#er murazor; threads

[menelvagor]

Blue eyes looked up from the worn leather book that rested on her thighs, her head turning to the side as the throne room doors opened. She moved her legs off the arm of Mairon's throne, and sat up straighter as the book closed itself and vanished into thin air. "You must be Er-Mûrazôr. Our lord, Tar-Mairon's prior meeting has run behind schedule, he asked for me to see that you were well received and provided any refreshment you may need."

Er-Mûrazôr entered the throne room of his Lord and the Lady (whom he had not yet met, but had been told - or warned - about) and could not help but to stare. He was struck by the disrespect this gesture had, the lady's legs over the side of her husband's throne. None else would dare. He retained a neutral expression and bowed before her as she addressed him.

"My lady," he said after a moment, "most gracious am I to be received by thee, and most honored am I to hath finally met thee."

His armored hand rested upon the pommel of the sword at his side. He was still arraigned with the garb which he wore when interacting with folk who were not of the powers of the Maiar or the Eldar, able to see his true form. For now, this was mainly the Orcs. Now he was covered all in black with a crown. "Hath my lord indicated how long he might be?"

[menelvagor]

Er-Mûrazôr looked upon the other man, head held proudly but eyes cast the slightest height down to him. "Scarce but for the accounts of thyself and those perhaps of the Faithful that escaped from the wrath of Êru himself?" He looked away again, surveying the bustling town about them as the shadow of his presence loomed still over the place - an unfortunate result of his bestowal of power and knowledge of the dark arts so that he might serve his Lord most fitfully. Yet this power he would not trade for anything, even if would mean their task carried out more swiftly.

"We must paint the accounts of our enemies in Gondor as lies - only for them to seek utter control of these lands once more, now that their isle is drowned. Ar-Pharazôn painted as a more worthy ruler would aid this. For those that have come, have no claim."

"I have noticed the folk here grow weary of mine presence if I tarry too long. Methinks the devising of such webs of deceit to lay shouldst be woven by thee, Mordú. Such honeyed words canst thou speak to them, to ease their troubled minds. Soothe those who wouldst seek to struggle for their supposed freedom."

Even as he seemed to speak praise to the priest, his words came out coldly. His name dripped from his tongue in scorn. Never would admittance come from him willingly, but this skill of speaking he had grown ever jealous of, especially as it brought the others' worth to the Dark Lord and status very near his own.

"Yet if there are some that may not heed thy words, Gúrzyul, I would bring them to submission of worship - and not least obedience - of our lord and his. Even steadfast leaders will quell beneath my power and succumb to their terror."

@putrefacerem

cool  eyes  gleam  as  icicles  in  the  setting  sun,  their  glare  narrowing  to  perceive  the  welling  of  er-mûrazôr's  power.  neither  here  nor  there,  mordú  had  begun  to  develop  a  sense  for  the  Unseen  after  his  bleeding  and  the  damning  immortality  such  a  profane  act  brought.  a  living  man—  YET  WITH  A  TAINT  STAINING  THE  SANCTITY  OF  HIS  SOUL  BORN  OF  AN  ACT  NE'ER  ATTEMPTED  BEFORE.  this  here  is  a  game  mordú  finds  himself  unfamiliar  with.  truthfully  he  does  not  doubt  that  he  will  navigate  these  waters  just  fine,  yet  to  posture  and  make  himself  small  before  another  had  never  been  required  of  him  before.  as  a  dôlguzîr  and  a  sage  he  needed  not  bow  to  anyone—  but  westernesse  is  no  more,  and  er-mûrazôr  is  a  storm  waiting  to  be  unleashed.  taunting  him  or  tempting  his  ire  seems  most  unwise.

❛  indeed.  he  was  brought  as  a  prisoner,  and  knowledge  of  what  hath  truly  transpired  upon  the  isle  is  scarce  now.  terror  remains  a  stench  along  the  length  of  this  here  coast,  where  all  felt  the  tremble  and  groan  of  the  earth  itself.  we  may  spin  the  tale  as  we  need  it,  milord.  much  as  i  art  loathe  to  do  such  a  thing  now,  ar-pharazôn  might  verily  be  painted  a  hero.  who  set  sails  westwards,  seeking  to  treat  with  the  lords  and  ladies  of  arda.  but  lo,  no  edain  is  worthy  to  lay  claim  to  the  eternal  shores.

❛  however,  we  wouldst  be  prudent  to  consider  that  the  umbarim  remain  an  industrious  people,  and  art  possessed  with  great  love  of  their  freedom.  freedom  they  now  have  in  truth,  with  our  beloved  nation  'neath  the  waters.  we  must  make  it  palatable  to  them  also—  gauge  the  climate  within  city  walls.  let  us  not  waste  energy  on  those  who  will  not  hear  us.  let  us  rather  win  the  love  of  simple  folk,  of  whom  there  are  many.  people  will  rise  for  the  right  promises,  as  thou  knoweth.  ❜

[menelvagor]

Dried bone scraped against stone floor, echoing off the walls at varying degrees, followed shortly by whines, groans, and the sound of nails dragging across the ground. From around the corner the wolf came into view, grey in color and slowly sliding on his front legs, propelled by the back. The object of his desire was trapped in the gap between where his lower jaw ended but the top continued, the wolf salivating over the bone even as he dragged his tongue across the ground and failed to pick up his treat. Occasionally his nose hit the ground before he could stop, immediately tucking his head into his chest while the bone was forced under him, bringing him to bark continuously as he tried to figure out how to find the bone again. (for the Witch King -✧- @un-awerewolf

Er-Mûrazôr looked up from where he had been reading one of his books in the vast study, full of tomes of dark arts, wondering at first at the ghastly noises which echoed down the hall. He stared into the dim hallway with his glowing eyes, still holding his book open, until the werewolf came into view. He watched silently as the wolf. . . lovingly? named Dave came clumsily out of the darkness with a large bone in his jaws. He closed his book with a snap as he watched him struggle with the beloved bone.

"Doth thou require some assistance?" he questioned, setting the book down and gliding over to him. There was not much love in his heart for anything, but somehow this very silly, accidentally bred wolf wriggled his way into a good standing with the Lord of the Nazgûl. It was only the wolves in these desecrated halls that he could tolerate. He was loath to say he loved, or even liked them, but they he could at least tolerate.

The wraith leaned down, gently pushing Dave out of the way of the bone which was right underneath him. He then held it up away from him, tilting his head as he looked down at him. "Art thou a good boy?"

[menelvagor]

Starter for @admirableringmaker. Muses: The Necromancer & The Witch-King.

❂ ❂ ❂

Mûrazôr had long been awaiting the return of his master, after having lost not one but two of his forms. His lord Sauron had lost his embodiments from Akallabêth and the War of the Last Alliance, in his fights against both men and elves - those bothersome creatures. Despite these rises and falls, with him the Dark Lord had his loyal second-in-command, Er-Mûrazôr. He was the first of the Ringwraiths, after all.

He bowed low, his fluttering pale form contrasted against the darkness of the chamber in Dol Guldur. "My lord," he said reverently. He found it hard to look upon his master now that he had been brought low, with skin as cracked and blackened as Orodruin itself. Even if he took measures to hide it beneath black and gold. How those Men would pay. . .

"Thy servants are ready to do thy bidding and to attack our enemies. Where should we strike first?"

[menelvagor]

Er-Mûrazôr glimpsed up into the orangey-gold gaze of Hel, but turned right away again, even as he felt more of her power coursing into him, this time with healing. His pain began to cease, slowly, as he curled into her body and embrace. It did not cause him to give up on the wracks of his body and churning of his soul, but the feeling of stabbing knives lessened and he sighed raggedly.

He did not have to wonder at her strength to hold him, for he knew well of it - especially now.

He did doubt, though, that he would ever be well now, or would return to the life he knew. He could not be well, not ever again, unless by some miracle of the Kings and Queens of the West. If anything, the only one who could reach him now would be the King of the Darkness, lord of the Void. From whom his dear master had learned of the dark songs of corruption, which he passed to his own apprentice.

What a waste it would have been for this glorious wraith - the most powerful, deadly, loyal servant to Sauron the Great and in turn Morgoth the Powerful - to perish because of an imbibing of power from one akin to the Unmarred. So much power and energy could not be thrown out so easily.

The wraith thrashed about again as Hel thought to herself about his well-being, and he had little of his own thoughts right this moment.

Well and better than he had been before, he would be. With the prayer by the goddess, and such wishes granted by an ancient, dark power. One that was more enduring and powerful than any else, save that of The One and Amân. The power of the darkness now covered and corrupted that given by Hel, settling into the crevices of Mûrazôr's mind and spirit. His strength and power were now heightened, and his eyes flashed open.

His body shuddered violently and blood dribbled out from his lips again, before he ceased movement. This was so for several moments until with strong arms, he pushed Hel away from him and rolled over onto the floor before looking up at her with newly glowing eyes.

She felt the tug on her sleeve and her eyes opened to him. The most vivid and intense orange as she fretted and crooned over her newest pet. His expression told her all that she need know. He is in pain.

He is in pain and she has the means to numb it. She smiled and leaned low to rest her chin on his hair as she imbued him now with the power that already overwhelmed his physical form but with the magic she had learned direct from Est��. Healing. Soothing. Calming.

She inhaled, surprised and horrified as he crumpled. Small hands were fast to gather him up at the same time as she sunk low. Her grasp was strong as she cradled him against her. No further to fall than the floor, the Valarinda was.. somewhat comforted. The only hurt he might feel was from within. The rest she could soften.

And she hoped to soften the whatever was left too.

"It's alright," She replied, barely a whisper as she tried to heal wounds that were neither physical or external. "You will be well."

Quietly, to her own self, she hoped with all that she had, that he would be more. Better than well. Better than he had been. She closed her eyes as she settled her chin against his hair. She did not call to Eru. This was.. not the request he answered. And she did not call to her kin. But she called to.. something. Something grandiose and powerful. Ever hopeful that that something, that someone, might her her plea and make her words true.

May he be well.

Fear ran deep in her cold and emptied veins. The fear that she had simply killed him. And all of this amounted to nothing.

[menelvagor]

The wraith felt relief wash over him as his lord continued, replying in kind to what he felt about the praise given him. He would live to serve no other, nor find anything else to fill the void of him. Mairon was all that he needed now.

He offered the other a very curt nod at the dismissal and stood tall, heels pressed together. "All shalt be secret, my lord. Any I instruct henceforth to do thy bidding shalt be told the same, yet prepare as though we ride to meet our largest enemy armies. Hail, master." He bowed his head low again and turned to leave.

“That is pleasing to hear, Er-Mûrazôr.” There was a smile in his voice. In his waiting, he had almost forgotten how pleasant it was to be the master and not the subject. To think he had once dreamed of the return of his lord - now, he would give his power for no one.

“You are dismissed. Prepare well before you venture forth, and ensure none see you come and go from this place. For now, all is secret.”

[menelvagor]

A little gleam crossed the wraith's eyes at the praise and promise of future reward. He looked down and then bowed low before his lord, a smirk twisting his lips where the other could not see.

When Er-Mûrazôr raised back up, he said, "I live to serve thee, my lord. Even were I a mere lowly creature, I would serve thy purposes. A more important position has been awarded me, so I shall lead under thy direction."

He perhaps would have gone on to say more, to ensure Mairon that his plans would bear fruit. Even sure in his power, he could promise nothing; would not - for the disappointment that might await.

“Very good.” 

Sauron paused, looking at his servant thoughtfully. Mûrazôr had long ago proved his worth, many times over.

“You have pleased me, Mûrazôr. I have plans to reward you well; a crown will be yours, should all our plans bear fruit. You will be the mightiest of my servants.”