Mordor

(This RP is done via DM friend of mine and lots of dices rolls)



Night fell like a wolf’s shadow upon the Gap of Rohan.

The stars were swallowed by storm clouds, and the wind ran cold through the hills. On that narrow pass between the White Mountains and Isengard’s ruined scars, a war born of whispers began.

The cave yawned wide before her like the mouth of some slumbering beast. Deorla stepped into its gullet with blade in hand and eyes sharp in the dark. The scent of old fire, unwashed bodies, and rotted meat clung thick to the air. This was no mapmaker’s den. It was a nest.

Orcs. And not few.

The sun rose thin and pale above the hills of Dunland as Deorla moved swiftly across the grasslands. Each step brought her closer to the Gap of Rohan, and with it, a turning point in her quiet campaign.

She had declined the offer of Galtrev’s loyalty—for now. Her words to the chieftain had been firm, veiled in smoke and patience: "When the time comes, I will send for you. When I have accomplished what I must." That time had not yet arrived. Not while her blade still moved in the dark.

Night fell upon Galtrev like a velvet shroud, and with it came the final flickers of torchlight along the crooked lanes. Deorla stood alone in the high corner of the old hill-fort, the wind teasing strands of her dark hair as she watched the lights blink out, one by one. The meeting had gone as expected.

Rauthan, ever the eager hound of older powers, had spoken boldly beneath the dark wood beams of the chieftain’s hall.

“The clans are ready. They remember the war—remember you. If you give the word, they will rally.”

The road through Enedwaith had grown too visible.

Deorla kept to the edges where she could—skirting ridgelines, walking dry creekbeds, ducking beneath the tall grass when riders passed—but there were too many travelers for her liking. Traders from the north, messengers on lean horses, even scattered Rohirrim scouts flying no banner. Every hour brought hoofbeats or voices. Every face was another set of eyes she didn’t trust.

The warmth of the sun clung to the air as Deorla spent her first day in the modest riverside village. It was a peaceful settlement tucked between hills and waters, unassuming in its rhythm of life—exactly the kind of place she rarely lingered in, but for once, she allowed herself a sliver of calm.

Deorla left the kin house before dawn, cloaked in her ranger garb—muddy greens and deep browns, worn soft with years. It blended well with the trees, the moss, and more importantly, with anonymity. She carried no banners, spoke to no one. The fewer eyes on her back, the better. 

Deorla sat alone in the quiet of the Bree homestead, the letter from Naridalis trembling in her hands. The familiar script, once a source of comfort, now bore words that cut deeper than any blade.

Trust, once solid among the Company of the East Road, now wavered like smoke. Naridalis’s words painted a picture of disillusionment, of friendships strained to the edge. Promises had been broken. The past Deorla had fought to bury clawed its way into the present, and now it stood like a specter between her and those she'd once called kin.

Deorla stood at the threshold of their new house, her heart fluttering with excitement as the early morning light streamed through the trees. The house was smaller than she'd imagined altho still much bigger than the previous one, there was something about it that made her chest swell with pride. The stone walls gleamed in the sun, a clear sign that the work was good, even if the cost had nearly drained their savings.