Footsteps of Doom (September 3010) - [Rhoran]
Jan 13, 2019 16:20:35 GMT -5
Post by Captains on Jan 13, 2019 16:20:35 GMT -5
The sun was starting to rise, and the orcs squinted against the coming dawn. Long and hard through the night they had traveled, carrying with them the sights of the lands ahead. Carn Dûm, it seemed, was a long way away, and though the muddy paths appeared silent they were far from empty. The grey morning was damp, leftover humidity from the storms that deluged the night before, though the spindly, cowering orc hardly felt it.
“’Urry up, ya maggots!” Urul snarled, looking over his shoulder toward the thin band of scouts he had led onward. Four were missing, lost by arrows from opposing manflesh. They had been easy to dispatch once their presence had been known; attacking during the day had provided them with a distinct advantage at first, but there were none so fierce as those of the Black Lands.
Hissing, snarling, frothing at the mouth they had clawed their victory. And not without learning more than the men had wished to give. Gondorians. Proud, though soon to fall. The Dark Lord would see to such things, and great once more would the reach of the Black Lands be.
Ahead, smoke was rising, a fire doused for the coming of the morning. Wargs howled a greeting, announcing the presence of the coming party and Urul smirked. Dark Lord Sauron had given them leave to take to the far West, the North; Angmar, once more, would be his to command. “My lord,” Urul offered, the sound entreating despite the coarse way of speech his lips were able to form. “We swept b'yond the mountains, as asssked." His words came, stuck for a moment on the 's' like the hiss of a snake. The charcoal-skinned creature grinned, peering up, fetid delight rising at the thought of the news he was yet to deliver.
Green eyes, putrid and keen, looked up upon the tall, dark-haired figure that stood there at the head of the camp, and low did Urul bow. This was no Dark Lord, perhaps, though it took little to convince the orc that this creature, this half-man as he was, was a favored general. To bestow the task of reclaiming lost realms...
"A pocket’a rangers’re ahead. What’s your command?”
“’Urry up, ya maggots!” Urul snarled, looking over his shoulder toward the thin band of scouts he had led onward. Four were missing, lost by arrows from opposing manflesh. They had been easy to dispatch once their presence had been known; attacking during the day had provided them with a distinct advantage at first, but there were none so fierce as those of the Black Lands.
Hissing, snarling, frothing at the mouth they had clawed their victory. And not without learning more than the men had wished to give. Gondorians. Proud, though soon to fall. The Dark Lord would see to such things, and great once more would the reach of the Black Lands be.
Ahead, smoke was rising, a fire doused for the coming of the morning. Wargs howled a greeting, announcing the presence of the coming party and Urul smirked. Dark Lord Sauron had given them leave to take to the far West, the North; Angmar, once more, would be his to command. “My lord,” Urul offered, the sound entreating despite the coarse way of speech his lips were able to form. “We swept b'yond the mountains, as asssked." His words came, stuck for a moment on the 's' like the hiss of a snake. The charcoal-skinned creature grinned, peering up, fetid delight rising at the thought of the news he was yet to deliver.
Green eyes, putrid and keen, looked up upon the tall, dark-haired figure that stood there at the head of the camp, and low did Urul bow. This was no Dark Lord, perhaps, though it took little to convince the orc that this creature, this half-man as he was, was a favored general. To bestow the task of reclaiming lost realms...
"A pocket’a rangers’re ahead. What’s your command?”