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6 Fourth Age: of red smoke and deadly drinks; tag;; open
Topic Started: 5 Nov 2008, 12:05 AM (540 Views)
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So, here was the destroyed and desolate land of Mordor.

Sitting somewhat awkwardly on the ruined ground, Morion brushed his worn fingers along the rough rock with many pieces shattering under his light grip. Yet he took this all in his side, gathering up some of the shattered dark rock, the fumes something that would knock another out, if put together with the right ingredients. Smirking lightly as he brushed the small particles of burning rock into a small clear potion bottle, reaching down into his small pack to produce a bottle and dark gold liquid, biting the cork off easily enough before slowly pouring the thick liquid on top of the rock.

The reaction was immediate and Morion could feel his eyes dilating in surprise an awe at the explosion of red smoke that seeped through the small lid of the newly made poison. Waving the fumes off without a second care after sticking a small cork into the top opening of the small bottle the Elf grinned brightly. The potion was a strong one, and one that he never had enough of when he really wanted it, he needed specific rock from Mordor to create this poison and it was hard enough to find them, let along those that he could maybe touch without scorching his hand.

There was, however, the nagging thought in the back of his mind that he was forgetting something. He didn’t think that he had tortured someone lately and left them in a dark basement, he wasn’t sure if there had been a message sent to him that he had ignored, but there was without a doubt a niggling thought at the back of his mind that he had forgotten to do something. Glancing upwards towards the sky, not exactly admiring the place around him, for he had been here many times before and Mordor as not a place one generally decided to go when they wanted to admire the horizon. No, that was what Rohan and Gondor were for.

And they were there for no other reason than that, in his opinion.

Standing carefully after filling another four small bottles of the black and gold potion that leaked red smoke, Morion looked over the rough land once more. He was not afraid of the monsters and unfriendlies that lingered within this dark land, after all, he was one of them, in fact, he was worse. It was what forgetting something could mean life or death to someone, especially if that someone was locked in a cellar with no food and not a soul nearby to hear them scream in the pain that the poison was giving them only to die three hours later due to Morion forgetting to give them any slowing agent or antidote.

Whoops?
 
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The dark figure walked along the desolation of Mordor with a fast and rigid gait that told of great urgency. The Hand of Sauron had used the last of his mélange root on the journey south. The tremendous weight of living centuries beyond his mortal years was again crashing over him like the fury of Ulmo’s waves had once done to Numenor. He was breathing air, yet suffocating slowly.

His spies in Mordor had informed the Hand of Sauron that Morion had lately been traveling through the south, and only yesterday one of those spies had seen the Elf enter Mordor. It was destiny that brought them to the same place on the same day. The Valar wanted Hand of Sauron to live. Why else would they have arranged for such a fortuitous meeting?

“Morion,” Hand of Sauron called, upon seeing the Elf.

They were perhaps the only two beings who did not fear the remnants of shadow in Mordor. It was some minor comfort to the Lieutenant of Barad-dur to find himself in Morion’s presence. Being worshiped and feared by servants had its place, and so did standing among another of equal potential.

“I need one of your elixirs: the red potion made from the roots of the Easterling trees.”

Hand of Sauron did not care what it was called so long as he was given some immediately. His eyes fell to the smoking vial the Elf held now. Even in his slow agony, a malevolent grimace flashed over his face.

 
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Peering into the satchel that he carried with him at all times, Morion allowed a small frown to cross over his face, he had most of his potions and elixrs with him, for he did not trust any person nor city to hold such personal and powerful liquids without something coming of it. No, it was much better for everyone in Arda if he carried his little bottles of life and death with him.

Still, he tensed at the call of his name, his hand automatically going for one of his throw knives before realizing with a sigh at who had dared to walk through Mordor. The man approaching him was, essentially, his master, although Morion always lacked with giving him any sort of respect unless he earned it, and most of the time, they never stayed within each other’s company long enough for the other man to make much of an impact on him.

He blinked at the request, finding himself sighing, annoyed and frustrated. “I should start charging you for this” he murmured under his breath “I could make a fortune. What do you need one for anyway? It’s not syrup, my Lord, it is not meant to be used so loosely.” Still, as he was asked, he routed through the small satchel and prayed he had a spare, he knew he could make one within a week, given he had all the ingredients, but it was usually in everyone’s best interests to give the demanding man what he wanted there and then.

Pulling out a small bottle, smaller than his others, the Elf held it up to the sky and the little light that cast itself across Mordor. “This is my very last one” he spoke finally, and the frustration was evident in his voice, for he knew that he would now have to go travelling all across Arda and find the few ingredients that he did not have and re-create more. “If you come back in more than a week, I shall have more, if you come earlier, you’re pushing it.”

Holding the small bottle in the palm of his hand for a moment, Morion finally gave the other his undivided attention with a cocky grin. “You’re alone. None of your other little servants trailing after you today?” It wasn’t disdain that quiet entered his voice, instead he sounded rather amused. “And how is the plot going? Taking over any cities yet?” He didn’t care, that was half the problem, but he hadn’t been allowed to kill someone with the worry of unwanted attention being drawn to him, which could essentially be dangerous for everyone.
 
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Hand of Sauron waited impatiently for Morion to hand over the elixir. He needed the liquid strength, and he needed it soon. His other supplies of the remedy had been cut off for the moment, though he was working on correcting that.

“I do not have to answer to you, Morion. I need it because I say I need it.”

He snatched the vial from Morion’s hand the instant it was within reach. Hand of Sauron did not dare take the contents in front of the Elf. To do so would be to admit how weakened he was, and that would be detrimental to his cause.

“My servants do not need to follow in Mordor. What would dare attack a Lieutenant of Barad-dur?” Hand of Sauron asked, a dark smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I almost wish they would. It has been too long since the Sacred Weapon has been unsheathed.”

He touched the hilt of his hand-and-a-half sword. The memory of glory in battle and the terrified cries of his enemies flooded over his senses. Mingled in with the reverie of pain and victory was a small voice, one he had heard too often as of late. A little girl was calling, “Marillion! Come back to me, Marillion!”

His gray eyes were stormy when he looked back at Morion. The girl’s voice had that effect on him. It was unnerving and infuriating that one solitary person, a girl child no less, had such power over a man blessed by Lord Sauron the Great.

“You will have more of this by the end of the week? Procure me another tincture as well, one that will remove memories.”

 
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He twitched, his hand moving quickly away once the elixir had been snatched from his palm, is actions fast enough to avoid any sort of physical contact to be given. It was one of those weird habits he had gotten into, bare physical contact was something he tried his best to avoid, especially with dark beings such as the Hand of Sauron, but more importantly, to avoid any contact or connection with the world outside his knowledge. He had avoided the world for many years now, to reach back into it was almost…terrifying.

“Hmmm” he replied finally, returning to cross his arms over his chest, dark eyes flashing dangerously and a soft grin crossing across his face. “I’ll do my best to remember that next time you really need one. I would like to be informed in what you keep needing it for, as I do not know the prolonged effects of using the liquid…” Turning back to shove a few of the bottles he had took out to find the small one of the much wanted elixr, Morion took the chance to almost roll his eyes at the comment on the weapon.

“Most men are smarter than you assume them, although I’m sure if you asked King Elsssar nicely, he’ll happily duel with you,” It was a sardonic comment, but Morion was hardly known for his well manners when having to be in the Hand of Sauron’s presense. They both irritated each other and it was a wonder how they could both still be living and breathing after spending moments in their company.

Maybe it was because they sort of needed each other.

Still, he nodded at the question before standing, hitching the satchel over his shoulders and frowning at the following order. “I hope you do not expect me to magic one up for you within a few days, for you will be gravely disappointed. Memory removing is a delicate formulation unless you want to turn the subject into a lifeless shell of nothing. That, and it’s incredibly tedious to make…” His tone had taken on that dangerous edge that it usually did when he was beginning to lose his temper. “I am not simply here for your own usage, I have other duties, admittedly, not many, but they’re mine, and they’re important. Memory loss will take at least three weeks to produce, if I work on it now, which, I won’t.”
 
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There was not a chance in all of Mordor that Hand of Sauron would tell Morion why he needed this potion. The Elf must have known that, yet continued to push the issue. Clearly, he was asking to be lied to.

“You know I have many servants. Some of them do not live such a healthy and robust life as an Elf,” he replied, giving a little patronizing bow to Morion. “I help them on their way, in exchange for their services. Some call it blackmail. I call it good politics.”

Hand of Sauron frowned. Long term effects? Did he dare press the issue and risk revealing the elixir was actually for himself? Pocketing the bottle, he decided the effects must be the flashes of alien memory. It would be cured by the potion to remove memories. But of course Morion posed an objection to that as well.

Had anyone else spoken to him thusly, they would be dead already. Unfortunately, Hand of Sauron needed Morion. That, and some distant echo of emotion had always kept him from killing Elves except when absolutely necessary. He would not think where or why Lord Sauron would have taught him this, and had been forced to conclude long ago that some shadow of humanity had remained with him all these years.

“I would not ask for something that is not needed,” Hand of Sauron snapped. “If those are your only objections to creating the potion, then I will remind you that you are immortal and, therefore, have, literally, all the time in the world. You will forgive me if I expect you to sacrifice a few moments of eternity to a tedious potion.”

 
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((Heather – I tried to make Morion’s violence as free as possible, as to not god-mod))

Morion allowed a small smirk to come across his face at the frown that followed the lie of who needed the potion and confidently raised both his eyebrows in an amused expression. “Maybe you should be careful how easily you give that out, you may be doing more harm than good, and as I do not know the side effects, I cannot produce any sort of antidote to counteract them.” He sighed, raising his hands in the air in a somewhat dramatic gesture. “Those in power always think they needn’t understand what they do not create, and each time they have fallen due to their own…” he glanced up towards the man and grinned. “…stupidity.”

“Call it what you wish, my Lord-“ And the term was used so mockingly, that Morion briefly wondered if he should continue to push his luck, before he continued regardless. “-but blackmail is blackmail, especially for the side you are on,” Of coarse, Morion didn’t really have a side, he was just mental, but that sociopathic sort of way, no conscience, no emotional attachments and that illusionary calm demeanor, the mask that hide the complete chaos within.

Chaos that was flickering out within his eyes the longer he stayed within the man’s company/

He didn’t know what made him strike, what set of snappy words caused the mark to crack, but before even Morion knew, he had shot his hand out to wrap around the other’s neck, and it was that very point, when contact was made, that the other blinked and the chaos disappeared. Still, he did not move his hand, and whilst the grip was not tight, it was very, very obvious that Morion had struggled to stop himself from making it so and when he finally spoke, his voice was dark, full of the shadow, and the hate and the utter madness that usually hid within those dark cold eyes.

“For one so dependent on my services” he started, well aware that he was already going down a slippery slop but deciding better than to pull back and show any weakness, Morion continued. “You have a way with words that makes me question why I might need you and why I heed your continuous demanding and frustrating requests. Maybe, instead of giving you actual elixirs and memory erasing potions, I should give you poison and wipe out all your damn little servants and leave you the way you returned. All alone.
 
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Hand of Sauron cocked a dark eyebrow. Had Morion really just presumed to call him stupid? That was a bold statement, even for this Elf whom Hand of Sauron respected to a small degree. If anyone less vital had dared utter that remark, their head would be in the dirt already.

“As the soldiers of Harad say, Morion, you had better bite your tongue to save it.”

He realized one moment too late that something in his snappy remarks had cracked the control Morion had placed over his actions. The flicker in the other’s eye was like the bloodlust raging through the warrior on the field of battle. Though Hand of Sauron did not enjoy being strangled by an Elf, or being made to look inferior, he felt some twisted pride in that moment. He had, single-handedly, broken an Elf’s reserve. He had seen with his own eyes the rushing emotions that had fueled the fires of the First Age.

With the turmoil came words, and they impressed Hand of Sauron less. With a swift moment, not as clean as an Elf, but a practiced motion of a battle-trained warrior, Hand of Sauron threw his fist into the air. His hand connected with Morion’s elbow.

“You would not dare poison my slaves. The Undying Lands are closed to you. You would not be so stupid as to cause yourself to become exiled from all lands I control and make your only refuge Elessar’s kingdoms. Now let us cease this brutality and return to our missions. I have work to do in other realms, and you have declared yourself … busy as well.”

The boiling wrath beneath the surface would be exacted on his expendable servants. The Uruk-hai waiting in Udun would be fewer in number before they left Mordor. Hand of Sauron longed to continue the fight with Morion, but he knew it was impossible. Not only did he need Morion’s potions, but he knew there was no chance of him besting an Elf in a fight.

 
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He grinned, glancing upwards, not moving his head from where he had been watching the ground for a specific rock, but he just rose his eyes to trap the other within his somewhat confident stare, like he knew something special, something that the Hand of Sauron didn’t know. It was an annoying look, something that had gotten him into troubles a fair few times before.

With the shift in his sanity, came the break in his gaze, realization had hit him long before the other did, and quickly retreating his hand enough to dodge the fist that was probably meant to break his arm, Morion settled for a smouldering glare instead. “You forget many things about me, my Lord, I do not need your lands to be able to walk this world. You do not rule by life, you simply make it more convienent.”

Sadly, the brutality had already left the nsane mind of the other before it was even dismissed, the flashes back and forth between the sane and the insane side of his mind darkened the colour of his irises for brief, single seconds. Turning around to continue his previou work of looking for a specific stone for a potion, the Elf dismissed the male and grabbed the blood red stone that glittered and shone admist the black dust.

“The potions you wish will be ready within two weeks. If you need them before then and are in dire need, I suggest you do what all smart warriors do, and hide until you hold some sort of leverage over your opponent rather than charge in like a unholy rabble of monsters swinging sword and bows”
 
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A dark fire burned in his breast. Morion’s words were like a dagger embedded to the hilt. Hand of Sauron recognized it as the sting of truth. He had often found truth sharper than a blade’s edge, though his Lord, being a supreme deity, had used other methods. When one was dealt a lower lot, however, truth was only a weakness.

“One day, Morion, you will regret your disrespect. It is your fortune that I need your potions awhile longer. One day soon, I will not and then …”

The end of the sentence floated in the air. The threat was not subtle, but Hand of Sauron was a blunt weapon of destruction. It had fallen to Mouth of Sauron to master the undertones of speech and twisted meanings.

“I will see you in two weeks.”

As he strode from the Plains of Gorgoroth, his mind was already teeming with new schemes to find a source of great magic. Rumors and whispers of phenomenal magic had reached him from all over Middle-earth. Now was the time to redouble his efforts and search for the grain of truth in every legend.

 
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