| Tremours to the North | |||
| 11:39pm 27/08/2007 | |||
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In the North, there is a terrible place. The land is scarred, and ruined, and none now live there who love the light. When it rains, as it is raining now, the air is thick with a foul smell, a sweltering oppression, and when the lightning flashes, it flares with a blinding, screaming light. Somewhere, in the mountains overlooking Angmar, there is chanting. It is a place touched by dark things, and there is a circle of standing stones. Within this circle is a circle of men, and they are chanting. The chanting turns to screaming, as their bodies contort, and their skin flows like wax to the center, their blood boiling and rushing to join it. With a thunderous crash and shriek, there lay there a man, nude, who breathed shallowly. And he was the only one within the circle, who was alive. His skin was marred in places, with scars, and with patches of what appeared to be nothing, but he was whole. Gradually, he drew himself to his knees, and then leaned forward until his head was touching the ground, and wept, before tilting back and screaming to the heavens, in joy at being freed of the everlasting void. He was approached, slowly, by others, who'd remained outside of the circle. They murmured amongst themselves. This was not the one, this was not the lord of the Iron Crown. They had failed! The man, an Easterling by appearances, fixed his gaze upon their leader, as crimson-robed women draped him in a black cloak. He grinned, like a cheshire cat in the dark, then calmly reached out, and snapped the man's neck. The lightning flashed over head, and the rumble of thunder masked many more screams. And when it was over, and the man stood, drenched in blood, a last figure emerged from hiding in the ruins, and knelt before him. She tilted her head to gaze up at him, her features soft, yet not without an edge to them, "Lord Khamul, I am Tahirah of the Womaw, and it was I who used these fools to restore you." "The Nine?" He whispers. "The Eye?" "The eye is gone, the rings destroyed. They wanted to restore the Witch-king, but instead they restored you." His voice sounded almost wondrous, and bursting with some incalcuable emotion, "I am free." |
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| 11:35am 31/03/2005 | |||
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“Blood is the life that flows through us all, the manifestation of our soul.” This Khamul murmurs, slicing open his thumb and watching the blood pool on the ground. He can still hear the wise woman’s voice, and though her face is lost to time, he can still recall her hair, so white it might be silver. He’d since associated silver hair with wisdom. “Komal! Pay attention!” The old woman whapped a stick on his hand, and the six year old boy scowled up at her. “Blood is the life that flows through us all,” He says, dryly. “The manifestation of our soul.” Whap! And now he rubs the top of his head, the scowl growing into a full sulk as she retorts, “Don’t you talk back at me, little one! I was snarking when your grandfather was still eating his own poo.” And so the lessons usually went. The words come back to the boy as he watches his army of siblings and friends prepare an ambush for the ‘enemy,’ another group of children. Oh, his plan was masterful, if he did say so himself, even without his sister’s input. She was a bit bossy, for being younger, but his father had once said, perhaps in jest, “Every good warlord has a woman to approve of his plans or smack him if he’s an idiot.” That might be the ‘clean’ version, though…. But she had come down with an illness, and so wasn’t there to smack him. Picking up his wooden play-sword, he darted off to fulfill his part in the ambush. It was then that he heard a gargled and muted scream. Drawing a dagger, one that is all too real, he runs in that direction. Blood pools around the boots of a tall man, and drips from his sword. The body of a child lays nearby. Komal does not hesitate; he kicks the back of the man’s knee, forcing him to the ground, before jabbing the dagger deep into his throat. As the blood mixes with the dirt and the leaves of the forest floor, slowly draining towards the river, the boy smiles. Later, as the village prepares for the inevitable attack, he sits on his sister’s sick bed, talking with her. “Dea says Death is a gift. Father says gift or curse, just live. Death and his consort will come soon enough. I’ve seen Death. I don’t like it..” “Komy-“ Sulking, he replies, “Told you not to call me that.” She scrunches her nose up and thumbs it at him, “Komy, what’ll you do?” “…” Looking down, he says quietly, “I refuse to die. Something is missing, I need to find it…And what’s more…” He looks at her, serious beyond his short years. “I’m afraid. I fear Death who rides like thunder.” That night his village is attacked. More attackers are slain than defenders fall, and among the wounded when the sun rises is Komal’s sister. She is dead from wound-sickness within a month, and fearing death even more, he vowed to never let another person get so close, family or not. Death would simply take them away again. The boy would grow to be a warlord, the warlord to King, and as the king with the dragon-helm grew old, he began to fear, for Death’s hoofbeats could be heard in the thunder over the mountains. ( oocstuff ) |
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| History of Khamul | |||
| 02:57am 27/05/2004 | |||
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There was a king of man once. Violent at times, and easily swayed by power, he held a realm in the far east. For a decade he waged war on the warlords of the region until he had united all the peoples under his banner. But power ever called to him, and never did he show what truly went on in his heart. So he took power, and held it, sometimes by violence, but mostly he held power by ensuring his people had food to eat and warmth in the winter, though he did not hesistate to deal out his own sense of justice. Perhaps the greatest insult to Sauron was the gradual erasure of the worship of Morgoth, for Khamul felt if any would be worshipped, it should be he. Sauron's spies watched this, and for a time the Dark Lord let well enough alone. But at last, he sent an envoy, requesting a meeting of diplomatics. An offer of power. An alliance. The king met with the dark lord, and was taken by the fair appearance of Sauron, yet in his heart he was uneasy, for he sensed a darkness, like that within himself. Sauron offered the king a ring, and with that ring, more power, and control over armies greater than any he'd fielded before. Khamol accepted this ring, and took on the name Khamul. He became the second to fall into darkness, and bested in power only by the Witchking of Angmar, and the Dark Lord himself. But for a moment, a long moment, he'd wavered. The ring had been in the palm of his hand, already whispering temptations and tortures. - Power. I've all the power I ever desired. Power. But there was always room for more. Great armies. Glory....but at what cost? Your kingdom will be great. Was it not already so? It can be greater. No one would starve. No one would fear. Many already worship Morgoth, the Eye serves Morgoth. You can serve your kingdom by serving the Eye...the people would worship you. I serve no man! The Eye is greater than Man or Elf. You would not serve the Eye, but be equal to Him. Place the ring on your finger, accept this gift in friendship. My pause is long, and the longer I take, the more I feel the pull.....The whisper, the promise is too tempting.. I am drawn, to weild this ring. To weild it's power. To face immortality. It calls to me, from a time so forward from now as to be but a cloud in the mist. Great things await me. I accept this gift. - What would history have written, if I'd let the ring slip from my hand? What would history have said, if Sauron had had to delay his plans to destroy me? For, no matter what else is said, he would have done so, out of anger, vengence, or just to spite me. But then I think, that perhaps that was fated to be, for even if I had refused, the ring would have instead threatened, rather than tempted...and I'd have taken it anyway, perhaps in the hope to use it against him and preserve my kingdom. But in any eventuality, my kingdom faded. I am but a name there now. Feared and reviled as the Shadow of the East. Worshipped and loved as the man that united them as they had not been before, and never since. Komûl the warlord. Khamôl the king. Khamûl the wraith, and Shadow. Who am I now? I am not Komûl any longer, for I barely remember that man. I am not the man nor the king, for I've changed since those days, in ways I cannot comprehend, through means I am not sure of. But I am not wholly Khamûl, for the darkness isn't as black, and there is light now, the Shadow fading with the flame's brilliance. Who I am does not matter so much to me, I think, as who I can become. And who I can become, hinges on something so fragile, I am afraid to name it. |
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