Sacrificial Rite

The watchful eye of Azrazôr glanced over the haughty train of priests. Great had been their surprise and anger when he set fire to their crude shrine dedicated to Sauron; but it was not greater than his at seeing that the priests had not yet completed the arrangements for the evening’s rite. He let his displeasure be known by savagely striking out a fist and killing one of their number instantly. Then he turned sharply round, and while all were in amazement at what he had done, he rushed through their ranks and slashed an unlucky Angmarrim to pieces with his sword. 

Now they showed proper respect. None dared to meet his eye, he noted with satisfaction, and stepping behind the blood-covered altar began chanting the ancient words, a prayer to Sauron, in the tongue of his ancestors. The air was thick with the acrid smoke smell of burnt offerings - a roasted maiden’s heart, plucked from her chest by Naraal, who was forced to eat a small piece of it. The ceremony was not yet over. 

“Kneel down,” Azrazôr ordered the Corsair. “Naraal of Umbar, do you swear to follow Sauron and receive his favour?” Then he took up a chalice, a plain unadorned vessel carved from a single piece of rock crystal, and filled it with blood from the altar’s basin. Holding it aloft, he closed his eyes, and sang a few words in Black Adûnaic:

“Drink and feel the power of our Dark Lord.”

Naraal took up the chalice, maintaining his self-control by a hair’s breath, and managed to quaff the warm liquid without gagging or getting sick.

Refilling the cup, Azrazôr drank deeply. “You are born anew: Naraal, Scourge of the North, Devourer of Maidens’ Hearts,” he announced, and smiled, blood coating his teeth. 

 

Source: 
Myself, using paper, ink, paint.