Mordor

Walking down the dilapidated, ransacked streets of Millshaw, a couple held hands as they conversed in the night. Both hooded and cloaked, Nimraph and Eira walked through the small town. Passing some sprawled out scrap wood from the orc raids, Eira tried to distract herself from the destruction by asking, "How did a cookbook wind up in your library?"

She spoke in a light, amused tone. Deep down, however, she did not like the idea of going to that library.

Continued...

It was after a long day. The five year old girl was dragging a large fish, almost twice the size as herself, towards the slave quarters close to the lake. Hiding amongst the bushes and using a much smaller fish as a decoy, the little girl panted as she paused. Orcs had a history of stealing good catches from the Nurnhoth, which was why the girl was acting extra cautious bringing the large catfish she was lucky enough to harpoon back home.

She looked up at the architecture of the walls she was guided in. It had been... a long time since she was brought here. The woman looked through the fabric of her grubby hood, at the purple stain glass windows and the shadows and silhouettes of guards shifting through the many halls. She knew every pathway here, even if the last time she set foot in this place was two decades ago. Two long decades...

The doors flung open in a wild display. Marching through the door, a small armored warrior strode in with regal confidence. These halls had no lowly orcs. They were filled with black uruk guards in dutiful watch, far more disciplined than the standard orc kind. The halls were fluttering with slaves, Stout-Axe, Nurnhoth, and others. Near the end of the throne room, under a massive stain glass window, was a flight of stairs guarded by Black Numenorean elites. Atop the stairs was a throne.

A crimson and black dress was adorned on a young girl, barely eleven years of age. She was dressed like dark royalty, wearing a black crown upon her head. Her hair had grown long, neatly brushed back in curled locks. Her skin was white like snow. Her eyes were a dark gold brown. Seated upon a throne far larger than her, she held a sorcerer's scepter in her little hands, gazing out the red stain glass windows in the dark throne room belonging to her father.

She panted heavily, the sword trembling in her hands as sweat and blood dripped off her. The nine year old had never been in so much pain in her life. She looked up, her father shook his head in that calm cold disappointment. "Most of the blood on your body is your own. Child, you need to learn to be ruthless."

The torches of the black room illuminated them, on the steps to his throne. The Black Numenorean Lord, powerful and mighty, held a scrawny woman in heavy robes. He was tender in his embrace, soft and kind. She was his willing captive, fallen into his arms. The torches flickered as they stood in solitude. No one was here to see him weak, and to see him be weak with a slave. A high ranking, well off slave, but still a slave.

He asked her the same question once again.