The Inquisitor in Minas Morgul

Minas Morgul:Stairway 1st level

A huge stairway winds upward into the great tower of Minas Morgul. You stand on a landing on the tower's first floor, from which you may continue upward or move out to explore. These halls are guarded by several orc troops--but they pale in comparison to the Nine Wraiths which haunt Minas Morgul. The flame the nearest torch flickers and dies, leaving you in darkness.

Contents:
Narulzor
Rusting Sign
Obvious exits:
Main Hall, Stairs Down, Stairs Up, and Passage North

A troop of several large uruk guards stand along the wall, grim and tough-looking. But they shy back, suddenly, leaning closer against the wall behind each of them as a sudden chill overtakes the hall around the staircase. From above, a pale deathly glow seems to grow stronger. A figure appears on the stairs, man-shaped but huge and powerful. He wears a high gleaming crown atop nothingness, emptiness where his head should be, only the flash of terrible crimson eyes.

At the foot of the stairs stands a tall human figure, cloaked in shadows. Pale hands and face are all that is visible in the dim light of the halls, the ebony of the robes draping about him merging with the darkness. At the noise of the uruk guards wincing from the approaching figure, he turns, lifting his cold grey eyes towards the top of the stairs. They light up in fear, and he can't help taking a step back, head dropping to his chest in a deep bow.

The Witch-king, Lord of Minas Morgul, descends the wide staircase in a rustling of heavy black robes. His red eyes seem to stare down at the bowing man at the foot of the stairs. The stillness of the cold air is stirred further by the hiss of a soft inhalation.

Narulzor stands up once more, straight and proud, yet his shoulders seem to bend under some unseen weight, that would force his back to curve were he not straining against it. His white hands, trembling slightly, fold together, resting on the dark folds of the robes he wears. Softened eyes rise to meet the figure before him, waiting.

Witch-king speaks in a sepulchral voice, deep but unnaturally hollow with the cold stillness of the Void. " Mortal Man, servant of the Dark Tower and the Mouth of Sauron, art thou too proud to kneel before the King of Morgul?"

Narulzor slowly bends his knees, trying not to lose what pride he has by doing so in an elegant formal manner. Lowering his gaze to the cold stone, he speaks. His deep voice is broken at first by trembling, but then rolls into a smoother tone, " No, Master, King of Morgul, Highest of the Nazgul, I am not too proud to kneel before you."

Witch-king lifts one black-clad hand in a gesture as of benediction, but bearing only the deadly cold will of the Nazgul upon the man before him. " Then there is some wisdom in thee, Mortal, if belated and slow to stir. I would have a report of thee, a reckoning of thy missions among the Southrons and thy encounter with the rebel bandits of Gondor. Speak, if thy tongue fails thee not."

Narulzor nods slowly, his pale brow furrowing for a bare moment in thought, before his thin lips begin to move slowly, as if recounting words long learned, that come forth fluid, without pauses " From the south I bear tidings of treason, my Lord. Upon reaching the city, I was ignored, and treated as one would treat an emissary from any other minor kingdom. Our agents had been ignored, or even greeted with hostility. One was killed, and the other disappeared mysteriously. If that were not enough to doubt the loyalty of Umbar, I have word that even the High Priest, claiming to serve the Eye, does so only out of personal interest, this he told himself to one of our agents, who disappeared soon after. Blasphemy reigns in the streets of the city, and our agents are hunted when found. This is what I have to report of Umbar, my Lord."

Witch-king seems to listen intently, though it is never possible to tell the mood of the invisible. His red eyes linger on Narulzor throughout the report, and the tall form does not move. He speaks, at the end, again in a voice both hard and deathlike.

Witch-king says, "Is it so? Short years pass since the Dark Lord exerted His shadow across the south, yet the Men of Harad ever seek their own way. We shall bring the Shadow to the south once more, when our northern campaigns are resolved."

Narulzor again nods, and proceeds, in the same flat tone used before, speaking words long fashioned in his mind, " Of the battle against the rebel sons of the Faithful, I have but little to report. I was by mere chance in the encampment of our Lord's Armies, and I know not what goes on in those parts. I believe they managed to free a prisoner the Mouth had captured, but am ignorant of more."

Witch-king hisses with displeasure. "The Faithful!" he says mockingly. "What Faith had they, fleeing in the night from the command of their Lord and the wisdom of Sauron? Satraps to the words of the Eldar, refugees of doomed Akallabeth. Speak not of them, if thy tongue bears not curses and scorn."

The corner of the kneeling man's lips twitch up in a soft grin and he says, "To name them Faithful is a mockery in itself, my Lord. No curses are needed for them, curse enough is their fate, when our Lord's armies make their white towers crumble, instrument of their own doom, to be buried under piles of rubble."

Witch-king hisses again, the tone unknowable. "Very well, Inquisitor. Then explain how it was that a prisoner taken by thy master, the Mouth of Sauron, fell from thy hands into those of the forest bandits? Dost thou not fight for the will of thy master?"

Narulzor shrugs, and speaks in a vaguely apologetical tone, though he tries to keep it as blank as possible, "As I reported, I happened into that camp by accident, my Lord. I had no knowledge of the prisoner in the camp until we were attacked, nor did I know the Mouth's intentions of keeping it prisoner.", he pauses, lips trembling, and states simply, "I had no blame in the matter."

Witch-king's voice seems to lower a shade, to grow yet colder, if such is possible. "Excuses please me not, Inquisitor. Will they please thy master? The Mouth of Sauron troubled himself to leave alive a hated foe of Mordor, and yet none could withstand a lowly raid to keep this foe safe for interrogation. Thou art Inquisitor of Lugburz, yet thou asked not of the will of thy master in that camp far from the Dark Tower? Thy excuses sound of craven desparation." The chill of the air seems already to set into the flesh and bones of Narulzor, an unnatural cold and a weight as of deep waters...

Narulzor shifts uneasily, his robes rustling softly as he draws back from the cold emanating from the Witch King. Pursing his lips for a long second, he again says, "I had no blame, my Lord. Had I known the prisoner was under the Mouth's keep, I would have acted otherwise, and mobilized my guard for its defence. But, my Lord, if a legion of orcs cannot keep a prisoner from being taken from the middle of their camp, what could my few men do? Any blame here would be that of the orcish captain, or mayhaps the Olog-Hai who seemed to be in command there, not mine.", he swallows, and again is silent, though his breathing comes out ragged and loud into the cold of the hall.

Witch-king utters a moment of fell laughter, hollow and deep and cruel. "Fear is ever the fate of mortal man. Look to the Dark and keep thy fear close, Inquisitor. I leave thee to the mercies of the Mouth of Sauron. Let thy master adjudge thy blame or seek it in my creatures, at his will."

Narulzor merely nods, lifting a hand to his chest, where it rises and lowers with his heaving ribcage. His dry lips slide against each other, seeking moisture. Slowly, he seems to relax, the deep dark lines in his brow smoothing over to a pale blank surface, his grey eyes regaining what cold light burns within them, the fear a mere hint now, yet present.

Witch-king's laughter subsides to a mocking chuckle. "Thy time in Lugburz has stood thee well, Inquisitor. Master thy fear, and so master the fear in others. But beware! Thou knowest not the anger of the Nazgul. Think now on the excuses thou mightst make for thy master. Go!"

With the last word of the Witch-king comes a wave of sudden panic, driving Narulzor back several steps before he comes to control his own movement again.

Narulzor shivers, startled for a while: what cold reason there was in his eyes disappearing, letting a flash of wide-eyed awe show itself between two blinks of an eye, before he regains his wits about him. Nodding quickly, the Inquisitor takes a few steps back, then turns around and hurries off in a long stride into the darkness.