Echoes in Udûn

Two months had passed, and Udûn had begun to whisper again.

Not with the crackle of forges or the grind of war machines—
but with the rumor of her.

Deorla the Herald.
Deorla the Returning Flame.

Some orcs swore they saw a pale silhouette stalking the borders.
Others claimed their patrols were cursed—missing men, silent blades in the dark, fires snuffed while their backs were turned.

Nothing decisive.
Nothing final.

The fire between them burned low, settling into a bed of coals that glowed like watchful eyes. Deorla stood over the map Shereg had spread across a scarred table—Mordor, broken into jagged regions by ash, iron, and old rivalries. Once, she had walked these lands as a servant. Now she looked upon them as something to be taken.

“I am done surviving,” she said at last, her voice calm in a way that made it dangerous. “I will take all of Mordor. Every pit, every tower, every broken banner still clinging to the idea of power. And I will unite it.”

On the shores of Nen Harn the party stirs from their nightly slumber. It was a peaceful morning, after a peaceful night. And as the first light touches the dewy grass, the party readies for breakfast. Turtle soup made by the hobbit lass, Caramip.

“Watch out, that Elf will cut your throat, and toss your body overboard,” some of the crew were saying as they languished on the deck. They laughed, but behind the mirth I knew they were unsure of me. I liked it that way. Let them insult me, but let them fear me too. What they did not know, what they imagined, could drain their strength.

((edited RP log))

They sat together in silence as they ate, the low fire crackling and sending embers fluttering towards the low roof of the cave. Once Rowan was done, he leaned back against the thick fur cloak and closed his eyes though he did not sleep. “How is your family?” he asked companionably.

My mind hearkens back to a yester-year when I first heard the tales of the Shadow-Goers around the campfires. An old superstition of my peoples. Shape-shifters, neither living nor dead. They dwell in the forests. Occasionally they creep into villages. Solitary for most of their lives. Sometimes they grow weary and try to find themselves a loving family. Seeking the occasional food or companionship. They settle for a while, then when the attachment becomes too strong or they grow bored. They move on. Vanishing in the wind.