As she slowly approached the spot that had been prescribed by the letter she received from The Blood Lord, Gwynedh glanced up at her raven, named Discord. The letter had been written in a strong hand, and in a defined, flowing script, in Black Speech. The seal, she knew all too well, of Morthalic.
Glancing up again upon hearing the crow of her raven, she muttered something darkly, and the black bird fluttered down, perching his sharp claws into her shoulder, but the Angmarim woman hardly seemed to notice the pain.
Squinting into the distance, she could make out a crimson figure, hooded, although she knew that it was a man, an ambassador of Blood. The man, no doubt, had seen her long before, and at her approach, he reached out his hand and beckoned to her with his fingers, indicating that she should come closer. A wicked grin spread across his face.
Gwynedh pursed her lips, and blinked her eyes silently as she began to take careful, quiet steps toward him, her footfalls hardly audible in the muffled fog of the Barrow Downs. When she neared him, stopping at the respectful distance a woman should keep from a man she does not know, the man spoke.
"Well, well. I am of no danger to thee... yet", the man's grin disappeared, "Step forward. It is for the best of us that we get acquainted."
Nodding once, Gwynedh brought her body a couple steps closer, leaving her hands hanging limply at her sides. She lowers her head respectfully, closing her eyes. But when the man took a deep breath and spoke, she opened her eyes at hi slightly.
"My fair lady, I know thy name. Thou dost not know mine. I have heard of thee, thou has not heard of me."
Gwynedh responded quietly, "And I would be honoured, lord, to learn thine in my turn."
The man raised his hand, followed with a quick hush. "Yet, I only know thee from the tales of Morthalic. I would be honoured to hear thy name spoken from thy tongue. I would be honoured to be given a proper introduction. Who art thou?"
Before responding again, the witch breathed in deeply, but silently, then, "I am called Gwynedh, and Nur-Naakh, lord. The Hand of Pain. Whilst thou grant me the courtesy of knowing thy name?" She transferred her gaze to the base of his neck.
"Who has granted thee that title, my Lady?"
Gwynedh shifted her gaze down again, "The Lord of Blood, my lord..."
"Why has he given thee that title, my Lady?"
Her gaze shifts down to her hands, which she raises slightly, and her long, sharp, black nails, turning her hands so they glint in the dark light of the night around them. But she doesn't speak of her abilities to him, yet.
Impatiently, the man repeated his question, "Why has he given thee that title, my Lady? Come, come, I know everything about thee, thou art in no position to lie or hide things."
Her reply came a bit quickly, slipping out of the traditional Angmarim Westron as her nerves took the better of her, "I-I- When I use my Power, it is mainly in the form of transferring pain... I - specialize in that area."
The man shook his head at her, "No, my Lady, that's not the answer I desired." He turned around to face the grey and black rock-face, gleaming in the light of no moon.
Gwynedh took a step back, her eyes widening slightly as they shifted to the back of his hood, "Forgive me, my lord, I dost not know what beith thy de-"
Without so much as a blink of acknowledgement, his next words cut her off, "The Lord of Blood only grants those whom he trusts a title. It's a symbol of recognition in his eyes."
Swallowing, but keeping her voice steady, she attempted to reassure him, "I hath done nothing to betray His trust,... Lord."
The man looked up the rock, "My name is Morsarch. I am the Hym-Chanter Prince, and Heir of Blood."
Gwynedh did not follow his gaze, but spoke her next words carefully, "And what dost thou desire of me, Lord?"
Morsarch's smooth voice filled the woman with dread, and she moved a hand in worry to her pregnant belly as he spoke his next words, "Thy words might speak truthfully, yet my master sees it otherwise." He put his hand on the blade at his side.
Taking another step back, the witch forced her words to match his calm tone, "My Lord, I serve Him in all I do. If that be true, let me prove that ist not."
Morsarch said, "I am not a man of mercy. I have received command, now it's my duty to obey."
"Let me prove to thee, and to our Lord... tell him this, that I desire to serve him, and in having thou do this... I cannot be able..."
"I am not a man of mercy", the dark Prince unsheathed the blade out of its scabbard at turned around to face her.
"I am not a man of mercy."
Gwynedh backs up, "Please, Lord.... let me go to him and plead my case. It can be ammended."
Suddenly, and without any warning, Morsarch falls to the ground, and hits his head repeatedly on the stone ground, "Get out! I shall curse thy wicked words! Get out of my head!"
She averts her eyes to the ground before his body, waiting patiently and knowing it is best to not interfere whatsoever, every instinct screaming at her to run, but her mind and soul and conscience reminding her coldly that she is merely a slave of the men of Angmar.
Morsarch closes his eyes as he stands, and starts breathing in a ghostly way. Blood drips from the flesh wound in his forehead. as he sneers, his voice ever remaining in a tone of deceiving peace, "My apologies, I am no man of mercy, and yet this is what I grant thee on this night. Thy death will be arranged.
We shall meet again."
Whirling quickly, passing close by her, the Hymn-Chanter Prince disappears into the mist as the first streaks of dawn peer over the horizon.
Gwynedh smirks.
