Thread: Cirith Ungol

Ugath, Uruk-Hai of the Misty Mountains Pass of Cirith Ungol It had been a dangerous road from the confines of the mountains in the west to the lands of shadow in the east. To Ugath and the others of his pack, a half dozen or so orcs of various sizes and tribes, it was stark reminder of days of glory past now lost to them. It was a time of Big Bosses and orc-eating spiders and the endless wars with the thrice-accursed men from their rotten stone cities. A time when their dark master fed them human flesh and protected them from the fierce burning sunlight above. They hunted and roamed far in those days. Now the maggot-spawned races of Mordor had been reduced to warlike tribes, fighting each other as much as the men of Gondor who now occupied their lands. Those orc tribes far from here were all but abandoned and left to their own devices, to also fall into in-fighting and anarchy. No more. Their Master was back. Their true Master, their Creator in the depths of time unfathomable to Ugath or any of his party. They could feel Him now, in the darkening Void above, feeding them dark energies, embolden their spirits, feeding their lusts and desires. The promised Time of the Orc could still come to pass. The Sun had been shattered, a promise of their Dark Masters strength and intentions to reclaim His rightful throne and authority over the world. The world of men will finally collapse. And one of their own shall help bring it to pass. For why else would an orc pack of the Misty Mountains venture so far east, risking discovery and battle with the strawheads of the horse lands and the bright eyed tarks of Gondor. Through the Dead City below they had passed, where no men or orc lived now and up the pass into the Spiders Cleft, which they called Cirith Ungol. They knew the enemy had strongholds here but they saw their own folk also in number, prowling the lands about. They were not harassed despite the differences of their tribe and homes. They all worked in unison now it seemed as they had in Ages past. The orcs of the world were becoming united once more to pose a threat to the free folk in all lands. But the darkness concealed them and their prize, bringing the strange human witch many dozens of miles to the Shadow Lands. Ugath knew not why he had this intention but something outerworldly drove him to bring this woman to the east, along with her prize. He did not pry or question orders, even if the source was dubious. He had her now, seated upon his warg before him, his strong scaly arms about her to guard her himself. His pack was not as intelligent as others. They looked at her as flesh to be tortured, holes to be filled, meat to be consumed. They trudged behind him even now, bristling with iron spears, clubs, and short bows. Only fear of Ugath kept them in line and hopefully they feared him more than the enemy. They didnt have to fight however, just bypass the fortress. It seemed their Dark Master stirred the others to assault its very bastion, the ring of steel and metal coming down to them in the haze and fog. Try to flee and Ill gut you myself. Ugath whispered in the witchs ear. He cared not if she worshipped his Master too. She was a filthy human whore and would serve only as long as she was useful. And that was to carry the artifact, which no orc dared to touch or even look upon. Unveiling its cruel light caused many of the weaker, smaller orcs to shriek and fall down on their faces. Only the mightiest could withstand its harsh and brutal brightness. Stick together now. The filthy pinkskins control the narrow pass ahead but our lads should be holding them up. He commanded but snorted to himself. He didnt care if they were cut down. As long as he made it past with his prize, agile upon his warg, and into the vast wastelands of the east, all would be well. They would serve their Masters purpose with their deaths. The fighting grew louder but they could see nothing. It was not known to Ugath that the pinkskins and their strawhead allies had rushed out of the fort to give battle. They came upon some corpses but ignored them. One of his own shrieked and threw his weapons aside, fleeing at the rumour of battle. Coward . The Master will torture him slowly no doubt for his abandoning but Ugath went on. The neigh of horses, cursing of orcs, shouting of men, it all became clearer. Yet they saw nothing in the haze. Not yet. But it came to them. In the shadows before them loomed a tall figure, seated upon a beast. It clinked with gear and harness and upon its head was a tall helm that shone brightly even in the fog, like two wings that flanked a pair of harsh eyes. It perceived them and onwards came a rush of hooves and eternal hatred for Ugaths kind. He drew his scrimitar and bluntly thrust the human witch off his warg to allow him to fight. He would reclaim her later, once his pass was clear. All would die for the glory of his Master. Achasson, Knight of Dol Amroth Cirith Ungol The Recall was being sounded. Yet despite being perhaps two dozen feet from the gates, Achasson couldnt even make out the battlements of the fort in the thick fog. Whence had this blasted haze come from? All he saw were more and more shadows of foes coming towards him. He had to make it back but his horse whined and would not listen. Something fouler than orcs was coming and he heard it, growling and snarling. A warg. His horse, wide eyed and terrified, tried to pull back, causing Achasson to curse. The warg barked and came forth, a hideous orc upon its back. Achasson did not wait for its attack. Reeling back, he flung his lance with all his might and clean through skewered the rider. Out came his sword in a ring of steel and with a shout, stabbed into the gaping mouth of the warg as it leapt to him. Straight through its skull he clove, through its momentum struck him still and knocked him off his horse. It bolted, whining at the foul blood and fled back to the fortress on its own. ohild and others would know it was his horse and it was obvious he was either dead or unhorsed. Could they risk going back for him? Perhaps he was already marked to be a dead man. Alone in the fog he stood and heard the onrush of orcs. His shield he readied and his sword twirled in his hand. If death was coming, he would meet it with a roar of defiance, for the glory of Gondor and the memory of Numenor. Gondor! He shouted in a war cry, meeting the first orc of Ugaths pack and cutting him down in a handful of strokes. The second he smote with his shield but the third cut him with a blunt blow to his shoulder, knocking him down to one knee. He raised his shield above his head, immediately set upon by a trio of orcs, hammering his defences. A cold iron spike found a chink in his armour, drawing blood and lancing pain through his body. He snarled and cursed, stabbing one orc, perhaps dishonourably, in the groin. If he did not get help, he would soon he slain by sheer numbers!