Dark Words with the Easterlings

Gathering Place

This is a rather large central area surrounded by hundreds of yurts stretching out in a sea of white domes. A large cookfire which seems to burn at all hours of the day crackles and sparks, often being the center of tribal activity. Night has fallen and the cookfire provides a warm, red-orange illumination to the ordu. Some of the nearby yurts catch the flickering glow of the fire, taking on a soft, orange hue. Few people, aside from the ever-watchful sentries, roam the ordu at this time.

Contents: Jyr Witch-king Ketoh Easterling Ordu Haj'vnr Guards Obvious exits: Bazaar, Kiltosh Yurts, Hurdria Yurts, and Out

Bor is sitting nearby the Hurdria Yurts eating away at some dried meat.

A few eyes turn from the supper fire. Eyes narrowing they squint into the blackness of the night....

Bor looks up at the commotion and at the rider approaching the gathering place.

The rider trots to a halt at the edge of the camp near the sentries. Hooded and robed, his features concealed, he is nevertheless easily recognized by most, whether by sight or by dreadful rumor.

Droplets of sweat roll down the brows of the sentries as they watch the figure approach. Be it from the heat of the summer or the emotions this being makes them feel. They all step back, uncertain....

Bor spits what he was chewing onto the floor to avoid chocking, dropping the remainded of the meat on the floor as well, he remains inplace unmoving..

Rising to her feet, sleeves rolled back, bare arms exposed to the humid night air, the Chieftan looks past thosse gathered from her place at Bor's side.

Witch-king looks down upon the sentries, and all that can be seen of his features in his shadowed hood are eyes which gleam cruelly with something more than the firelight. When he speaks his voice rings hollowly over the camp. "I am come from the wars of Mordor," he says. "Let the Easterling chiefs come forth."

Bor looks over at Ketoh passing him stands up from the floor flashes some orders around to the warriors around the camp with some hand signals.

Ketoh lifts her eyes to Bor's face, her lips parting to say a few words only to have them cut off at the words from the wraith and her companion's actions. Stepping forward she walks out ot the centre of the encampment where she can be fully seen. Her voice lifts, responding to the call of the Spirit, "I come at your call master..."

Bor just nods to Ketoh with an understanding expression on his face and watches her walk to the rider..

Those about the fires seem to have frozen in their actions. Memories of the past meetings witth this creature written on their faces for all to see. A few cast glances at the younger members of the clans with a sense of unease.

Witch-king's cold gaze turns upon Ketoh. He sits still upon the horse, stirring only slightly with its impatient movements. "Mordor has an accounting to take of thee, Easterling."

Though nearly all eyes are on the cold figure of the black rider where he speaks at the edge of camp, one sentry glances into the southern darkness and narrows his eyes, as if to see something there more clearly.

Ketoh fights against the chill, that runs down her spine. Shuddering she lowers herself to one knee before the being, her held still held high, "The Clans appear before you in myself, ready for your justice master..."

Witch-king's laughter rings with cold arrogance.

Witch-king says, "Excellent. The Dark Lord shall be pleased with thy compliance, if in little else."

The sentry points and whispers to his fellows. More shapes ride looming in from the darkness.

Fell Steed has arrived.

Witch-king sits still atop his grim black warhorse at the edge of the Easterling camp. Sentries stand nervously nearby at watch-fires, and Ketoh has come forward to address him.

From the darkness, out of smoke rides a tall figure on a horse. At least upon first glance it seems to be a horse. But as the fell steed draws closer, its skull-like head grows apparent and its hideous mouth opens, billowing flame into the air. Easterling horses whinny in fright and men draw back. The beast's rider is a stern man of indeterminate age with eyes that seem to stare at everything at once, seeing all and judging it unworthy. He speaks, and everyone within the Ordu can hear his voice, though he does not shout. "I am the Mouth of Sauron," he says.

Bor widens his eyes, mouth gapping wide open, frozen in fright and fascination.

Witch-king does not turn at the approach of the Mouth of Sauron, but watches the dawning reaction of the Easterlings. His cold eyes seem to shine with malicious humor at their fear.

The Mouth of Sauron draws his steed to a halt, which the creature does not appreciate, pawing the ground and blowing flame from its nostrils. The man pays it no mind as he gingerly dismounts and brushes off his black robes. He walks slowly towards the ringwraith and the Easterling leaders, his face unreadable.

Near to the black horse and it's fearsome ride, trailing a short distance behind em, is a man astride his own mount, a roan mare. Fretting, the mare seems to skitter at the presense of the rider and fell steed that it follows, but complies with the man atop it's orders with abit of a fuss. Finally, reigning in the beast a short distance from where the Mouth of the Eye halted his own beast, he turns about and looks at the gaping faces of the Easterlings about, his hand falling to rest on the hilt of the sword at his hip. Nudgeing the horse he rides closer to the Voice of the Eye, the presense of the wraith helping not the horses mood, he hovers near to his master, warily looking down upon those he speaks with.

Mouth_of_Sauron dismounts from the fell steed.

Mouth_of_Sauron has arrived.

Ketoh's dark eyes flick from the wraith before her to the man who rides up behind him. A hand moves to her stomach, wrapping about her midrif, as her eyes take in the full power before her. Steeling herself, jaw clenched she looks back to the Witch-King, "We are honoured that the Dark Master will accept this from us.."

Witch-king now remains silent, as if ignoring Ketoh's words to him, and his gaze drifts slowly across the hushed crowd.

Stiffling omen of death, fills the air as many of the clansmen look from one to the other of the powers before them. A few have given up in their effort to remain standing and have fallen to their knees....the others seem frozen in time.

The sorcerer draws close to the group, his gaze taking in the people assembled there. "So these are the Easterlings," he finally says after a pause. "I must say I expected much more than this scrabbling lot. It is no wonder they failed to keep the dwarves occupied," he tells the Witch King. Then turning to the dark skinned nomads, he says, "Who among you is the leader and has the strength and wit to understand me?"

Bor's face twitches a bit at MoS's words but he refrains fromself from showing any emotion other than fear on his face.

Bringing her fist to her chest in an honourary salute to the man who has appeared before them, Ketoh draws herself to her feet and her full height. A flicker of emotion passes over her features before being replaced with fear and acceptance, "I understand you sir..."

Turning his head slowly to face the woman, he holds her in his gaze like a hawk holds a mouse, his grey eyes seeming to look right through her. "I shall be the judge of that," he says dryly after a moment. "To whom am I speaking?"

The mount under the cloaked man continues to skitter about, half-turning in fear as the nearby mount of the dark numenorean sniffs out a tuft of fire. Quickly bringing the mount back under his control with a sharp tug of the reins to the side and a dig of his knees into it's side, he has it turn back about so he can face torwards the Voice of the Eye, his face set grimly, his cold eyes staring down upon the Easterling assemblage with a wary scrutiny, his hand continueing to rest on the hilt of the long bladed sword at his hip. Turning his head, tightenning up on the reins of his mount, he looks the woman who speaks over once slowly, staring at her as he watches her converse with his master, watching warily.

With a flick of her tongue, the woman moistens her lips. the heat and humidoty of the night seemingly grows more and more oppressive with each passing moment. With an upward tilt of her chin, she maintains her stature, "I am Chieftan of the Clan Hurdria...I am named Ketoh"

Bor composes himself briefly and silently orders the warriors in control of their senses to line up in a block behind Ketoh..

"Your title means nothing to me," the Black Numenorean says. "It is enough that you speak for these folk. Ketoh." He rolls the woman's name around in his mouth like a morsel of food. He takes a step towards the proud woman and adopts a friendly tone, almost fatherly. "Ketoh, tell me. Have you any explanation as to why you were unable to keep the dwarves of the Iron Hills here, as the Witch King did command you to?"

Bor walks directly behind Ketoh and kneels behind her, head bowed showing his servitute for his chieftan.

Witch-king's gaze now falls on Ketoh again, and even in the presence of the Mouth of Sauron she and Bor can feel that unnatural chill.

Bor looking at the ground is able to keep his composure by concentrating on keeping still...

One of the warriors at the line behind Ketoh breaks down as Witch-King's gaze falls upon him and suddenly collapses in silent tears, too afraid to scream.

Ketoh says, "We took the words of the Spirit to our hearts..." The woman's eyes flutter closed several times, as a drop of sweat makes its way down the length of her brow, down the length of her nose and to her cheek. Wiping it away with the back of her hand, her voice takes becomes apprehensive, "The number we encountered we far greater then those we pushed away from the roads with the Spirits aid" Swollowing she continues, "The men of the lake and the dwarven cousins rallied behind those of the hills....""

The man atop the horse watch the more able of the Easterlings, warriors by appearance, line up behind the woman, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he watches, his hand tightenning not on the pommel but on the hilt of the sword at his hip, slipping down as he sees this. But not drawing the weapon, he instead sits there upon the roan mare, watching the Easterlings behind the woman with the same wary scrutiny he gave her, finally dropping his gaze back down onto the woman.

Mouth_of_Sauron's penetrating eyes flick to the kneeling man. He smiles thinly and glances back up at Ketoh. "I see you have them well trained. Good, good. Discipline is good. A little more of it would have held you faster against the dwarves and the Dalelaners." He lifts a long finger. "We must make sure it does not happen again, lest the complete anger of the Dark Lord be made known to you and your kin." His voice grows thicker and darker with each word, the weight becoming more oppressive than the humid air about them.

As the woman turns her head, glancing at those who have knelt behind her, she takes the moment to draw a deep breath away from the scrutiny of the eyes before her. Looking back to the one who speaks for the Dark Master, her lips open but no sound comes as the strain has dryed her throat. Swollowing she finally speaks, "We made every attempt but we unable to get around their forces...many of my best were lost for the Dark Master.."

Mouth_of_Sauron says with some scorn, "We all have to make sacrifices for Sauron. Think ye that it is simple to overcome the deluded rabble of the false kings of these lands? Nay." He meets the woman's eyes. "But nothing worth having is gained easily. Remember that, and remember too that the Dark Lord rewards loyalty and tenacity." The renegade's voice raises as if preaching, "Much will be given to those from whom much is asked."

Bor shudders when MoS says the name of the dark lord..

Ketoh lowers her glance, bending her head forward, "We have always found ourselves honoured by the Dark Master's recognition..."

Mouth_of_Sauron says, "Ye shall honor us further," as he turns his attention to the silent ringwraith. "Have you instructed them in regards to their children, Nazgul Lord?"

A Few of those who have remained gathered shift nervously at the mention of the children

"I have," says the grim and hollow voice of the Nazgul. "And I took their oaths accordingly."

Ketoh follows the gaze of Mouth, her eyes riveted to the dark spectre stil atop its steed. Turning away a silent curse upon the head of Bat leaves her lips, waiting for the human to speak once more.

Smirking slightly at the woman's reaction to the dark numenorean's words, the man from atop the roan mare shifts around in his seat to better look out upon the other Easterlings, watching their reactions with a similar gaze of disdain.

Mouth_of_Sauron turns back to Ketoh and watches her carefully for a lingering moment. "Excellent," he replies to the wraith without looking away from the woman. "See that those oaths are carried out," he tells her. "I do not like to be disobeyed. Is that clear?"

Ketoh looks out over her clans folk that watch the scene with much shock and terror. She meets the eyes of a a few before looking back to the man before, "Sir, there is a gift we wish to offer to teh Dark Master ...."

Mouth_of_Sauron looks to the woman with some surprise. "Oh? And what might that be? Anything you have of value we could simply take from you anyway.

Ketoh says, "Two of our people are now in teh City by the Lake..." A smile fainlty appears on her features, "They have found those who will work for us and the Master, serving his needs. They will give up their children to Mordor's services instead of our own...""

Mouth_of_Sauron thinks for a long moment. "I shall consider it." He turns to go. "I and my men are camped down the road. We shall discuss this further." He gestures for his steed to be brought to him and he mounts.

Mouth_of_Sauron has left.

Mouth_of_Sauron mounts the fell steed.

Witch-king stirs at last, only to tug the reins of his own black steed. With a snort the creature turns and trots away toward the south.

From atop the fell steed, Mouth_of_Sauron calls out, "We shall meet again shortly. Expect me."

As the wraith and the human put distance between themselves and those of the East, the camp feels the heat of the day hit them, all chill slowly leaving their bodies....

Ketoh bring her fist to her chest, and bows her head, "We shall await your return..."

The mount he rides skittering slightly to the side, the cloaked man quickly brings it under control and then alongside his master. Turning to cast one last glance upon the Easterlings, he finally releases his longsword to grasp the reins. Then with a sharp snap of the reins, a sharp kick with his heels into the mount's sides, he bolts off after the dark numenorean and the wraith.

Witch-king leaves the Ordu..

Witch-king has left.

Fell Steed leaves the Ordu..

Fell Steed has left.

Bor stands from where he was kneeling as the vitors leave..

Jyr leaves the Ordu..

Jyr has left.