The sun was beginning to set behind the white peaks of the Starkhorn as Deorla stepped into the small fenced paddock behind her secluded home. Firebryn stood there already, brushing down one of the four horses that had belonged to Deorla—now well-groomed, well-fed, and visibly pleased to have their mistress home again.
“You kept them in fine shape,” Deorla murmured, trailing her hand over the flank of a dark bay mare.
Firebryn grinned, not looking up. “They've got better manners than most men I’ve smuggled goods for. Easier to feed, too.”
Deorla chuckled under her breath. Her gaze shifted from the horses to the mountains in the distance, their jagged shadows crawling slowly across the valley. For the first time in weeks—months, perhaps—she allowed her shoulders to relax.
The house was quiet and warm inside, lit by late golden rays and the scent of wood smoke. She stepped through the threshold and touched the frame, a small smile tugging at her lips. This house had been her refuge after the fall of the Dark Lord, when the world reshaped itself and many like her became ghosts.
“It’s good to be back,” she said aloud, as much to herself as to Firebryn.
They sat together later that night, a single candle between them and the world outside dark, brooding with cricketsong. Deorla had poured herself a cup of aged mead. Firebryn nursed hers slowly, eyes sharp and curious.
“You’ve that look again,” Firebryn said.
Deorla raised a brow. “What look?”
“The one you had before you went into the East and carved a path through ruin and fire.”
Deorla tilted her head, then said with a grim smile, “You’re not wrong. I've decided. I will go to Mordor.”
Firebryn choked on her mead. “Mordor?”
“It is broken, scattered… but not dead,” Deorla explained calmly. “With Sauron fallen, the only ones left in power are his lieutenants—men and women of shadow who once stood alongside me. I know them. I know how they think."
“You think you can rule them?”
“I know I can.” Her eyes gleamed, not with madness, but with cold certainty. “If I reach them first, before they tear each other apart or fall prey to Gondor’s slow crawl eastward, I can unify what remains. Mordor can be reshaped, and the rest that will be harder to deal with I will deal in other way. You probably met some already and some are just names you might have heard, but there are total of eights of lieutenants that I will have to deal with, and each will be tricky. There's:
Lhaereth the Stained
“The Poisoner Queen. The Architect of Plague.”
Lhaereth was once revered in the black halls of Nurn for her alchemy, but her ambition curdled her craft into corruption. She brewed diseases like wine, testing them on slaves and beasts until her concoctions could bring cities to their knees. Cold, clinical, and obsessed with control, she resides in Dol Guldur or other hidden sanctums, working in silence. I know Lhaereth will not be easily persuaded—only results and raw power will bend her loyalty. But in truth, I do not wish to bend her to my will, she's the only one I wish to see destroyed after what she did to my home of Nurn, it's because of her. I also think her citadel Seregost would be the best place to have as my base of operation.
Firebryn just nodded and continued to listen as Deorla was explaing next people
Borangos the Horror
“The Unmade One. Flesh-warped Terror.”
Once a man, if the tales are true. Now a grotesque mass of corrupted body and unshackled rage. Borangos was forged in the pits beneath Barad-dûr, a living weapon to break sieges and slaughter captains. He does not speak. He remembers only hate. His mind may be shattered, but his strength is unrelenting. If he still roams Mordor, he is likely bound to some ruin in Gorgoroth, waiting like a beast in its lair.
“Borangos cannot be reasoned with—but he can be pointed. If I can chain the beast, I can use him."
Urudanî
“Priestess of Ash. Flame that Worships Itself.”
A high priestess of the Cult of the Eye, Urudanî is not merely a zealot—she is zeal. She believes herself chosen by the Flame of Udûn and sees the fall of Sauron as a divine test. She preaches still to the broken in Mordor, rallying those too afraid to choose a new master. Her conviction is dangerous. She would sooner die than kneel, unless I present herself as the true successor to the Eye.
“She burns for Sauron still. I must convince her I am the ember that remains.”
Karazgar, the Weeping Warrior
“The Blade That Mourns. The Lie That Walks.”
Karazgar is a mystery cloaked in sorrow. Once a commander of men, now something far less tangible. He weeps not for his victims but for the world he believes must be destroyed. A nihilist with blades, he appears where chaos brews—feeding it, guiding it. Some call him ghost. Others, assassin. I know he walks with purpose, and his allegiance lies not with power, but with entropy.
Dolguzigir, the Dark Archivist
“The Keeper of Forbidden Words.”
Dolguzigir served as a scribe in the deep vaults of Barad-dûr. He remembers every pact, betrayal, and secret whispered in the shadow of the Dark Tower. A collector of lore, he survived the fall by making himself indispensable. Now, he holds truth like a dagger—wielding it against allies and enemies alike. I Deorla will need to barter knowledge for knowledge… or silence him before he speaks too much.
“He knows who I was before. That makes him powerful. That makes him dangerous.”
Dulgabêth, the Mouth of Sauron
“The Liar-Lord. The Tongue that Twists.”
Though slain by Aragorn before the Black Gate, whispers say Dulgabêth never truly died—or perhaps his name has become a mantle passed on. This new “Mouth” rules by fear, enforcing obedience among the remnants in Nurn and Lithlad, or perhaps he was not killed at all the gate, it's something I would need to find out. His voice alone bends the will of lesser men. I once stood beside him in court, matching word for word. I knows his pride is his leash.
“If he yet lives, he’ll want the throne for himself."
Rûkhor, the Pale Herald
“The Bone-Walker. The Whisperer of Tombs.”
A being neither living nor entirely wraith. Rûkhor lingers in the borderlands of the Dead Marshes, gathering the dead and whispering to the lost. Some say he was once a Haradrim prince, cursed by Sauron for betrayal. Now he serves no master, only death itself. I suspects he could be swayed… if offered something ancient enough to stir what little soul he has left.
“He listens only to ghosts. But I know the names of the ones he loved—and how they screamed.”
Gothmog, the Nameless Flame
“The Shadow That Refused to Die.”
Though some believe Gothmog perished in the Second Age at the fall of Angband, and others saw him die again as Mordirith in the wars of Minas Morgul, there are whispers that Gothmog was never truly one being—but a title, a vessel for wrath forged anew each age.
Now, he reigns once more in Minas Morgul, cloaked in sorcery and ruin, holding court over a city that bleeds shadow. His throne sits beneath the tower's broken spires, and his voice echoes through halls once walked by kings of Gondor, twisted now to his will. Of all the remaining lieutenants, Gothmog commands the strongest fortress and the darkest magic. He is a commander of wraiths, beasts, and memories long dead, and no banner flies in Mordor without his silent approval.
“He does not merely rule the city. He is the city. Morgul breathes with his lungs and dreams with his hate.”
In truth I might most likely not comeback from this journey at all, I know I said I know I can, but in reality I think that was just a lie to boost my ego... Anyway I will do this either way.
Firebryn stared at her in silence for a time, then leaned back with a sigh. “Well, it’s more exciting than sweeping your floors.”
Deorla smirked. “Then perhaps it’s time I gave you something else to do.”
“Oh?”
“Two things,” Deorla said, counting on her fingers. “First—find someone to take over the house. A caretaker, trustworthy, discreet. This place cannot be left untended.”
Firebryn nodded, already thinking. “And second?”
“You still want purpose before your bones turn to dust?” Deorla’s voice lowered. “Then go to Eriador. Find what’s left of the Company of the East Road. Root them out. End them. They’ve lingered too long, still whispering in the dark, working behind closed doors. I left them for good, and still they try to pull my strings.”
Firebryn’s eyes lit up. She set her cup down slowly and leaned forward. “A proper job, then. One more ride west... and one last fire.”
Deorla smiled, not kindly. “Burn them to the ground, Firebryn. Every last trace.”
The candle flickered between them, casting dancing shadows on the walls. In the silence that followed, plans began to take shape. Beyond the window, the moon climbed over the mountains—witness to oaths sworn in the twilight, in a house forgotten by the world.
And so the wheels turned once more. Toward Mordor. Toward vengeance. Toward the ashes of war.
