Alrighty, this will be the kickstarter to what will hopefully become a series of the Ringwraith's misadventures in Middle-Earth. It might stray into crackfic territory at times, so you have been warned. I'll do my best to give all nine of them unique personalities, but since there's nine of them...that's a lot. But I'll do my best. Also, like last time, suggestions are open. Thanks, and enjoy!
A most curious bunch, those Ring-Bearers were, thought Gothmog as he observed several cloaked figures approaching the Black Gates. The Orc commander counted five in all, each wearing an identical dark cloak that streamed back over their horses flanks. They did not ride together, but each keeping a safe distance of about twenty meters from the other as they thundered down the dusty, well-worn road.
The five reined in their horses as they neared the Gate, and the emissary of the Dark Lord rode forth to meet them. A squad of Orcs was stationed on either side of the path, in case the hooded figures should take a dislike to the Mouth of the Dark One.
"My Master Sauron the Great bids you welcome," Said the emissary from his pale horse. His eyes were invisible behind his helmet, and only his disfigured mouth was visible. The cloaked figures were silent, each evaluating this being. Once a man, as they had been, but seduced by the darkness.
Finally, the tallest of the riders came forwards.
"I am called Angmar," He stated. His voice was a cold hiss, like wind through treetops. "Ruler of the Northern Kingdoms of Arnor. Who are these others whom you have summoned?"
"They are Ring-Bearers like yourself." The Mouth of Sauron replied. "There are four others yet to arrive. But for now, my Master will see you."
He wheeled his horse about, and barked a command in Black Speech. The great gates creaked, and slowly swung open, revealing the land of Mordor where the shadows lay.
The five riders could see little of the wasteland, but in the distance was a great fire mountain rearing into the clouded sky, smoke belching from its peak. Closer to them was a tall and slender tower, with dividing prongs at the top like a huge two-pronged pitchfork. Situated within these prongs was a great Eye, fiery and fierce, its catlike pupil fixing on the riders and boring through their very souls. The horses whickered and stamped nervously as the thing fixed its gaze on them.
A great voice boomed out, rolling over the plains like thunder. It spoke in the tongue of Mordor, a broken, corrupted language.
"Nine for mortal Men doomed to die." The voice said, sending prickles down the spines of every Orc present. "Show me that you are who you say you are."
The riders glanced at one another momentarily, then one by one dismounted. The tallest, whose horse bore the trappings of Rhûn, started pulling his black robe over his head. The others followed suite.
A murmur of shock rippled through the Orc ranks, as the black robes fell to the dust to reveal…nothing.
"What is this black magic?" Shouted one Orc, gripping his spear. "These newcomers are playing us for fools!"
What the Orc had failed to notice was, though there was no visible body where the riders were standing, their eyes could still be seen faintly, glowing red like coals. Five pairs of calculating crimson orbs fixed on the Orc, narrowing coldly.
There was a singing hiss, coupled with a flash of silver, and the Orc stiffened. The Easterling's dagger was buried up to its hilt in the unfortunate's throat, the tip protruding several inches from the back of his neck. His comrades stumbled backwards, as the Orc collapsed in the dust.
There came a pleased hiss from the Great Eye, still gazing over the plains as the Easterling retrieved his dagger. All the Orcs saw were the pale crimson eyes moving towards them coupled with the small displacement of dust where he stepped. They nearly tripped over themselves in their haste to back up as the rider tugged his blade from the Orc's throat, and wiped calmly it on the unfortunate's tunic.
"Good, good," The Eye rumbled in satisfaction, tinged with a hint of cruel amusement. "I welcome you into the ranks of Mordor."
The five riders pulled their robes back on and mounted their steeds once more. They had no trouble passing through the Orc ranks, as none of the creatures dared to get within five meters of the newcomers now.
"You, Easterling," The Mouth of Sauron called, wheeling his pale horse about to flank the five figures as they entered the Black Gates. "What is your name?"
The Easterling was silent, evaluating the emissary of Sauron. His eyes were barely visible under his hood, but they bored into the masked ambassador with an unequaled intensity.
"My name," He said at last, "Is Khamûl."