***** Erebor Time + Weather Service ******************************************

** Real time is: Wed Sep 01 04:00:18 1999, GMT -8 **
Elendor time is: Late Morning (about 10 AM ) on Hevensday, 14 April 3018. In
the Spring sky, Tonight the moon will be full. 

****************************************** Erebor Time + Weather Service *****

The Holds of Darkness

The room you have entered spans before you, opening into a circular cavern of
carefully worked walls in the same manner as the Prison Complex on the other
side of the gate. The ceiling goes up very high and to a point far above your
head. The floors are smooth and everything is solid with no joints or seams.
Around this room you see many cubes cut into the walls, each of their sides
being half the length of a Man. Within each of the cubes are shackles, and
covering each is an iron gate, locked and barred. The cubes sit on two levels,
stacked one above another going in pairs around the circle. 

In the center of it all is a shallow bowl cut into the floor where none may
step upon pain of death. Within this bowl is a mosaic of the Lidless Eye,
fashioned in such a way that each of the cells look upon it and from each cell
it appears that the Eye watches them. It's malice hangs like a weight on all
and none can escape it's view.


Gumbart

You see an old dwarf, face caked in blood and grime, hands bound in heavy rusty
shackles, his wrists two festering wounds. Gumbart is wearing dirty rags that
might once have been sturdy travelling clothes, but anything of value has long
been stolen from him. He wears no hat; he has already lost a lot of hair; the
sad remains are encrusted with dirt and excrement. His beard is as thin as to
seem translucent. Gumbarts feet are a bloody swollen mess, several toe nails
are missing, one of the ankles seems to be sprained. From time to time, Gumbart
coughs blood.


Kalequa

--- <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> ---

Your eyes fall upon a tall but stooped dark figure wearing a thick outfit of
leather hides, the design of which cannot quite be recognised as its form pulls
tight against the thick body. The hides a worn with age and use, bearing many
scorch marks and strange black scratches.
	A band of red, woven fibres, possibly hair, encircles her body beneath
the fur lined cloak. It gives off a strangely human smell and is as unwashed as
the ragged outfit she wears over the top of it. The undergarment seems to cover
most of her deformed body beneath the cloak, as it can be seen briefly wrapping
around her arms where they extend from the robe and around her legs where the
project from beneath.
	A black hood obscures the features of the figure, the jet black
material making the uruk seem nothing more than a pool of shadows, drawing in
all light and colour and nullifying it for its own fell purpose. A sinister
seeming power is carried around this creature, stunted as it may seem the force
of the eye is strong around her.
	The dark skin which lines this creatures bones would make her an easy
target in daylight, but bring forth the equally dark and cruel hunter which
lurks within the cloak, anger seething through the skin which envelops the
uruk's form, a physical encumberance of the evil within the soul of this fell
being.
	The figure moves with a peculiar grace for one so twisted and deformed.
Her movements those of one who knows command, but no mark of such bearing can
be found upon her stooped, shadowy form. A single red pouch hangs loosely from
its shoulder as does a coil of woven twine painted in blood, probably belonging
to a bow though none can be seen. There is a faint miasma of rotting flesh and
stagnant plants about the figures form, but what this could mean...
--- <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> ---


Kalequa steps quietly into the prison cell, her eyes flickering nervously along
the walls, knowing she should probably not be here alone, and at the same time
more worried at the proximity of her present location to that of the fourth
nazgul's. Her feet trace the ground softly as she walks, her gait strangely
lopsided and stooped from years of working the mineshafts, and her leather
outfit groans slightly as she walks, made for protection in the armouries and
smithies where ore is used, not for the spying and skulking of sniveling
scouts. She closes the gate behind her nodding to the guard outside to keep
watch as she enters and nears the closest dwarf, an old, disheveled figure in
dirty rags who's life seems to be ebbing away even as the master minor enters
the cell.

A lot of the cell cubes in the room are filled with prisoners, it seems. Many a
bearded face clings to the iron bars, whispering and moaning. The rustling and
whispering dies down as a stooped figure enters the hall. Gumbart, in a cube
close to the door, looks up and croaks through parched lips, "Water, please!"
The other faces anxiously watch Gumbart extend a trembling hand through the
iron gate. As no reply is forthcoming, Gumbart repeats, louder this time,
"Water! Give us some water!" An angry grumbling of assent passes through the
imprisoned dwarves.

Kalequa looks at the dwarf before her with something almost akin to pity before
it is replaced with a calculating gleam. "I give ye's water," she says softly
to the dawrf and in an even softer voice she adds, "maybe even a little bit of
healing things, but in return I want something from you right?" she says in a
harsh tone, not exactly evil or angry, more indecisive and inquisitive. "I want
to learn dorf language, I like learning things, you teach and I try to keep you
alive for as long as you teach, sound fairish?" she asks, peering through the
bars of the cell where Gumbart is kept prisoner.

You say in Khuzdul, "Teach a filthy orc how to speak? Never!"

The battered crowd falls silent as Gumbart mutters his reply in Khuzdul. The
proud words echo for several seconds under the big vault before Gumbart picks
up the Westron tongue again and continues, "Aye, orc, let us have some water
and we shall teach you something..." After that he pauses as these words are
met by dead silence from his companions. Nobody moves. Gumbart tries to press
his face through the iron bars and catch a look of the visitor. Raising his
voice, he says, "Who are you, strange visitor? It seems you have not come to
torture us!"

Kalequa shakes her head at the mottley face which peers at her from through the
bars. "I figure ye could teach me da language o' da dorfs, I no know how to
speak da language of da dorfs so is why I am asking," the uruk says slowly,
"What was that which you just said loudly?" she asks suddenly, pulling her herb
pouch from under her outfit of leather. "It sounded funny like da rocks
crashing downa hill," she half laughs as she draws a clay jar from the bag,
wraps it in several bandages and hands it through the cell bars. "That be uruk
skin," she says softly, identifying the herb for the dwarf as if he would
understand. "Have used it on hoomans so should be fine on dorfs," her eyes peer
curiously through the bars as though trying to discern the figure insides
features. "I am called 'the watcher' by many but I can't tell ye mah real name
cuz if ye /is/ tortured by one o' me superiors ye'd a mention this meetin' and
I could be in dere with you."

Gumbart sneers in the darkness of his cube. He pulls himself up, wobbling a bit
on his sprained ankle, and reaches for the pouch. With trembling fingers
unwraps the jar, opens it and takes some of the goo out of it. He carefully
closes it again, wraps it in the rags, and hides it in a remote corner of the
cube he is sharing with Brican. He then walks over to the motionless heap of
stinking rags and tattered hair, kneels down and shakes him softly. "Brican,"
he whispers, "let me tend to your eye." Carefully, he tries to pry away some of
the dried blood and grime, then he spreads the uruk goo on Bricans eye which is
swollen shut, on his cracked lips, and on his raw cheek. Brican moans but
doesn't open his eyes. After a while his whimpering stops as he is soothed into
slumber again by Gumbart's soft strocking. Slowly he limps back to the gate,
dragging the chains behind him. "I thank you for your kindness, watcher."
 
Kalequa looks at the figure through the bars as he attends to another dwarfs
hurts. "What was that you just say in dorf language?" she asks inquisitively,
siddling up closer to the cell door, though keeping back far enough to be sure
of her safety. "It sounded funny like rocks falling down cliff, but speak
softer no, I no want guards coming in and seeing me," Her eyes glance about
nervously as she shifts her feet, opening a section of the leather outfit and
bringing out a strange looking water container, most probably made from the
insides of some poor helpless animals which has long since become one with the
rakarg.

Gumbart grabs the bars again and tries to catch another glimpse of the orc's
face. Deep in the shadows he sees the reflections of the torches in her eyes,
nothing more. He says, "I said that you shall find a teacher. It was perhaps
not very friendly because we are all suffering. Can I have some water, too? My
friend will die soon if I cannot help him." He stretches his trembling right
hand through the bars. His arms would have been strong arms in the past, but
these days it seems that Gumbart is loosing control over himself and weakening
by the hour. "Please...." he whispers.

You say in Khuzdul, "Animal."

The fever of the illness crusades throughout Brican body, consuming him with a
firey revenge. Moaning softly he calls out with a throaty voice, "Gumbart, are
the elves still out there, why do they not tend to our needs." With a sigh, the
young dwarf starts to mumble words that are uncompresendable and starts to
shake violently.

Kalequa looks dumbly into the gloom of the cell before nodding quickly and
handing the strange container through the bars. "The water be a bit warm, but
is all I have at moment, will bring more later when I am able to bribe guard
next." She looks around nervously again, as though unsure how long the guard
will remain bribed. "I am healer of warriors, tell me what is wrong with your
people and maybe I can tell you what to do and in return you teach me very well
all the languages you know?" she asks, dangling this powerful bargaining chip
before the dwarf in the hope of learning even more.

Gumbart nods silently and says, "It shall be as you say, watcher." and eagerly
grabs the water. He then lurches back to his trembling comrade and puts the
bottle to his parched lips. The other dwarves in their cells start whispering
to each other. They seem unhappy at something. Gumbart feigns not to hear
anything and whispers to Brican, "Be still, Brican. Here's something to drink.
Rest." and strokes the battered face.

Drinking the water greedily, Brican stops trembling for a few moments, enough
for him to come to his sensors for a few moments, he pulls Gumbart closer with
a weak hand and whispers in a harpse voice towards him, "Ye shall not tell him
of our ancient language, ye should kill him for his effort instead." After
gasping a few words Brican goes back into a fitful sleep.

Kalequa tries to listen into the conversation but pulls back after hearing but
a few words. She rustles around in her pouch for a moment or two, trying to
look industrious and not snooping in.

Gumbart ignores Brican's words and lets him gulp down a bit more. Then he limps
back to the gate and passes the bottle on to the dwarves in the next cell. He
whispers to those dwarves, "Here, take the water and be quiet, you fools. There
is hope again." The other dwarf takes the water, stone-silent, passes it on and
spits through the bars. Gumbart turns back, subdued, and whispers to the
watcher, "Let us talk amongst each other, first, such that we might assess our
wounds and count our sick ones. Later, we shall discuss this business of
learning the old and secret language of our forefathers." The silence that
follows is suddenly interrupted by a dwarf hissing from a cell somewhere in the
back of the room. Dead silence follows.

Kalequa glares at the dark cell ins suspicion. "I help not cause I like dorfs,
just cause I want learn everything." she hisses harshly, her eyes burning
suddenly with the promise of the anger and lethality which has earnt her the
position of Sub Lieutenant in the male orc dominated, militaristic society of
Mordor. "You decide not to teach or teach me gibberish then you no longer get
any help from me."

Gumbart presses his face against the bars. In the gloom, his face turns a
darker shade of dirt as dwarven anger wells up in him, "You assume too much!"
he hisses. "Did I not offer to teach you? Your suspicion betrays you, servant
of Mordor!" he says, louder now. Other dwarves start muttering words of
protest, too. "Yea, never shall you learn a word of our secret tongue, animal!"
croaks one. Not all of the dwarves share this enthusiasm, however. Gumbart
speaks up again, "Hush, cousins! Do not call the guards!" Lowering his voice,
he adds, "There shall be a bargain, watcher, but let us not rush things."

A shadow of dread approaches from the darkness beyond the gates and passes
between them with no hesitation from the guards and with no word or sign from
Khamul. He walks upon the smooth stones with a heavy stride and the long steps
of a tall Man. Slowing down when he comes into the area he looks around as if
relishing the sight within.


Khamul
	This hooded and cloaked man leans forward upon his horse, his face and
hands, as well as the rest of his form, is covered entirely in black.
Occasionally, black gloves appear from beneath his sleeves and his boots are of
a finely made black leather. Apart from this, only the black sheath of a
scimitar emerges from beneath the cloak. You get an uncomfortable feeling while
looking at this man.. He has a strong presence, even though bent, he has the
aura of a King, one to be reckoned with and also to be feared.

	The horse the man rides upon is almost as impressive as the man
himself. Indeed, there are few horses under the sun and moon who compare. This
stallion, tamed only by a will stronger than his own, is solid black, a perfect
match to its rider, devoid of color and without blemish. His muscles ripple
against taunt flesh, standing at least 18 or 19 hands at the withers.



From his fevered and fitful sleep, Brican moans and groans even louder as the
shadow of a man makes his way into the dungeons. He wakes startled, and fear
all about he cryes out, "Gumbart, I think ye are in danger." He starts to
mumble unintelligibly for a few moments before slipping back into a restless
sleep.

Kalequa growls aloud, "Ye be right ye's in danger," her eyes flashing with
anger at the dwarves retort. "The next time I see ye I had better receive a
better answer dwarf." Her hands clench in anger as she spins on her heel and
starts out of the cell room, still feuding but with no way to release her anger
without entering the cell or shooting shafts through its thin bars, an action
for which she would proabably be held accountable for.

Gumbart falls back from the bars, creeping backwards into the shadows. His eyes
are wide open as he desperately tries to comprehend what is going on. His
breath quickens and his mouth dries up. He shivers.

A silence descends over the remaining dwarves. All stare in dread at the dark
shadow that stands in the middle of the hall, surrounded by dirty hairy faces
behind iron bars, illuminated by torchlight and yet he remains as black as the
darkest shadows in their own hearts.

The Wraith moves around the mosaic of the Eye and towards the prisoners of his
dungeons where he watches them with a cold gleem in his fiery red eyes. Orcs in
the room doing various tasks, be it watching or tormenting the prisoners, give
way before this ancient and horrible terror from which in this place there is
no escape, there is no hiding. He moves before who he deems the leader,
Gumbart, and there stands a few moments to observe. Words emerge from the empty
hood in a hiss, "So thou hadst cast thine tents under the watchfulness of the
spiders and were thus caught..." He laughs at this, a cruel cold chuckle.

Gumbart cowers in fear, every limb trembling, cold sweat on his brow, his eyes
panic stricken, looking at the wraith like a madman. "Butter... spiders. Will
do not in leaves... walking in the forest like a hammer and silver. Lord!
Lord!" he mumbles, then, louder, "Grave! You will see it. I am loosing it." He
is shaking wildly now. The dirt-caked hair falls freely into his face and
behind this curtain of straw, dried excrement, blood and grime his mad grin is
barely discernible in the torch light.

The Wraith finds some pleasure in these rantings, but he does not pause in his
actions. He walks along the cells where the Dwarves are imprisoned and, finding
one he deems to be weak and without use, he pauses before it..

Khamul brings forth a long curved black bladed scimitar from the shadowy depths
of his cloak. This weapon shines with a pale light; enscorceled by the darkest
spells of Mordor.

Having his flashing scimitar drawn, the torchlight tracing along it's edges in
a cruel light, but not only the torchlight is reflected, but it casts it's own
light, a light which gives no illumination, but which draws the eye to it.. A
blade wrought and wound in spells for the destruction of the enemies of the
Eye. This blade he turns upward and through the bars of the prison, thrusts it
into the heart of the Dwarf lying within.

As the terror recedes and its attention is focused elsewhere, Gumbart seems to
recover from his sudden fit. He is drawn after the dark demon like a moth to
the light, like a puppet towards its master's hands. He lurches towards the
gate shutting him in his cell, dragging his sprained ankle behind, wincing
every other step, and grips the iron bars for dearly needed balance. The other
dwarves watch in stone-silence as the demon pulls his scimitar from their
cousin's limp body. Nobody speaks. All stare in silent shock at the bloody
deed. It is Gumbart that comes to his senses first, he spits from his cell onto
the floor of the cavernous hall and croaks, "Fie, demon! Servant of Mordor thou
art and will for ever remain."

The Wraith turns back to Gumbart, his scimitar still in hand, and strangely
still burning with it's inner fire, no stain of blood upon it. He slides the
blade back within it's sheath on his side and then speaks in a menacing voice,
"So too shalt thou serve Mordor in thine own way. Over time, thou shalt come to
envy this companion rather than grieve for him for his will not be thine
escape.. Not for a long span of time will thou gain the peace granted him."

As the dark shadow turns back again, strength and courage seem to seep away
like water from a sponge squeezed by an iron fist. Held immobile by the hissing
voice of Khamul he trembles, hands still gripping the cold metal gate. Slowly
he forces words through clenched teeth, "You... will.. not... make... me...
serve... you... or... your... master..." Sweating profusely, he adds, gasping
for breath, "dog..."

From within the depths of the hood another chuckle emerges.. The sound chills
you to the bone and soon a hiss follows it carrying his words, "Oh, thou art
mistaken... So very wrong, thou shalt indeed serve the Eye and no power may
open these depths against that will. Thou shalt remain here, forgotten by
everyone and everything as the malice beats against thee without ceasing." He
laughs again at the dwarf and turns from him, going back into the darkness
between the gates and passes beyond them out of sight and beyond the bounds of
terror.

Gumbart's knees give away, as the shadow passes through the gates and away. He
collapses right were he stood, his arms shaking violently and tears running
down his wrinkled cheeks. His mouth is drawn in a grimace of pain and dispair,
yet no sound emerges. Silent, he sinks back and writhes in the straw and dirt
of the cell he is sharing with his friend Brican. There is no sleep awaiting
him, however. The words of Khamul, dark lord of Dol Guldur, echoe within his
head, a terror to large to grasp has taken him, and he is lost to the assembled
prisoners, no words can reach him where is lying there. Hours pass before he
recovers...