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| 6 Fourth Age: The Pain of the Past; [ Open to - Servants ] | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: 2 Oct 2008, 04:09 PM (704 Views) | |
| Deleted User | 2 Oct 2008, 04:09 PM Post #1 |
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The dark-haired figure stood at the western window looking out at the sea glistening in the mid-morning light. He could almost discern a vast island floating over the choppy waves. It perched there precariously on Ulmo’s whim. Even as he found the hazy outline, it disappeared into the sea. He blinked and the vision was gone. All that lay before him was an Eastern garden with gold statuary and long rows of little white merileth. Gripping the window ledge tightly, he willed away the memories that haunted him. Why should he care so much about the destruction of Numenor that he saw it with his waking eyes? For centuries untold he had walked Middle-earth, mighty and dreadful with the power of Lord Sauron behind him. How could he now be brought so low by these distant, half-memories? The familiar yet unknown voice lingered at his ear every waking hour. And in his sleep, the little girl whispered fairy stories. The only girl child he knew had snickered at him in Esgaroth. For that, she would pay a most grievous penance. It was not her whom he heard, however. The little girl was another, and his intuition told him he should know her. But he did not. His past was as forgotten as the ruins of Numenor scattered deep in the ocean. Translation: merileth = rose |
| Deleted User | 9 Oct 2008, 10:12 PM Post #2 |
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The journey from Gondor had been long and tiring, not to mention dull beyond belief. The ash grey horse that Dagoras had ridden on his journey perhaps didn't share the same idea as he, but he cared little for what his beast of burden thought. Not that he would have ridden the animal to its death of exhaustion, else how could he have traversed the great distance to Rhûn? Perhaps he was only so bitter about having to make the great journey in the first place, after all it wasn't as though he made these sorts of trips for fun, he was certainly no ranger. He was a man of the sea, and though he had pretended to be a Gondorian for some time, he was most definitlely not a masterful horse rider. He understood how to read the signs of the wind and ride the swell of the wave, not the finicky moods of this animal. In truth he did not understand how the Rohirrim could worship the such a beast. As he made his way to the gardens of the Rhûn's capital city, as he had been told that this was where the man who only knew himself as the Hand of Sauron could be found. A dim, dusky sort of light filtered down into the city, while the drum beats of a thunderstorm could be heard rumbling away off somewhere farther east. Dagoras had to say that he did not care much for the humidity, and as he had approached Rhûn, the copious moisture in the air had seemed to clog his lungs before he was finally able to acclimatize to the area. Nearing the garden, he pulled out his ivory pipe, filled it with more Shire Sweet Leaf, lit it, and began to puff away with content. Coming into the garden, Dagoras then entered a room that commanded a view of the entire spectacle, and it made a world of sense that he should find the Hand of Sauron in such a place. "Hail, Lieutenant of Barad-dûr!" He said as clouds of smoke wafted out of his mouth as his Corsair accent came out harsh and clipped like the waves of a stormy sea. He then quickly placed his right hand on his chest over his heart, and performed a barely-there-bow. It was not a question of lack of respect, for indeed if Sauron himself had lifted up this mere man to immortality, he must have had something going for him. And Dagoras could see clearly that the Hand was a true commander and leader, and despite the harsh journey that he had just made over mountains and swamps, he was eternally grateful for the position that he had been granted. Indeed, it seemed like it was only yesterday when he had been plucked out of whatever self-induced haze he had been in, rotting away in some shanty town in Umbar, painting his eyes in black ash, and wretching over the bitter defeat of his ship and kinsmen. |
| Deleted User | 13 Oct 2008, 02:27 PM Post #3 |
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It was the voice that jostled him out of his reverie. He turned to see his servant giving the customary greeting. Had anyone else given this gesture, he would have ignored them. Dagoras, however, was not just anyone else. He was a Corsair, a Black Numenorean. Their blood was joined by a complex web of relations somewhere in the distant past. Lifting his hand to his chest, the Hand of Sauron returned the traditional greeting, though he did not bow. “It is good you have come, Dagoras. I have news to share.” A rumble rolled through the storm clouds hanging overhead, as if punctuating the words with appropriate dread. All of Rhun seemed to quake for a moment as their vast country fell to its knees before the surviving Lieutenant of Barad-dur. “The King of Rhun has pledged his support. Although it was reluctantly given, his word is his honor. He will not break it. His subjects are mine to control as I will.” Violence longed to release itself, to rip through mortal skin and howl with the agony of a thousand deaths. His fair features rippled and morphed into twisted rage as he imagined a battlefield strew with broken and bloodied corpses, and himself, conqueror of the West. There was much he could do with the Easterling army at his disposal. “Tell me of your progress in Gondor. Have you seen my Berien?” |
| Deleted User | 4 Nov 2008, 05:38 AM Post #4 |
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“It is good you have come, Dagoras. I have news to share.” Dagoras wanted to reply that it had better be very important news for him to have been forced to undertake such a long and potentially hazardous journey, but he remained silent. He had not lived this long and through such perils, by spouting off whatever floated first to the top of his head, and he knew from experience that the Hand of Sauron was not a man to be made angry. So to stop his tongue from wagging, he simply placed the stem of his pipe back in his mouth and chewed on it pensively as he waited for the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr to tell him of this news. “The King of Rhun has pledged his support. Although it was reluctantly given, his word is his honor. He will not break it. His subjects are mine to control as I will.” A sharp bark of triumphant laughter escaped his lips, "That is very good news indeed, my lord!" He exclaimed. "The Easterlings make for good foot soldiers as I recall," He turned his face out to overlook the garden and make a preliminary analysis of the few people that he could see, appraising their potential soldierly qualities. And in his mind's eye he could remember quite clearly the fearsome army that they had been able to raise during the last war of Sauron's defeat. His smile faded slightly though as the word "defeat" echoed in his head as a long sour note. "The Easterlings gave the Dark Lord Sauron everything they had in the last war. How many men can they possibly muster for us after so short a time?" The Hand of Sauron's next question completely wiped the smile from his face though. “Tell me of your progress in Gondor. Have you seen my Berien?” My, Dagoras didn't like that word at all, as he didn't like the idea of working in such close quarters with an Elf of any kind. It just wasn't right. He cleared his throat. "My progress goes well, I have inserted myself so cleanly into the city of Minas Tirith that none have an inkling of my true nature, not even the dirty Ranger of a king himself!" He took a few mincing steps closer to his 'master.' "I have also begun to ferret out those in the King's court that are not completely enthralled by his rule, though I have chosen to make slow progress on that front, as I do not want to risk exposing myself unnecessarily. My position in the King's court, is an invaluable one," He said, reminding that Hand in a decidedly unsubtle manner just how much of an asset Dagoras was to him. "As for Berien," He continued, his voice losing the quick, enthusiastic tone that he had previously set. "I have passed along the necessary instructions and accompanying documents to ensure that she does her job in Rohan well," But he didn't want to talk about Berien, he wanted to hear about other things and to talk about different and more important things. But, he stayed his tongue once again. The Hand of Sauron did not take kindly to having his judgement questioned, no matter how important Dagoras thought himself to be to his plans. |
| Deleted User | 7 Nov 2008, 10:13 PM Post #5 |
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A sardonic expression, which might have been amusement if the intention had been pure, crossed the Hand of Sauron’s face. Dagoras viewed the human race differently than he. How could the man possibly understand, having been on this earth for only three decades, when Hand of Sauron had seen three millennia? “Humans breed at a frightening pace,” he observed. “With their new batch of younglings, the King is not so afraid for the future of his country. They have some men left, and he will give me the boys when I asked for them.” He glanced at his servant sidelong, wondering if Dagoras took issue with this tactic. It did not matter what the man thought, but his thoroughly human mind was intriguing nonetheless. His own mind had become something superhuman long ago. “Your progress in Gondor is commendable,” he frowned. He did not like being reminded that he needed others. Everyone was expendable to Lord Sauron. One day, they would be to Hand of Sauron was well. For now, while this yoke of mortality strangled him, he would put up with Dagoras’s quips. “I wish for you to bring me new servants before the next summer. Uruk-hai are worthless to my plans. I need people, not beasts.” The Hand of Sauron was eager to hear news of Berien, yet Dagoras was loathe to share. Scowling, he accepted what the man could tell him. He could hardly expect Berien to relay him some message, though he longed for her to care enough for that. More than that, he wanted to see her again. “Tell me everything you know of this Elven colony, Eryn Silivren. That idiot Uruk-hai was woefully in adept as a spy. Might any of them be old enough or of such birth that could recognize me?” |
| Deleted User | 23 Nov 2008, 09:12 AM Post #6 |
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“Humans breed at a frightening pace. With their new batch of younglings, the King is not so afraid for the future of his country. They have some men left, and he will give me the boys when I asked for them.” Children. The Hand was speaking of mere children. Dagoras slumped against the outer wall, sucking at his pipe in crestfallen manner causing tendrils of grey-blue smoke to curl out of his nostrils, making him look like a sulking dragon. Though he could not be disappointed that the Lieutenant was a man who looked far ahead to the future. Indeed, as he knew well having once been a leader himself, such a quality was of the utmost importance. Too short-sighted and you might as well slit your own throat. What really wrenched at his gut, was that this would take so bloody long. Of course, when he reasoned it out for himself, he inevitably came to the same conclusion: the toppling of such a kingdom of Gondor would take time. Naught could be done when they had the support of so many behind them, and it would take a dreadful amount of time to undermine their foundations. But still, the fact remained, that Dagoras did not want to be a frail old man by the time that the Hand of Sauron's plans came to fruition. The Hand then asked about recruitment, while granting him a form of praise for his work thus far. Dagoras, however, remained lounging against the wall. Rather than responding with the 'Yes, M'Lord! Straight away Your Worship!' Dagoras fired off a question of his own, "Well, what kind of people does My Lord want me to deliver?" He was thankful though that he did not inquire further about Berien, whom, Dagoras thought, the Hand seemed far too attached to. He answered quickly when asked about the Elven colony in Ithilien. "Those of the Pointed Ear that dwell there are difficult to judge, but from what I know many have thousands of years to their name, and there are relatively few 'young' ones, if that is what you can call them. Their leader, the one you met before, I know from the King, is somewhat less than a thousand years. Many are continuously leaving this land though - at least that is what the reports say." |
| Deleted User | 3 Dec 2008, 02:53 PM Post #7 |
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Hand of Sauron nodded absently, his eyes scanning the people milling around the capital. He did not see them, however, but what they could accomplish under his direction. They were vicious fighters and would one day make a formidable army. “My new servants must be useful, Dagoras, like yourself and Berien. These Easterlings,” he said, motioning in a sweeping arc, “are pawns. They will play their part, but I need servants with powers of their own—physical, mental, magical.” The Lieutenant of Barad-dur turned away, his forehead creased in frustration. His search for the mythical magicians in Rhun had turned up so very little. Disappointment was etched over his features. Although he had found some small trinkets, he had yet to discover a power that would restore him. “Find me this magical person I seek,” Hand of Sauron began, “and the treasures of piracy will seem to you trifling toys of a former life. Do you know what it is to watch a nation bow at your feet?” Hand of Sauron remembered it. The way the foul beasts of Mordor shrank at his coming and fell to their faces as he passed … The power of it rushed through him white hot. He would give anything to feel it again. The prize of a throne would be a small price to pay. “My party leaves this afternoon,” he announced. “We travel northwest. Will you return to Minas Tirith directly? Or have you other business in Rhun?” |
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