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| The War of the Ring; my lotr story... | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 21 2005, 12:47 PM (285 Views) | |
| Indiana Captain of Morgul | Oct 21 2005, 12:47 PM Post #1 |
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Promoted Warrior
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Hello WC, here's my story whichi ve been working on on the DC; The War of the Ring A novelisation by ICOM Part One Chapter I Grobtak stood on the hill, watching as the orcs crept towards the abandoned city. As he watched, a small bird landed next to him. It was small, greying and losing feathers. Then, a crow came down and careened into it, grabbing it and crushing it in its sharp talons. The body of the bird hung limp. The crow flew off, and Grobtak knew that it was a fierce omen. The city of Osgiliath would fall. He smiled. Indiana crept along, through the ruins. He was slightly aware of the hundreds of orcs behind him. He sniffed the air. It was cold, misty, slightly overwhelming. Perfect for a raid. He ushered the orcs forward, and stopped to take a look at the area. It was a small statue, standing at the foot of a large building. Orcs had already infiltrated it, and were now in total control. He drew his bow, and examined the arrow. It had been used before, and was slightly smeared with the blood of a hapless victim. He tasted it, and smiled. Men had fallen, men would fall. He resumed his pace, slightly quicker than the rest. The elven armour he wore had long lost its majesty, but still was light and easy to move in. He turned round. Thud! An arrow flew into an orc a few metres away. He fell, spinning in the air and landing in the water below. The bridge was guarded. They would have to storm it. “Forward!” he yelled, and beckoned men over. More arrows flew out of their hiding places, landing in orcs, more orcs dieing. Indiana charged forward. He would get past. From his perch, Grobtak could see the arrows flying far below in the city. The hill he was on provided cover and viewing. He looked back at his bodyguard. They were watching, eager for bloodlust, drooling with the scent of blood in the air. Grobtak smiled. Men were doomed. Far below in the city, Indiana had reached the other side, with his loyal bodyguard, now missing an orc. He drew his sword, and swung it at a man. The blade crunched into the shiny armour and knocked him back, holding his chest and gasping. Indiana smiled and swung again and again, hitting men here and there. His bodyguard followed suit, hacking into the men and pushing forward. A yell came from the lines of the men, ordering a retreat. The order was cut short by an arrow flying through the air and an “Ooff!”. A body fell from a great height, thudding into the ground and scaring the other men. They fell back, with the orcs hacking at their heels. Indiana laughed, a great, evil laugh, and sent his men into the city. Grobtak would be pleased. Chapter II High up in the Sky, a beast flew overhead. A horrible, fell beast, possessed of talons and teeth most horrible. The rider was laughing, looking or prey, for food for its pet. Noticing something, he dived, and the Fell beast screeched. A man below screamed in terror, and tried to shoot the rider. He deflected it with the sword, and stared at the man. He froze in his scream, and could only watch in terror as the talons gripped him, squeezing, crushing, and torturing him unto death. The beast feasted, loudly chomping away on the flesh, before dropping the armour, like a carcass, down to the ground. It then searched for more prey. It was hungry…it’s brothers were hungry…but they would feast tonight. The rider laughed, his hood flowing back, revealing the black emptiness. He was a Nazgul, a fallen king, once a lord of Numenor but corrupted by the Lord Sauron, turned into an immortal, cowled figure, like death itself, stalking forever the ring…It called…The…Preeciiousssss…My Preciousss…Hobbiton…. the ring called to Eriador, and the rolling hills and fields, where the Halflings reside, jovial in their holes, owning the Preciousss. Must retrieve the Precioussssss………. The guard shifted in his place, guarding the watchtower of Amon-Har. Orcs were rumoured to be near, and he was nervous. The spear in his hand was smooth, well made and deadly in combat. Although he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, on account of him not being very good. He watched the hills, and sighed. Three more hours to go. Behind him, the orc tracker slowly crept down the wall. In his teeth was a small blade, coated in a poison designed for humans, but with no immediate effect on orcs. He reached the bottom, and stood up. Holding the blade, he lifted it back. The man shifted slightly, suspecting nothing. The orc brought the blade down into the soft, fleshy back of the man. A crunch was heard as it stuck the spine. The man went ‘Urk’ and stared into the distance. He fell forward, and died. The tracker drew his bow, and loaded an arrow. In the forest behind was another tower. He saw the guard. Taking careful aim, he released an arrow. It hit the guard in the chest. He cried out, and fell backwards. Another guard yelled, and ran to the wall. The second arrow greeted him in the arm. He fell back with pain, scrabbling at the arrow, knowing it to be poisoned. He was too late. Thin lines crawled up the arm, winding like snakes. The guard tried moving back, but they kept coming. It reached the chest, and he screamed out as his lung collapsed, filled with the poison. It burned from the inside, working its way up, slowly, killing the man with dreadful agony. The lines reached the neck, and then crawled up to the head. The man fell forward, leaning on the wall, blood and grey poison leaking from his mouth, giving a final spasm as he died. The poison leaked out through the reddened skin, having burst veins and melted the tissues. The tracker’s work was done. He left, leaving an arrow behind. It pointed to the great cloud, to the red eye, to the Dark Lord Sauron, to Mordor. To the future of Middle-Earth…………… Chapter III Deep in the catacombs beneath Barad-dur, Lestat awoke. In his blood ran a craving for blood. He got out the coffin and turned to the cages of victims on the far wall. It was running low, now only including a couple of men, a woman and a small hobbit. One of the men was looking at him, expression pure white. A look of terror was imprinted on his face. Lestat smiled in a slightly frightening way. The man quivered. Lestat walked slowly towards the cage, opened it and beckoned the man out. The man shuffled out, slowly. He’d seen the fate that awaited him before as the commander of the guard was killed. That man was now lying on the stone bench, not breathing, with two red holes in his neck. The man quivered again. Lestat shut the cage, and snarled slightly. From the side of his mouth, two long sharp teeth poked out. He drew back the man’s head, and bit. His teeth sank into the soft flesh of the man, and pierced the veins running to his head. The man screamed for a second, then quietened, almost in a trance. Hot blood ran down his neck, and Lestat drank it in. Then he dropped the man to the ground and wiped his mouth. Liking his lips, he turned and walked out the chamber, making sure to shut the door, and attended to his gathering of prey… High in the sky, the fell beast dived. Landing in a clearing in the forest, the rider got off and looked around. It was a small area, with an even smaller building by the side. In it he could see a light. A small man was dancing around with an even smaller woman. The wraith walked slowly, with menace, towards the building. As he did, the sky turned dark, as if it was night. The man stopped dancing. A dog tethered outside started barking, then stopped and tried to get away. The wraith knocked don the door. It dented slightly, and then broke. The man came to the door, and said in an angry voice “what do you want?” The wraith then stared at the man, and spoke in his menacing, hoarse whisper. “Bagginssss…Shiresss….” The man hesitated, and shook his head. He quickly spoke, slightly frightened. “Ain’t no bagginses here. Now go away! Please!” Then he fainted. Petrified would have been a better word. The wraith walked away, calling a horse from its place. It approached, and stood next to the rider. He mounted, and set off. He would tell the others about the shire, and the Baggins. But he had other work to do… Deep down in the dark, dingy passages and crypts inside Moria, Goblins ran about in a kind of fleeting, organised panic. Fetching food, weapons and armour and news for the master, there was no terror bar one that was greater than the upset master. For them anyway. Durburz roared at the goblin that had brought him the news. Dwarves! Invading the higher levels and trying to take back their realm. But now it was the realm of Durburz, and it would not be taken back. “Rally the troops! Get the trolls! Kill the Dwarven-kind!” He roared, grabbing his large, wicked sword. Dwarves would die, slowly, fast, he didn’t care. But they would die! Far south, in the great barren desert that was Harad, Ehutak stirred. The heat was as strong as usual, blistering to anyone not used to it. Any men who came from the northern lands would burn before they fought. And when they fought, they burnt usually afterwards anyway. A small soldier came into the tent, with his armour glistening. He was holding a small scrap of paper, and looking happy. Ehutak read it. “Ehutak, commander of the Serpent legion. We have discovered an outpost in the north, near you, with a few dozen swan knights. We know you know what to do.” Ehutak smiled. In the tongue of the south, he commanded the men to rally and head north, with the promise of plunder and more gold. Abiding, the army marched. Blood would lay on the sand soon, fresh hot man-blood. The glory of Dol Amroth would be ended in a gory melee. He laughed, and rode off. Grarz walked slowly up to Saruman’s room. He had bad news to tell him. The enemy had captured Gollum, and they had learnt vital information form him. Another orc there waited, but he knew Grarz had worse news. He let him through. Grarz opened the door. Saruman turned and looked at the orc. The orc cleared his throat and told him. During the long explanation, Saruman’s eyes grew wider and filled with anger and flame. He shook, and yelled at the orc; “BE QUIET! DO NOT TELL ME ANYMORE!! And he levelled his staff at the orc. It crackled at the end, blue with raw magical power. Saruman was shaking, anger welling up inside him. Then the orc said in a small voice, “Em…also, the production line was damaged today by a small band of unhappy orcs…” he trailed off. Saruman roared, and the staff fired. The energy hit the orc in the head, which imploded, getting smaller at a great speed. The orc screamed, but it was deafened by the raw power of the blast. The orc clutched at his head, which had reddened and blotched. It stopped, and then undid its shrinking at a great speed, exploding from the centre. It flew out, and hit the wall. The body swayed, and toppled over, headless. Saruman threw it and the blood out the window, using his staff to launch them far. He snarled, and the orc outside the door ran off. Chapter IV Indiana looked around. The orcs were taking a rest, and probably a well-needed one. They had fought through a few waves of men, and beaten all of them to a pulp. They had lost many orcs, but life was tough. So was war. So were his orcs. Indiana roared, a roar of triumph, and the other orcs around him did as well. In the air, the birds flew deafened and scared, desperately trying to find shelter. One of them fell out the sky, and landed on the spear Indiana held. He looked at it, and took a bite. The fresh, hot meat was rich in his mouth, the blood dripping out. He smiled. This was a good day. Goblins scuttled quietly along the abandoned dwarven corridors. Runes were etched here and there, speaking about the great gold and plunder. Then Orcish letters, crudely scrawled in red paint, replaced them, overriding their presence. They spoke about the glory of the dark lord, and his great evil and menace, and how men would fall. The goblins scuttled along, bows at the ready. They were starting to smell dwarven flesh. It tasted foul in their mouths, tasting of light and good and Dwarf…they spat in disgust, and crept further. Soon, the foul presence would be purged. High in the mountains, the coldness, the cruelty of the world didn’t matter. To those ethereal spirits that dwelt there, these were mere setbacks to the master plan. But there were those who disagreed. High in the Blue Mountains, fire was spread, great, roaring fire, of bodily origin. Dragons flew, fighting, arguing, and ruling over the others. Dragons flew, fought, and dropped. Many were slain in the turmoil that was the great schism of the Drakes. Red, white, fire, cave, all different varieties of the one thing. Dragon. White wanted peace, an ethereal good that would spread over the earth. Red wanted fire, food and slaughter. Fire wanted fire, cruelness and rule. Cave wanted quiet, hoards and plunder. All wanted theirs, and all hated others. And so they fought, flying between the mere mountains, fighting, wounding, killing their own flesh and blood, with a lack of mercy and sense. This war went on, and many died. The fire drakes were destroyed, along with the white drakes and most of the fire. Cave drakes retreated to their realms, some causing riot with the small ones of the world, laying waste to towns, and settling in dwarven strongholds. Fire drakes moved west to the black lands of Khand, some allying with the men there, who respected them and saw them as equals. But one went east, and south, watching the men and orcs fight, choosing which to join for fun. He chose evil, for now, and was come to be known as Angcalagon by the elves of the time. Angcalagon the scourge of the west, destroyer of men and elves alike. And that was a fitting description, for he was possessed of a bloodlust in battle that none other could match. Feared was he by the races of men, calling him the terror that few could match. Angcalagon sat better on the tongue though, so it was that he was called by. But he still was the terror, and proud of it. Dragons are possessed of a natural pride over everything, and this was a prime example. He was the greatest single threat to man, bar the Dark Lord. Rayrn sat on his boat, in a slightly relaxing trance. He was perfectly aware of the wind, sea, sun and his ship’s crew, busy at work. They had orders not to disturb him. He relaxed, sitting in front of the curtains that separated him and his harem. He wondered about them. The harem could use a bit of freshening up; it consisted of two women. Both were getting beyond their use, and so Rayrn was considering getting rid of them. He though about the most fun way to kill them. Maybe a poison to kill them from the inside. Or maybe he could feed them to the fish. Or both, come to think of it. A poison that slowed speed and muscle strength, then chuck them in the sea. They’d either die of fatigue, poison, drowning or be eaten by some carnivorous fish. He smiled. That would be fun to watch. Then, the ship rocked. A screech came from outside. It sounded familiar, horrifying yet pleasantly evil-sounding, the kind of screech that comes from a massive great dragon-kind animal. He smiled at the though. Only nine people he knew rode them, and 8 of them were just cloaks. He personally knew the other; Murazor. He saw the figure dismount, and there was the crunch of metal on wood. The curtain was flung aside, and in stepped a figure in a black cloak. It spoke, in a screeching whisper: ”Rayrn…I have orders for you……….” Chapter V Durburz shuffled along the corridor, and laughed. It was more of a groan, as his voice was rusty and bad even for a goblin. His men had started coming back from the fights. Many had been killed, but several hundred dwarves were reported to have been killed. As his goblins often exaggerated, he reckoned it was only about a hundred. He was now going to join the fight. He would do better than his second-in-command. He looked at the body the Shaman was holding and attempting to revive, with little success. He snarled, at no one in particular, and then scuttled off, to join the fight. Ehutak stared at the sunset, red on the horizon, its rays of light streaking out like fingers, trying to reach something on the far horizon. He thought for a minute, silently praying to no one, and then reached into the bag on the saddle. He drew out a painting, from the best painter money would get, of a girl, young with fair hair and blue eyes, smiling at her father. He blinked, and a single tear fell down his cheek. Her name was Rosemary, and he had brought her up like a princess. He accepted nothing but the best for her, and looked after her like he did himself. He had cared for her like non other, and poured his heart and soul into her existence. But she had gone out into the fields one day, and never returned. That was two years ago, to the day. After many days of searching, he had given up. He joined the army, and tried to forget all memories. He hadn’t succeeded. The first officer drew up next to him. He looked at him, and frowned. “Sir… Is anything wrong?” Ehutak waved away the officer, and in doing so showed the picture. The officer drew his breath, sighed, and continued on. The sunset brought others. Orcs flocked out of the forests and caves, and marched towards the white cities. Wraiths rode, fast on their horses, always looking for the ring. Lestat walked silently between the leaves of the forest. Nothing snapped, no branches fell, no leaves crackled. Where he stepped, all noise ceased to exist. Silence was his friend, and so was the dark. Easier for victims to fall, easier to kill and much, much easier to relax in. he looked at his target, a small shack near the edge of the forest. He saw a shadow in the window, lit by candle. Alone, easy to kill. But that was not his plan. He would bring him back to his lair, maybe torture him, and then drain him of all his blood. Lestat smiled, and started a run. He crouched, and dived through the window… Grobtak lay back, savouring the taste of the flesh Indiana had brought him. It was sweet, mixed with spices found in the stores they had raided. But nothing was sweeter than the taste of victory. They had won against the men who defended the city. Orcs had died, but men had died more. He hadn’t lost anyone important, apart from the captain of the 2nd assault boat. Easily replaced; he was only another orc. “So…pleased, master? We’ve defeated the men, and driven them to the edges. My men are just mopping up the survivors. I have brought you the Commander himself. By the name they shouted, I think he was called Raildern. But now he’s just dead. And so are his men. We have secured a great victory!” Chapter VI Akraka surveyed his workers, the pathetic orcs toiling away in the mines. Toiling to make his race – Uruk-Hai - the perfect orc, much stronger and more intelligent. A ledge gave way behind him, sending a couple of orcs to their doom. It mattered not; orcs were disposable. They could be sacrificed to gain purity and strength in the ultimate race. He smiled. He was pureblood, better then everyone else, better then the impure ones. His race was the masterful, the strong ones. Others were insignificant, worthy only as slaves and labourers. He looked behind him to the plains of gathering. Already a formidable force was there. He would take it, and go and purge the impure, cleanse the unclean, kill the traitorous. Men, Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, all of them would fall. The Uruk-Hai would rule as the supreme race. He laughed, and disappeared into the tower. Rayrn observed the port from a distance. It was small, well located to get fish and trade, and by the looks of it had plenty of goods. His orders from Murazor had been simple. Slowly sail upstream to the white cities, and do what he wanted during the trip. He had more than a month to lose, and he knew how. His pirates, and in fact any pirates, excelled in rape, pillage and plunder. They would amass a good lot on the trip. This would be easy, he thought. Rayrn thought about the new harem he would have by the end. He wondered whether to get rid of the current one now, or wait. If killed later they could be an example to the new women. But it would be fun to catapult one into the port… he had two, so he could dispose of one now and one later. He looked for the catapult, and got the crew to do as he told. Before long a girl was in the basket, tied hand and foot. He leant close, and said “Goodbye, darling…” Then he kicked the release. The girl was catapulted into the air. A scream came, and she began to plummet. Then his crew fired the bolt throwers. Five large, long, sharp bolts sped towards the city. They had been timed to intersect with the girl’s flight…and they did. The scream was cut short as a bolt impaled the girl’s back. Blood spurted out into the air, and then she hit the port. Fainter screams emanated from it, and a few yells. The pirates started jumping out, and charging into the dock… Ehutak slowed to a stop by the cliif. Below he could see ships pillaging the village. He spotted the custom flag of Rayrn, a white tree split in half with a scimitar through it. He smiled, and spurred his horse down to meet them. His riders followed, a gleam in their eyes that could only be described as blood lust. But it was more like enjoyment, for they lived to kill and murder the people of the west, the traitors who left the men of the south to die in the desert heat. So now they were repaying the ‘debt’. Ehutak took one look, and then spurred his horse down to join the fighting. Blood spilled on the streets, and by dawn next day no one was alive to tell their tale except one person. That was Captain Baranor of the west coast watch on the Anduin. He was at the moment riding as fast as he could with a warning for the capital, Minas Tirith. The harbour was destroyed, and the Corsairs were continuing upstream. This route would eventually bring them to the city Baranor was riding to, and it must be warned… Over the forests and hills of the ground flew two different persons, both flying wih large, bulky wings and with a screech that froze the hearts of those who heard it. One was A fell beast of Mordor, carrying on it the leader of the nine. The other was an older creature, an evil-hearted dragon hungry for prey. They converged on another, and Murazor, on top the fell beast, connected his mind with the dragon. He learend many things, and it learned a great knowledge and plan. Ancalagon wa sits name, and it now had a purpose to kill. Murazor Also knew more on the locations of certain pockets of men, and after breaking the connection flew off to visit these groups, certain of achiveing more than just visit. He was either going to turn them… or kill them. |
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The hordes of good shal ltremble under the might of Mordor! (\_/) (o.0) (> <) ( / \ ) i like the bunny too... | |
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| Ariakas | Oct 22 2005, 05:33 PM Post #2 |
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I just moved this to the proper place... |
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| Alex | Oct 22 2005, 05:38 PM Post #3 |
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Commander of the White Army
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Ariakas, you said you cannot move posts. |
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| Ariakas | Oct 22 2005, 08:41 PM Post #4 |
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Unregistered
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That was about the posts and threads in the News-forum. |
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| Alex | Oct 23 2005, 08:22 AM Post #5 |
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Commander of the White Army
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Yes, I realised yesterday. Anyways, cool story. Quite dramatic, and tense, even at the start! |
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| Rayrn | Oct 23 2005, 11:47 AM Post #6 |
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Captain of Despair
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Cool Story! |
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| Hotshot | Oct 23 2005, 04:13 PM Post #7 |
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The Lord Castoden
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AH! So many viewpoint changes! You change every paragraph to a different viewpoint. That makes it very akward, and, IMO, very frustrating to read. Keep with one viewpoint for all of one section, then switch, not this constant switching between. Other than that, it's a good story, just smooth it out a bit. |
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| Rayrn | Oct 23 2005, 06:05 PM Post #8 |
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Captain of Despair
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Thats because they are all the differetn members of the DC |
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| Hotshot | Oct 23 2005, 10:35 PM Post #9 |
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The Lord Castoden
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I know, but what I'm saying is have one part entirely about one member, and the next entirely about another. It is not a good idea to just switch POV at will every other paragraph. You'll confuse and frustrate your reader. |
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| Rayrn | Oct 24 2005, 12:54 PM Post #10 |
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Captain of Despair
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You should read some of the other stories on TDC... NOW THAT IS CONFUSING! |
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| Loter | Nov 13 2005, 03:49 PM Post #11 |
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The Half-Elf Warrior
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Cool story. |
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