyance. Here they were, a ragtag group of prisoners, some half or most insane, the others driven to bitterness and sarcasm. She supposed she was leaning over the edge too, if she thought about it long enough. It was enough to drive anyone over the bounds of sanity, existing in this place. She listened to Maethoriel and Arawen without any particular interest, and wondered what was going on in the world above. It felt even tenser than usual around. She turned and closed her eyes, done with the semblance of talk between people who didn't listen or care, though she kept one ear open in case any interesting tidbits came through from the 'conversation' outside. Sometimes one could pick up interesting things from it.

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PostPosted: November 15th, 2009, 5:46 pm 
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Bëor noticed that all prisoners seemed to listen to the conversation between the two servants of Mordor. No wonder, he thought bitterly, this seemed to be the only amusement in this pit of darkness. But he enjoyed it, even more than the usual quarreling among the captives. Yet what interested Bëor was the striking piece of news which that girl, Ararwen, presented: On this occasion it is by far more essential than keeping to his schedule of meeting you..
With his keenness of mind he realised that something of great importance must be taking place that the master of Mordor was not able to receive his servants. But his mind did not dwell long on the event which could take place, soon Bëor's usual pessimism returned as he realised it meant nothing to them here - for now least-.
Therefore nothing remained to him to openly gloat at his foes, enjoying their misfortune.

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PostPosted: November 15th, 2009, 11:49 pm 
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Maethoriel's anger was not something one wanted to strike up. For her though her personality was hot, her anger was cold and merciless as the steel she wielded and often countless times more dangerous. And the master of the stupid child was now going to face it.

The Mouth of Sauron was dangerous and powerful, and while Maethoriel did not wield his strength, she was more than a match for him in will and cunning. And sometimes...that's all you needed.

The woman's cane had been produced out of thin air and she let loose a bit more anger by hitting the wall again, watching with some pleasure as she made another hole.

"I will see myself to your master. You should get some mortar and fix this place. You should not want any finding a prisoner escaping on your watch. It would be most unbecoming of so trusted a servant," she said with a leer.

The woman's over large dark blue cloak swished at her heels and her braid mimicked its action as she strode past Arawen, all cool cunning and metallic grins. However, her eyes were alight with mad glee. It wouldn't be the first time she had ever crossed the Mouth, and she doubted it would be the last. They did not quite see eye to eye...she chuckled at the pun made in her mind.

The woman made her way down the dank halls, purposely making sure her heels clicked against the floor and that her cane made a swish and thunk when it was moved. Her steps were unerring as was her intrusion into the Mouth's chambers.

"When I am called for I will be seen," she reiterated to the beastly thing in front of her, on another day she might have thought for half a moment before speaking, but she was unhappy enough and someone was going to share it with her.

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PostPosted: November 16th, 2009, 2:33 pm 
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Arawen watched Maethoriel leave, silently, before turning her back to look at the prisoners. Madwoman, she thought. Sometimes she wondered why the Mouth kept her around at all. Some vile form of amusement? Removing a key from the pocket of her dress, she held it up to inspect it. It was the right one. Casting one last icy gaze over the captives, she stepped back, looking at the damaged wall. It did not bother her much, someone would fix it. It wouldn’t be her. She had more important things to attend to. Walking from the block of cells and slamming the door shut behind her, she turned the key in the lock. She didn’t find it particularly necessary to give the prisoners a farewell of any sort. She’d be seeing them again soon.
Setting off down the corridor, she did the one thing that her Master would expect her to do, would want her to do.

The Mouth’s clerk squealed as the half-elven woman burst into his master’s chambers. He retreated into a corner, bowing his head, before colliding with the wall and hurting his back. Contorting his face in pain, and backing out of the room, he left his master to deal with Maethoriel. He was kept here for one simple purpose, to write out the hideous plans of his master, who dictated to him every day. He could no longer recall any sort of normal life, only that he was bound into Mordor’s service; his name was forgotten, or never said out loud, at any rate. Closing the door carefully and softly behind him, he was relieved to escape from the Mouth’s presence, not to mention that of his angry servant who had just burst in.

The Mouth did not turn from the window. Upon hearing Maethoriel’s voice, and his clerk’s retreat, something like a laugh burst forth from his throat, a half-bark. “Ah. You.” There was a lengthy pause, before he turned, and walked to an ornate seat in the middle of the room. His gloved hands loosely gripped the armrests. “Yes, I do believe I did call for you, some time ago. I’ve only just returned from the Eye. The memory of our arrangement quite escaped my mind.” His disregard for Maethoriel was almost tangible. “I would ask you to forgive me, but both you and I know that is pointless. Besides, as I am sure Arawen told you, my business was of much importance.”
He gave a hideous smile as he heard the door handle turning, the door swinging open. He recognized Arawen’s presence immediately. The door closed. “Ah, the lady herself. Come and stand by me, Arawen.”
Arawen glanced at Maethoriel briefly, before walking across the room, taking her time. She went to stand by the Mouth’s chair, and folded her hands, head tipped slightly to one side, cold blue eyes familiar with the grand interior of the Mouth’s chambers. He liked her to stand by him as he received visitors, for some odd reason. She had known instinctively that he would want her to follow Maethoriel and take part in this little chinwag.
“Now, Maethoriel. What was it you wanted to speak to me of?” the Mouth enquired.

“Finally.” Luthien edged towards the bars of her cell, relieved that finally those two women had departed. “I thought they would never leave.” She looked around at the other prisoners; having moved forward from the dark, what passed for light here in Mordor revealed her features. She was young still, only eighteen, with mortal prettiness, despite the dust smudged on her face and the tangles in her dark blonde hair. She wondered what to say next. It was difficult to know in such a situation as this. But, they were all prisoners; they were bound to have one thing in common, at least. Clutching the bars, she tried to get a glimpse of all of them; she asked the one question that was most prominent in her mind.
“Why are you all here?”

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PostPosted: November 16th, 2009, 5:56 pm 
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Rayelin relaxed as the two servants left, shaking her head. "The things they must get up to..." she muttered. Turning to Luthien, she gave a wry smile as she put her hand down on stones as grimy as her fingers, slightly disgusted at how she didn't even notice without trying. "Why? No reason, I suppose. The whims of the people of Mordor. They take anyone who's too close, and I got lost while I was riding Moonheart." She grimaced sadly as she thought of the probable fate of her steed. She had been beautiful. "Then I was defiant, so they cast me in here, and then I didn't speak, so they left me in here."

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PostPosted: November 16th, 2009, 7:36 pm 
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Bëor cast his eyes at the heaven's, or rather the black cavernous ceiling of his cell, upon hearing the question. His patience seemed to be tested indeed. "We all happened to be here as we thought it would be nice to visit Mordor and drink a cup of tea here." Bëor sneered with sarcasm. To him it seemed obvious that a good deal of misfortune and real bad timing had brought them here. There was no use in discussing it. But the question had stirred something within him. Suddenly some memories of past events, which he'd tried hard to forget, flashed before his eyes: the mention of the One Ring... the quest for the vile creature.. the cowardous flight of his companions..
Bëor shook his head, shaking his blond manes, as to banish the thoughts. The past meant nothing to him here. To this he'd kept himself for many years as it only work to his own benefit.

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PostPosted: November 17th, 2009, 11:28 am 
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Bremeard tried to rouse some form of sympathy for his fellow captives. The arrival of someone new always made him more bitter than friendly, yet it was more for their sake than his own; captivity had taught him that many more come into this forsaken hole than leave it. The new-comer, the Gondorean girl, seemed feisty enough, but then again they all did. Most of them, anyway. He could recall a few who were easily broken....

He was rather comfortable back in the recesses of his cell, but nevertheless he crept forward closer to the bars, still mostly hidden by the blackness. The girl was yet too new for him to wish to speak much. Listen he would, though. It wouldn't hurt to make her "comfortable" in her new "home," but there were plenty of others willing to do that.


Krugmuk, orc of Mordor, had merely been trying to do his duty. His gnarled, grimy hands pushed the filthy mop across the floor with an added vengeance, as he reflected silently upon his punishment. It had been his turn to stand guard down at the cells, not that blasted Shrud's. But yet, he had went down there, and there was Shrud. In his place, with his spear in hand! Krugmuk plunged the mop in the bucket, so violently that it seemed about to splinter in his hands. The superiors hadn't seemed too pleased with him for ruining a good spear, and almost cracking that good-for-nothing Shrud's head, but Shrud needed to be taken down a notch. Someday, someday he would be. Just in a more sly fashion, because mopping was not Krugmuk's idea of fun.

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PostPosted: November 20th, 2009, 1:48 pm 
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Luthien listened to Rayelin intently. The folk of Mordor seemed to despise those who showed any sign of defiance; then again, they probably despised everyone, even themselves. Non-cooperation was most likely what they most hated because it was an instant reaction of those who had known freedom, better things, a life away from this desperate place. Nodding, she was about to reply when Bëor broke in.
“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it wasn’t,” she snapped, not one to be brought down. “We’re all here because they threw us in here, obviously. I just wanted to know why, how it came to happen.” She paused, and decided she’d keep talking whether any of them liked it or not. “I was taken prisoner because they caught me planting flowers on the Ithilien border, too close to the lands they’d captured. Of course, it was on purpose, and I thought it would be a fine way of some sort of revenge then…” she paused and sighed, still gripping the bars. How thick they were. She had an urge to try and rattle them, but they weren’t the sort that would budge. “Anyhow, I for one am not going to sit here in silence until I eventually go insane.”
Better they go insane from her endless talking, than her do so from long stretches of silence. Luthien had never liked the quiet much. She always needed to hear singing, and laughter, and noise… this place was just too dismal.
Not to mention that it was in fact a prison.
She leant back against the wall, and glanced at the others through the bars. She rather wanted to ask them their names, but most of them would probably scoff and snap at her again.

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PostPosted: November 25th, 2009, 6:53 pm 
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Beör listened to Luthien not because he was interested in her story, but because he had not any other choice. There was no way to shut such an insistant person out. At the last part of her avalanche of words, he imagined the seen of her, planting flowers on the lands of Ithilien. Greatly amused he shook his head in disbelief, wondering if they had never realised that the Dark Forces had been growing steadily and that the Dark Lord gained power over time. Gardening on the borders of the land of the enemy was asking for trouble.
But then he'd also been a fool.. long ago. When he was brought here, he had not been in as much need of verbal contact. He had been stubborn and still was, but over time he'd changed. Time seemed to tick away much slower than it used to, with the usual,memorably painful interludes. Time.. Bëor sat up and went with his hand through his wild blond hair and suddenly he asked: "What year is it?"

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PostPosted: November 27th, 2009, 12:14 pm 
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Luthien peered at Beör through the bars of her cell. “The year is 3019,” she replied. How odd for him to have no idea of what the year was! Then again, it was only to be expected. In prison, days could pass without your knowledge, especially in Mordor, when day and night seemed no different from one another. She watched the blonde-haired man with interest. True, he had been very rude to her quite a few times, but she had to admit to feeling sorry for him, feeling sorry for all of them. They were in the same situation. Luthien had only been here for a few days; she could not imagine years.
“How long have you been in here?” she asked curiously.

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PostPosted: November 27th, 2009, 1:39 pm 
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"3019?" Bëor repeated, quite astonished. He let his head rest against the cold stones and stared for a moment at the opposite wall, deep in thought. Time must have seeped away quicker than he'd realised. Never, had he felt so detached from the present before, as he never had known 'when' the present was. There seemed to be no present, past or a fututre in Mordor. The past seemed to be forgotten and dead nor was there a future to look out to. It was a forsaken no-man's land.

How long have you been in here?

The direct question took him aback. Slowly he turned his gaze on Luthien. Why would she ask such a question? He did not want the woman's pity. Pity made men weak and the weak ones perished in this place. But he realised that this woman was a source of information, information which obviously seemed valuable for the Enemy, but which could even be better be used when Bëor possessed it.. if..
"Fourteen years.." he replied with an empty, emotionless voice. "In the fall of 3005 I've been taken."

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PostPosted: November 27th, 2009, 2:40 pm 
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“Fourteen years?” Luthien repeated incredulously. She shook her head, combing her fingers through her hair in astonishment. She could not, did not want to imagine being kept captive here for so long. No wonder the man was so, well… she couldn’t exactly put her finger on what made Bëor different. “You must have gone absolutely crazy!” a pause stretched out after that little declaration. Even Luthien, who was quite a blunt person, realized that she had just said something too close to the mark. Edging a little way back from the bars, she bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… well, you know.”
She wrapped her arms around her knees, watching Bëor from a little distance. “I only arrived a few days ago. I say arrived, well, dragged is much more like it. No one spoke to me until that Arawen girl walked in. How can she live with herself? She’s from Gondor, like me, I know she is.” She leaned forward. “Where are you from?” She couldn’t resist asking another question. Luthien was a girl who liked to know things.

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PostPosted: November 27th, 2009, 3:32 pm 
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"3019," Bremeard murmured, shaking his head sadly. He had been right, his small, sorry tally marks had been accurate. When he'd first come here, it seemed as though Bëor had been there forever. Now it was like a new "generation" was beginning, a new generation of prisoners. Bremeard had neither been held there for years, nor was he a newcomer any longer. He realized he was entering into a different category, and the thought sobered him. "Four years," he muttered to himself. "Nearly four whole years."
He relaxed a little, not out of comfort but out of the darkness of his spirits. No longer did he care if Luthien saw him or not; she meant nothing to him at this time. She might know something of the world "out there," the world of sun and waving grass... yet she might be weak, she might be the next to fall and crumble in the merciless hands that had taken her. Bremeard's eyes were shadowed, his head cradled between two stout, black bars. Anyone could be the next to crumble.

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PostPosted: November 27th, 2009, 5:52 pm 
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Rayelin sat upright as she heard Bëor answer. Fourteen? She had expected a while, but she'd thought that anyone in here for so long would be dead already. "So that would make about 9 months for me," she murmured soberly, wondering how long until she broke. "How go things in the world outside, Luthien?" she asked softly into the pause. "You are from Gondor, as am I also, and Arawen too. She has been broken, or else there has been some deal there. I guess that she has become accustomed to carrying out the Mouth's orders, and has nothing else to go forward to. But what does it matter? What happens in my homeland? Does the Tower of Guard stand? Does war rage on the fields of the land? Or do they stand watching as darkness falls in the preparation of Mordor's armies, a dark lull in the silence?" She thought of her father and her brother. If it was war, they were probably dead. Who knew? Maybe in a few years the entire world would be servants and slaves. Then there would be no reason to fight any longer.

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PostPosted: November 28th, 2009, 7:37 am 
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Bëor did not comment on Luthien's rather blunt remark, nor did he give any recognition that he'd heard it at all. He was long past caring about what others thought. He had been past caring for anything. Only a small spark of hatred had kept him alive; hatred for those he'd known. He did not fear death and sometimes even longed for it. Yet they made sure that the ones with valuable information remained alive to be exploited and used. Keeping his own thoughts straight, but masking his knowledge from the outside world was hard enough. And sometimes at times of panic, Bëor feared that they already knew about the One. But then he would have known..

Where are you from?

Bëor groaned. The girl seemed to be a master in posing impertinent questions. And probably would, if he would not answer her, keep whining about it the next couple of years. With the thought of having Luthien and her talks as company for a longer period of time he was sure that he would go mad. If she lasted..

"I lived here and there.. I was raised in Rohan. One could say that the realms of Arnor should have been my home."

He sighed. The subject was not that painful -anymore. His frustration had been replaced with some sort of stoic acceptance but Bëor still was repulsed to talk about it. He retreated himself in backcorner of his cell and listening a little to the women's rambling.

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PostPosted: November 28th, 2009, 7:59 am 
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Luthien listened to the others silently, before pausing at Rayelin’s question. She wanted to say that Gondor had to strength to push back the storm that would soon arrive; she wanted to tell the other young woman that courage alone could sustain them. “War has not yet arrived,” she replied, carefully. “But I must tell you that it will soon break upon Gondor. There have been rumours that the Enemy is planning an attack that will cast all his others into the shadows; all battles that have gone before have just been a test, a trial only for us.”
She sighed, leaning against the wall of her cell. It was dispiriting to say these words aloud, but Rayelin had wanted an answer. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she continued. “Circumstances have been all the more unhopeful of late, since the Steward’s eldest son died.”
She glanced at Bëor as he answered her question about where he was from. She nodded. “I see. Forgive me if I ask a lot of questions – I get the feeling they are unwelcome – but I talk a lot, you see.”

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