Scene from a party at Carn Dum:
The two figures glided silently across the floor of polished basalt, looking neither left nor right as they moved to the blood-stained, iron-shot doors that lead into the inner sanctum of the fortress of Carn Dum. Goblins and trolls alike drew back in terror from the two wraithlike forms.
Adunaphel the Silent, snorted softly to herself as she moved to the doors. Well, he certainly has them well-trained, the stupid nit. Practically tripping over themselves to get out of the room. Look at this place, can’t he even hire someone to decorate properly? Adunaphel, also known as the Queen of the Southern Reaches and Seventh of the Nazgul, had no such problems. Her own abode was lovingly cut from white marble, carefully manicured lawns, and perfectly placed beds of roses. Naturally, fresh elven blood made all the difference.
Her sightless companion rapped on the double doors, waiting stoically as er-Murazor’s servants cowered in fear, wondering what horrors were occuring within. If only they knew, thought Adunaphel.
The door opened, pulled open by er-Murazor himself. The Chief of the Nazgul was decked out in his dress clothes, with only a few damp spots (beer?) and ketchup stains revealing that the batchelor hadn’t done his wash recently. “Akorahil, Adunaphel! You made it! Come on in!” he said excitedly. Sounds of laughter, groans of “ooh, bet that hurt,” and the sounds of combat and metal on metal resonated from his living room.
Shaking Adunaphel’s hand vigorously, he stepped back and ushered the pair into his sanctum. Adunaphel’s glowing eyes swept the room, noting the moth-eaten couch, empty beer bottles scattered across various end-tables, a mismatched rug, thirty-two festive bright-colored balloons in red, yellow, orange and green, and a tawdry velvet banner with gold lettering saying “WELCOME NAZGUL”. Several half-eaten bowls of popcorn were scattered haphazardly around the room, two of which were leaning against an ice-chest and a cask of Dwarven ale. Debris littered a floor badly in need of vacuuming. “Hey everybody, look who’s here!” cried Murazor.
The tight knot of figures in front of the mirror shifted slightly, the occasional handless sleeve waving in their direction along with half-hearted “Hi Akorahil” and “How’s it going, Adunaphel” coming from the group. They were obviously fixated on the screen, from which echoed sounds of combat and cries of bloodshed.
Urzahil, the lone human of the lot, oozed forward holding a brandy and offering her a long stemmed cigarrette, which she graciously accepted. “They’ve been at it for hours,” noted Urzahil dryly, lighting the end with a match as she held it out to him.
“At what?” she answered. Akhorahil had already glided across the floor to join the group, scooping up a pair of beers from the ice-chest and settling in front of the mirror.
“Oh, watching Rhudaur get pulverized.”
Adunaphel blinked in surprise. “Really? Murazor’s really opened up the coffers for entertainment this year.” The last year’s entertainment-- a troop of dancing and singing bears from Mirkwood and a ten-foot tall birthday cake with an elven dancer inside— had been an unmitigated disaster. “How did he manage that?”
“Bribery. He sent Angulion down there with a few sacks of beads and an old set of plate armor he had laying around.”
“Which armor? You don’t mean…” Urazhil nodded, laughing. Adunaphel shook her head in disbelief. “That piece of junk? You’re serious. The rusty set that he’d shoved in the back bedroom, the one with the dent in it.”
“Yeah. Of course, Angulion didn’t SAY it came from the back bedroom. He told the sap that it had been worn by the Witch King itself and was being bequeathed to Rhudaur as a sign of friendship and goodwill, a cementing of an alliance to last an age. He even made up a sinister name-- Morgul Plate-- and said it had magical properties.”
Adunaphel laughed, then took a long drag on her cigarrete before answering. “Those hillbillies will believe anything.” She looked idily at the thin stream of smoke wafting from the tip, then inquired, “who told you all this?”
Urazahil gestured at Murazor. “He told us the whole story when we arrived. Hormurath nearly choked to death he was laughing so hard. Murazor got the idiot to swear alliegence to the dark lord, claiming that all kinds of riches in Cardolan and Arthedain lied waiting for him to plunder.”
“Oh? How did Argeleb and… um, what’s that fat man’s name… Hallas take it?”
“How do you think? Half of Rhudaur is in flames.”
Adunaphel snorted. “Well that didn’t take long. So Hallas and Argeleb sent in armies?”
“Them, plus the Dwarves, Noldo and Dunland.” Adunaphel winced. “Oooh, sounds painful.” Urzahil nodded excitedly. “Yeah, it’s great stuff. We’re taking odds on how long he lasts. Been watching them beat the stuffing out of Brogga and the rest of the lot for weeks now. Can I put you down for twenty?”
“Oh yes,” she answered, gliding forward to the couch to watch the mayhem. The crowd laughed as Nothva Rhaglaw went up in flames, Ren shoving a bowl of popcorn in her direction. “Did you see what just happened to Valadan?” he said excitedly, pointing at the tiny figures in the mirror and pulling the bowl back after she’d helped herself to a dainty handful of the puffed kernals. “I can’t figure out how come Arfanhil’s still fighting so hard.”
“Murazor told him that he’d sent a huge force south under Rogrog to help out,” answered Khamul. Ren guffawed, spraying half-eaten popcorn onto the floor before getting whacked in the back of the head by Uvatha. (“Watch it, stupid!”) Swallowing the mouthful, Ren looked at his companion incredulously. “And he BELIEVED him?”
Murazor, who had overheard the conversation, cackled gleefully, rubbing his hands together like a child with a new toy. Eyes sparkling, he continued. “Yup. Am I the master or what? There’s an emissary from Cameth Brin out in the reception area right now. Been there for days, begging to see me and bleating to the kitchen staff about needing help. I figure I’ll wait a few more days, then go out and tell hm that Rogrog was “unavoidably detained” at Morkai.”
“Oh that’s great!” howled Ren, slapping his knee and gasping for breath.
“Isn’t it? Hey, want to come when I tell him?”
“Sure, I’ll…” Ren’s sentence was cut short by a scene so gruesome, even the nazgul winced. “Man, he’s jammed tighter than Ithil Pass! Bet that hurt…”
Brought to you by Cardolan Entertainment, turn 8.
