What our hearts remember stays [Nazgul!Adan]
Nov 26, 2017 19:44:54 GMT -5
Post by Wyn on Nov 26, 2017 19:44:54 GMT -5
The fortress huddled within the crags like the corpse of some great, misshapen beast. Iron and stone rose jagged into the twilight sky like broken bones, and the glow of forge-fires pockmarked it's dark silhouette, oozing noxious smoke into the air. Uruk swarmed over it's battlements like fleas, ever-busy, ferrying materials and weapons from place to place. Occupying a key pass in the mountains separating Nurn from the Plateau of Gorgoroth, the fortress saw heavy traffic both into and out of the farming lands. It was a key point for troops to resupply, and, as a result, stuffed to the gills with surplus weapons, supplies, and food.
Small wonder, then, that a corpse of such bounty would attract scavengers.
Wyn's intentions were less towards thievery today, however, and more towards out-and-out destruction. She knew how orcish forts were usually structured, and her intuition told her that the biggest stockpiles would be within the central keep, and heavily-guarded. She had spent several days observing the fort from the outside, hidden in the crags nearby. She had studied the patrol patterns and scoped out possible points of entry, until she felt confident enough to risk putting her plans into action.
For all her carefulness and planning, however, it didn't take a genius to see just how dangerous this undertaking was. This fortress was massive and bristling, and for a single half-starved human to take it on herself seemed like suicide. As of late, though, there had been a noticeable change in the renegade's operations. She had ceased to rob small camps, and now instead pitted herself against fortress, foundries, and other larger uruk settlements. Her crimes had grown more dire as well. Rather than merely raid supplies, she torched them, ensuring that anything she couldn't carry off couldn't be used by her enemies. She gathered every poisonous herb she could scrounge up and fouled their wells, she picked the locks of caragor cages and let the beasts loose from their arenas, she did everything within her power to be a thorn in the side of Mordor. Sometimes, she was lucky, and was able to carry out her spiteful missions without being discovered. More often than not, however, she was caught in the act and escaped just by the skin of her teeth. She had gained a fair amount of new wounds in the past few weeks, but she never stopped, seemingly hellbent on sending herself to an early grave.
The Necromancer and his forces had taken so much from her. It was only fair that she take just as much.
Orcs may have had excellent night-vision, but the fitful half-light of dusk was a different matter. None of the sentries, bored and eager for their shifts to be done with, noticed the cloaked figure stealing up to the rocky fortress wall and begin her climb. Using her knives as makeshift climbing picks, she made her slow, precarious way upwards, pressed close to the cold stones. By the time she reached the top, her breathing was ragged and her limbs were shaking, but she couldn't afford to rest yet. She peered cautiously over the battlements, and, once she was sure the nearby sentry wasn't looking in her direction, hauled herself up and over. Moving fast and low, she crossed to the inner side of the wall and dared a glance downward. Nobody ever looked up--if she stayed high, she might have a shot at getting inside without being noticed.
The interior of the fortress was cluttered with structures, but even so, picking her way through proved to be a difficult task. She leaped from roof to roof, footfalls light and all but lost among the fortress clamor, gradually making her way to the central keep. It rose high and menacing, a spire of wrought metal that stood out starkly against the dusky skyline. Within, she knew, she'd find what she was looking for.
She was scoping out the best way to get in when a tiny speck in the sky caught her eye. She squinted at it, her blood going cold as she realized that what she had mistaken for small size was instead distance. Had she not known any better, she might have just thought it a lone Hell-hawk circling in the skies above, but some terrible sense of certainty told her otherwise. She hadn't encountered any of Sauron's spectral minions since...since the night she had lost Adan. Thoughts of the elf made her throat tighten and her guts twist. He had saved her life, and in return, had been stabbed with a cursed blade. She had tried to get him out of Mordor, and he had fought it for as long as she could, but the wraith's dark magic had worked faster than either of them had anticipated. She had failed him, and now the only friend she had ever had was gone.
Perhaps that was why she had become so reckless. She had nothing left to lose.
Whether or not the fellbeast had a rider, or whether it was approaching the fort, she wasn't waiting around to find out. She could see a slit-window in the keep's side, barely wide enough to squeeze through, and a possible route to it across a rickety bit of scaffolding. She may have been little use in a toe-to-toe fight, but her petite size at least meant that she could get into places others couldn't. She picked her way across the scaffolds, arms out for balance, praying the orcs milling about below wouldn't happen to glance upwards. She had smeared her skin with soot, both to mask her scent and to blend into the shadows, but exertion and nerves were causing her to sweat. All it would take was one whiff of manflesh to set the whole fort on alert.
Still, for a moment, it seemed like she was going to make it. She had managed to get to the window, little more than an arrow-slit in the stone walls of the keep, and was in the process of wiggling her way through when her movements caused a bit of broken stone, barely half the size of her fist, to dislodge from the wall. Freezing in place, she watched the rock fall down, down, down...
...and bean one of the orcs squarely on the head.
He let out a noise that was part yelp and part snarl, spinning about angrily to see what idiot was flinging rocks. When he looked upwards to see the human hanging a few dozen feet above his head, there was a moment of utter confusion before his face contorted in fury and he bellowed something in Black Speech. Every orc in the area looked up, and Wyn cringed, a tirade of unrepeatable swears playing through her mind.
As the uproar grew outside, she forced her way through the window and dropped into the room, not wasting a moment before she was out and darting down flight of stone stairs. There was flint and kindling in her satchel. Timber, dried leathers, food--these were all quite flammable, and it was these things she hoped to find here. All she had to do was find the stockpile before the fortress's inhabitants found her.
Small wonder, then, that a corpse of such bounty would attract scavengers.
Wyn's intentions were less towards thievery today, however, and more towards out-and-out destruction. She knew how orcish forts were usually structured, and her intuition told her that the biggest stockpiles would be within the central keep, and heavily-guarded. She had spent several days observing the fort from the outside, hidden in the crags nearby. She had studied the patrol patterns and scoped out possible points of entry, until she felt confident enough to risk putting her plans into action.
For all her carefulness and planning, however, it didn't take a genius to see just how dangerous this undertaking was. This fortress was massive and bristling, and for a single half-starved human to take it on herself seemed like suicide. As of late, though, there had been a noticeable change in the renegade's operations. She had ceased to rob small camps, and now instead pitted herself against fortress, foundries, and other larger uruk settlements. Her crimes had grown more dire as well. Rather than merely raid supplies, she torched them, ensuring that anything she couldn't carry off couldn't be used by her enemies. She gathered every poisonous herb she could scrounge up and fouled their wells, she picked the locks of caragor cages and let the beasts loose from their arenas, she did everything within her power to be a thorn in the side of Mordor. Sometimes, she was lucky, and was able to carry out her spiteful missions without being discovered. More often than not, however, she was caught in the act and escaped just by the skin of her teeth. She had gained a fair amount of new wounds in the past few weeks, but she never stopped, seemingly hellbent on sending herself to an early grave.
The Necromancer and his forces had taken so much from her. It was only fair that she take just as much.
Orcs may have had excellent night-vision, but the fitful half-light of dusk was a different matter. None of the sentries, bored and eager for their shifts to be done with, noticed the cloaked figure stealing up to the rocky fortress wall and begin her climb. Using her knives as makeshift climbing picks, she made her slow, precarious way upwards, pressed close to the cold stones. By the time she reached the top, her breathing was ragged and her limbs were shaking, but she couldn't afford to rest yet. She peered cautiously over the battlements, and, once she was sure the nearby sentry wasn't looking in her direction, hauled herself up and over. Moving fast and low, she crossed to the inner side of the wall and dared a glance downward. Nobody ever looked up--if she stayed high, she might have a shot at getting inside without being noticed.
The interior of the fortress was cluttered with structures, but even so, picking her way through proved to be a difficult task. She leaped from roof to roof, footfalls light and all but lost among the fortress clamor, gradually making her way to the central keep. It rose high and menacing, a spire of wrought metal that stood out starkly against the dusky skyline. Within, she knew, she'd find what she was looking for.
She was scoping out the best way to get in when a tiny speck in the sky caught her eye. She squinted at it, her blood going cold as she realized that what she had mistaken for small size was instead distance. Had she not known any better, she might have just thought it a lone Hell-hawk circling in the skies above, but some terrible sense of certainty told her otherwise. She hadn't encountered any of Sauron's spectral minions since...since the night she had lost Adan. Thoughts of the elf made her throat tighten and her guts twist. He had saved her life, and in return, had been stabbed with a cursed blade. She had tried to get him out of Mordor, and he had fought it for as long as she could, but the wraith's dark magic had worked faster than either of them had anticipated. She had failed him, and now the only friend she had ever had was gone.
Perhaps that was why she had become so reckless. She had nothing left to lose.
Whether or not the fellbeast had a rider, or whether it was approaching the fort, she wasn't waiting around to find out. She could see a slit-window in the keep's side, barely wide enough to squeeze through, and a possible route to it across a rickety bit of scaffolding. She may have been little use in a toe-to-toe fight, but her petite size at least meant that she could get into places others couldn't. She picked her way across the scaffolds, arms out for balance, praying the orcs milling about below wouldn't happen to glance upwards. She had smeared her skin with soot, both to mask her scent and to blend into the shadows, but exertion and nerves were causing her to sweat. All it would take was one whiff of manflesh to set the whole fort on alert.
Still, for a moment, it seemed like she was going to make it. She had managed to get to the window, little more than an arrow-slit in the stone walls of the keep, and was in the process of wiggling her way through when her movements caused a bit of broken stone, barely half the size of her fist, to dislodge from the wall. Freezing in place, she watched the rock fall down, down, down...
...and bean one of the orcs squarely on the head.
He let out a noise that was part yelp and part snarl, spinning about angrily to see what idiot was flinging rocks. When he looked upwards to see the human hanging a few dozen feet above his head, there was a moment of utter confusion before his face contorted in fury and he bellowed something in Black Speech. Every orc in the area looked up, and Wyn cringed, a tirade of unrepeatable swears playing through her mind.
As the uproar grew outside, she forced her way through the window and dropped into the room, not wasting a moment before she was out and darting down flight of stone stairs. There was flint and kindling in her satchel. Timber, dried leathers, food--these were all quite flammable, and it was these things she hoped to find here. All she had to do was find the stockpile before the fortress's inhabitants found her.