O
"The eye of the Necromancer sees all."
The letter Garild had previously been reading fluttered to the floor, as he involuntarily shivered.His office in Dol Guldur was dark, messy, and cluttered. Greasy candles gave off flickering light from a candelabra hanging above. Screams often filtered their way up through the floor from the dungeons; inhuman screeches came down from above.
His dealings with the Necromancer had been purely practical at first- He had studied languages, legends, history and runes at many places, including Imladris, Minas Tirith, and even down in Harad. For some strange reason the Necromancer needed someone with knowledge in the histories; to what end, Garild did not know. He had been in Dol Guldur for four months; until two days ago, he had done little but avoid the unseemly creatures that haunted the place.
But that had all changed, when he had been summoned by two huge, slant-eyed orcs in the middle of the night. He was escorted to a room as black as the night outside and as rank as a thousand wolves soaked (and steaming) from a torrential rain.
He had suddenly been overpowered; not physically, but mentally, as a darkness crept into his mind, tearing into it, searching through all he knew. He had passed out, to awaken in his bed, only faintly remembering the hissing inquiries for a lost King.
But last night he again was dragged from his bed, into the reeking, Void-like room. Into his hands was thrust a broken sword, jaggedly cut off a foot above the hilts. "What does it say.." a voice had hissed. Garild looked down at the sword, opening his mouth to give a stuttering reply. But as his eyes found the hilt, his mouth closed. The sword was glowing, glinting, and gaining brightness every moment. Garild glanced up towards the Voice. He caught a glimpse of a black-cloaked figure before it leapt-no, floated away into the receding darkness. "Take it away! Take it now!" said the Voice, the hissing now laced with pain.
Happily, Garild fled the room, still holding the glowing sword. By the time he got back to his office, the sword was just a metallic blade, cut off abruptly. But there were runes on the blade, runes that interested him mightily.
O
Aragorn was awakened to the screeching metal of the cell door opening. He barely had time to unfold himself from a fetal position when he was picked up and slammed against the wall, clawed hands roughly chaining his hands behind him. He was shoved out of the cell and down the hall. One of the orcs sneered at him, shoving him against his comrades.
"Ready for a bit of fun, human scum?" He jeered.
Aragorn had the feeling torture would not be "fun". .
O