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Post by The Witch King on Dec 18, 2002 7:51:27 GMT
*Throws a rubber duck at Rusty*
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Post by Jared on Dec 18, 2002 10:48:49 GMT
*Rolls his eyes at the lame attempt and hurls a broken saucepan at the Witch-King.*
Found it under Eli's bed. Never knew she hoarded junk like that.
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Post by The Witch King on Dec 18, 2002 18:26:46 GMT
*ducks and the saucepan narrowly misses his head. Straightens up looking rather shaken*
Fine!
If that's how you want to play..
*Finds an anvil under his bed and hurls it at Rusty*
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Post by Jared on Dec 19, 2002 11:35:21 GMT
*Grabs a nearby frying-pan and bats the anvil off to one side. It crashes through an empty wardrobe.*
Well, at least no one's occupying that bed yet. No need to worry about mending his clothes...
*Picks up a nearby cover and sends it whizzing like a Frisbee towards the Witch-King...*
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Post by The Witch King on Dec 19, 2002 12:24:23 GMT
*The cover wraps itself around his head and he stumbles blindly around the room. Only muffled cries can be heard. He trips over a bed and tumbles to the floor, screeching in fury.*
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Post by Jared on Dec 19, 2002 12:46:05 GMT
*Escapes from the room while the Witch-King is stumbling around, nicely blind... is out of the Tower in a few moments and riding towards Mirkwood.*
Think I'll stay there for a few days.
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Post by Elidor on Dec 28, 2002 10:36:23 GMT
Once again, our spring cleaning attempt turns into another disaster. Congragulations to everyone who made all this possible...
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Post by The Witch King on Jan 22, 2003 20:10:51 GMT
*Gets into bed and pulls a blanket over his head.*
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Post by Elidor on Jun 16, 2003 8:56:43 GMT
*****************************
Flops on the bed and inspected the ceiling, half shrouded in mists and shadows.
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Post by The Witch King on Jun 18, 2003 12:40:34 GMT
*Walks in to the room, his head down, and makes straight for the wardrobe. Opening the doors he selects one of the new robes that had been delivered from Mordor the day before.*
Time to get ready, Elidor.
*He pulled the robe on over his head and smoothed out the folds. From the back of his wardrobe he took his favourite morgul blade. A sword he'd been honoured with shortly after achieving Ringwraith status. Unlike your average morgul blade, this one was crafted to a very high standard. The hilt was encrusted with precious jewels and detailed engraving, depicting the eye of Sauron and the morgul symbols.
He unsheathed it, holding the blade up to the light, admiring the craftmanship of the steel.
This blade rarely saw the light of day anymore. It had become to precious to wield. But this was a special occasion.
He stuck it into his belt and pulled up his hood, his disguise from the world.
After a quick glance in the mirror he headed for the door.*
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Post by Elidor on Jun 19, 2003 14:40:10 GMT
*Elidor got up quite unwillingly. She put on a glossy black robe. It was brought in yesterday, cleaned and glossed by an orc. This particular, suprisingly did not screw anything up. She put on various accessories to make her look grander, to make the little orcs, pitiful rangers and hopefully, elves jealous. She took a sober look at the mirror. She then swiftly departed the room, gliding after the Witch King.*
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Post by The Witch King on Dec 14, 2003 6:53:59 GMT
X X X X X X X
The Witch King rose from his bed and made his way over to the small arched window to stare blankly out at the night. A fierce storm was buffeting Minas Morgul that night and although incredibly tired from the days toils, sleep eluded him. He stood looking through the archway, a black silhouette against the dark sky. His robes fluttered as they were caught by a chill breeze which had found it's way in through a gap in the stonework. He watched the storm clouds race across the moon, obscuring the only light. The inky landscape stretched all around him for miles and he felt a deep sense of isolation.
He turned back to observe the room - eight beds lay empty and undisturbed. How long since they had been slept in? How long since he had known company in this fortress. It wasn't just the cold breeze that caused him to shiver. He shuffled wearily over to his writing desk and selected a quill from the pot which he began to write with, the nib scratching against the rough parchment. He absorbed himself in writing, waiting for dawn and the long night to end.
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