Spoils of War - Chapter 8
Now, for the fan fiction!
Here is the next bit of this one.
Chapter 8 - Slipping
Inzilanî waited until the sound of the mistress' slippers against the rug was far enough away that she felt safe in slipping out of the bed. She was tired after struggling with a day where everything had gone wrong, but determined that her nightmares not bother her owners again if she could help it. Her bare feet scuffed against the rug, marveling that something so simple could make the room warm. It surely would be at least as comfortable as anything she'd slept on before the battle, as the urkan had never let her remain in his bed after using her but kicked her onto the cold ground once he was finished.
She put out her hands and walked very slowly until she found the wall of the room, and then put her back against it and slowly sank to the rug. Now, with her knees in front of her so she could hug them, she felt more at ease. The bed was too comfortable, too warm. It was for nimîr. She was a slave, and this was better for her.
The day had continued long and confusing and frustrating, even after the honored guest had finally departed. Borongil had left the quarters not long thereafter, and the mistress brought out some material and a strange hoop thing that had stretched a small portion of it until it was tight. Malheril then settled in a pool of light from another of the odd windows in the apartment that seemed to open more into bushes than any real vista, and began plying her needle to create flowers of breathtaking beauty, seemingly from nowhere.
Inzilanî had stared at the work of art slowly emerging from the blank cloth, and then remembered herself and her position. She retrieved the little cloth from where she'd hidden it in her pocket and sped through the room, cleaning as quickly and efficiently and competently as she had never done for the Umbari captain. And it was while dusting a cabinet in the far corner that she had finally found it.
Both Borongil's sword and the dagger were safely stowed in their sheaths and leaning against the wall in the corner where they were out of the way and yet easily retrieved. There was also a longbow, stored unstrung, with a quiver of arrows tipped with white feathers. Inzilanî glanced about to make certain the mistress was still busily creating things of beauty, and then let her fingers run over the embossed leather. Nimîr loved their trees and leaves, it seemed, for vines and leaves seemed to decorate everything here: scabbards, sheathes, quivers, bookshelves, even the fancy sewing that decorated clothing.
The find of the dagger, however, had been just what Inzilanî had hoped to make. With it, she could finally take care of that which should have been done before the battle that lost her the uruk as owner.
For now, however, she leaned her head against the rough-hewn stone in the darkness and wished that it could be different. Borongil and Malheril were trying so hard to be kind to her, sitting that evening after the meal and giving her more of their words and then helping her to remember the ones that she had learned from him on the long journey beforehand. And Malheril had tucked her into bed again, and given her a gentle smile to go with it.
She sniffed and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. She liked it here and didn't want to leave them.
The thought of doing anything that made either of them angry or sad was like a hard kick in her stomach, but there was little for it. They deserved so much better than her, perhaps a slave that would be quicker to learn and had been treated well all along, one that had earned good owners. That definitely wasn't her. She was an uruk, even though her skin was the color of deerskin rather than grey, and her eyes black rather than red. A monster as ugly and evil as any uruk lived inside her, and that monster didn't deserve anything but loathing and a quick end.
The questions that Inzilanî couldn't answer yet was when she would have the chance to do what was necessary, nor where it would be best for her to go to do it. She was not going to mess their nice rugs with her blood! She needed somewhere that would wash clean afterwards, somewhere where all trace of her could be rinsed away like the blood from her fingers in the stream had been. Then Borongil and Malheril could be happy, and not have to worry about her anymore.
In the meantime, however, she needed to stay awake. None of her fears were going to trouble her owners this night! Inzilanî settled back, crossing her legs in front of her in the way she used to when a small child, and began a low chant to the spirits that had so often helped her in bad places. This was not a bad place, but she needed help all the same. She would add a plea to the ancestors to watch over her owners in the night, to give their sleep - or whatever they had - depth and restfulness, and to shield their ears should she fail in her efforts to stay awake and dream again.
oOoOo
Inzilanî was exhausted, but she had managed to stay awake all night! She could hear the murmur of voices from elsewhere in the apartment, and she stretched out muscles that had grown stiff in the cold. She pushed herself to her feet with a grunt so she could climb back into the too-comfortable bed before either Borongil or Malheril could catch her sitting on the floor. She pulled the covers up over her shoulder and closed her eyes, fully intending to pretend sleep. But her exhaustion caught up to her almost immediately, and before she knew it, the dreams surged…
"Again."
She rocked forward to put her toes in the right position and then back again to rise to her feet. Her calves and thighs ached from this same movement having been done so many times in the past hours…
The whip caught her across the buttocks, with no cloth to soften the blow. "Clumsy!" her Umbari captain yelled at her. "You look like a cow getting up. Now down."
She used her hands to mime tucking in a skirt so that it wouldn't billow and sank to her knees and sat back on her heels. Again the whip fell, this time across the shoulders. "You nearly fell. Can't you learn anything? Up again."
Her calves and thighs screamed as she rocked forward, then back and tried to flow upwards the way he wanted. It was so hard… And the whip landing on her buttocks told her that she had once more failed. Only this time it didn't stop, but fell again and again and…
And then she was under the uruk again, and he was pounding into her again and again and…
And then she was sitting in a blood-spattered circle of trees, her arm moving up and down as if by itself, and the dagger made a loud, squishing noise again and again. She looked down, and red eyes burned at her. "Uruk! Monster! Just look at what you've done."
She didn't want to look. She didn’t' want to see the way the parts and pieces that she herself had cut away from the still-twitching body lay scattered. She didn't want to remember how it felt to stomp down on flesh still trembling.
A hand landed on her shoulder, and she started awake with a shriek and scuttled as far away from its owner as she could, blinking in the light that was now coming through the odd window on the other side of the room. She blinked again and then rubbed at her eyes tiredly, then quickly moved off the bed and to her knees in front of Borongil and gave him two hands to the heart, barely catching herself before she prostrated herself and angered him. "Aur vae," she recited carefully as she sat up straight again, struggling to remember the greeting he had given her on the journey in order to distract him from the fact that he had again found her in the middle of a nightmare.
"Aur vae, nethben." He was surprised, she could tell, but his eyes saw too much. He tipped his head at her questioningly and frowned. He pointed to her and then mimed her sleep pose, only to tip his head again.
Had she slept well?
"Na," she lied easily.
He shook his head. "Uin." He pointed to her again, and then ran his hand down his face, pulling his eyes to droop and his mouth to sag.
Did she really look that tired? Inzilanî gazed into those strange grey eyes that even inside this cavern seemed to glow with starlight, and then looked down, ashamed. She didn't want to lie to him, not when he'd been so good to her. She looked back up at him, tears filling her eyes, and she rubbed on her chest over her heart with her fingertips. Would he understand that she was apologizing?
When he nodded and gave her a half-smile, Inzilanî thought that her heart would burst. She didn't deserve the kindnesses, and yet, she craved them. At that moment, she would have walked through fire for Borongil gladly. But it seemed that all he wanted her to do was to climb back into bed. She gazed up at him fearfully and shook her head. Quickly she pretended to clean something in her empty hand, only to have his large hand capture both of hers. He pointed to her and then mimed her sleep pose again, then pointed to her pillow.
Reluctantly, she climbed back onto the bed, and this time it was Borongil who tucked the covers around her carefully and then sat down on the bed next to her. He smoothed her hair back and began to sing the song he had gifted her with on the journey, the one that made her think of trees and tall grass and fresh, clean, fast-moving water. His fingertips brushed her eyelids, inviting them to close.
With gentle fingers brushing across her brow rhythmically and a song chasing away all of the shadows that dwelt in her memory, Inzilanî couldn't help but relax and begin to doze. As she slipped away, she found herself wishing with all her heart that she were a nimir, and that Borongil were her attô. It would be so easy to learn to love him, and let him care for her, and the same thing applied to Malheril.
Too easy, her conscience scolded her sternly. Such thoughts were a trap that she didn't dare let herself fall victim to, if she truly cared about these nimîr. She gave herself over to the possibility of restful sleep, all the while deepening her resolve to remove herself as a bother as soon as possible. Borongil shouldn't need to worry about her all the time. Neither of them should.
oOoOo
The days passed slowly, filled with confusion and frustration. Inzilanî did her best to assume all of the housekeeping tasks, but Malheril would patiently stop her when two other nimîr women would come and take care of the jobs with a song and laughter. Inzilanî could only stand and stare at women who were more than happy to do the work, who in no way looked mistreated or even reluctant. She would turn and look back at Malheril, who would visit with these women and work on some delicate needlework while they cleaned, and wonder just how the nimîr were accustomed to treating their slaves.
The language lessons continued in the evenings, when Borongil would return from whatever duties had called him away during the day, his hair still damp from the vat. Inzilanî would watch her owner with concern sometimes, for he would sometimes sag in near exhaustion when he thought that Malheril wasn't watching. He caught her looking at him once, and with a gesture told her to remain quiet about it. Inzilanî frowned, but nodded. He was trying not to worry the mistress, and she could appreciate that. But she wished there were some way that she could lighten his load for him. That was her duty, after all.
Her nights were spent in the bed and not on the floor, however, for either Borongil or Malheril would seat themselves on the edge of it after tucking her in and sing her to sleep. Sometimes they would even stay late into the night with her and rouse her when her memories would once more attempt to drag her into a nightmare. The songs they sang were simple ones, with melodies that would stay with her into the daylight. There were times when the memories tried to surface during the day that Inzilanî would even try to hum the songs to herself, hoping that they would hold even just half the potency if she were the one singing. Sometimes it even worked.
Twice more she was taken to the special room where the vat stood and made to sit in the water, and Malheril showed her how to use the white stuff in her own hair and choose an oil for later. She also wouldn't allow Inzilanî to help the women who brought the hot water, or those who cleaned the vats after, much to Inzilanî's frustration.
But the trips to the vat finally presented Inzilanî with the location for when the time came to use the dagger. The vats were easily cleaned, easily rinsed free of anything that might soil them - even blood. Not only that, but other slaves could do the work, meaning that she could just vanish from the apartment one day, hopefully after she had gained enough trust to be allowed to move about the cavern like other slaves. Malheril wouldn't have to even think of her again. After all, was it not tradition that slaves took care of the remains of other slaves who had chosen death over continued service and abuse - if and when the opportunities arose? Such service to one's fellow meant that such would be accorded back someday. Inzilanî could only hope that the same traditions held among the nimîr slaves as well.
Most recently, Malheril had taken her out into the rest of the underground keep, their walk ending in a visit to the same nimir that had come to visit and seen her wounds and scars. Once more, Inzilanî was made to let him take the bandages from her wrists and ankles, only this time he brought out a jar of very pleasant smelling ointment that, when spread over her injuries, seemed to take away any hint of soreness. He bandaged her again with an ease that made her wonder if he were a healer. A little intimidated and yet very grateful, Inzilanî folded her hands over her heart and bowed to him. His answering smile was warm, and fingers that smelled of the wonderful ointment cupped her face for a moment, even as Malheril's fingers were working at the laces of her gown.
This time, however, her mistress pushed the gown completely off of her shoulders to drape at her waist, and Inzilanî stood frozen in shock as the nimir took his squat jar of ointment behind her and began ministering to the injuries on her back which had yet to heal. The touch of those careful fingers in spreading relief without causing more hurt made her close her eyes briefly. The surprise didn't end, however; for he then moved in front of her and pointed out to the lady the places where the urkan had bitten her on her breasts, some of which were still red and angry. More of the ointment was applied, and amazingly, the touch was impersonal, with no hint of desire or seeking pleasure. A broad bandage was then wrapped about Inzilanî's chest and back by hands that didn't stray from their task even the least bit, and he even helped her slip her arms back into her sleeves before being laced up again.
Again the healer cupped her cheek, and spoke gently to her before rising and addressing himself to the mistress. A dollop of the ointment he'd used was transferred to a smaller pot and handed over, with plenty of pointing to indicate the lady was being instructed in its proper use. Inzilanî had to force herself to remember to keep her gaze on the floor and her mind occupied on something other than their voices.
The vats; she'd think about the vats, and just how she was going to find them without help when the time came. How soon would Borongil know that his dagger was missing after she took it? Did he check his weapons daily? Would the other slaves, who no doubt knew where the weapons were stowed, betray her if they came after she'd tried to vanish? There were so many questions, so many things about these nimîr that she just couldn't know.
Malheril's hand landed on her shoulder, and Inzilanî gave her mistress her hand automatically, knowing from experience now that to be the next request. It was time to be led back to their quarters, where everything was too good to be true, and completely wrong.
Vocabulary (A)dúnaic (S)indarin
attô - (A) father
aur vae - (S) good morning
na - (S) yes
nimir - (A) elf
nimîr - (A) elves
uin - (S) no (that's not so)
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)
Here is the next bit of this one.
Chapter 8 - Slipping
Inzilanî waited until the sound of the mistress' slippers against the rug was far enough away that she felt safe in slipping out of the bed. She was tired after struggling with a day where everything had gone wrong, but determined that her nightmares not bother her owners again if she could help it. Her bare feet scuffed against the rug, marveling that something so simple could make the room warm. It surely would be at least as comfortable as anything she'd slept on before the battle, as the urkan had never let her remain in his bed after using her but kicked her onto the cold ground once he was finished.
She put out her hands and walked very slowly until she found the wall of the room, and then put her back against it and slowly sank to the rug. Now, with her knees in front of her so she could hug them, she felt more at ease. The bed was too comfortable, too warm. It was for nimîr. She was a slave, and this was better for her.
The day had continued long and confusing and frustrating, even after the honored guest had finally departed. Borongil had left the quarters not long thereafter, and the mistress brought out some material and a strange hoop thing that had stretched a small portion of it until it was tight. Malheril then settled in a pool of light from another of the odd windows in the apartment that seemed to open more into bushes than any real vista, and began plying her needle to create flowers of breathtaking beauty, seemingly from nowhere.
Inzilanî had stared at the work of art slowly emerging from the blank cloth, and then remembered herself and her position. She retrieved the little cloth from where she'd hidden it in her pocket and sped through the room, cleaning as quickly and efficiently and competently as she had never done for the Umbari captain. And it was while dusting a cabinet in the far corner that she had finally found it.
Both Borongil's sword and the dagger were safely stowed in their sheaths and leaning against the wall in the corner where they were out of the way and yet easily retrieved. There was also a longbow, stored unstrung, with a quiver of arrows tipped with white feathers. Inzilanî glanced about to make certain the mistress was still busily creating things of beauty, and then let her fingers run over the embossed leather. Nimîr loved their trees and leaves, it seemed, for vines and leaves seemed to decorate everything here: scabbards, sheathes, quivers, bookshelves, even the fancy sewing that decorated clothing.
The find of the dagger, however, had been just what Inzilanî had hoped to make. With it, she could finally take care of that which should have been done before the battle that lost her the uruk as owner.
For now, however, she leaned her head against the rough-hewn stone in the darkness and wished that it could be different. Borongil and Malheril were trying so hard to be kind to her, sitting that evening after the meal and giving her more of their words and then helping her to remember the ones that she had learned from him on the long journey beforehand. And Malheril had tucked her into bed again, and given her a gentle smile to go with it.
She sniffed and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. She liked it here and didn't want to leave them.
The thought of doing anything that made either of them angry or sad was like a hard kick in her stomach, but there was little for it. They deserved so much better than her, perhaps a slave that would be quicker to learn and had been treated well all along, one that had earned good owners. That definitely wasn't her. She was an uruk, even though her skin was the color of deerskin rather than grey, and her eyes black rather than red. A monster as ugly and evil as any uruk lived inside her, and that monster didn't deserve anything but loathing and a quick end.
The questions that Inzilanî couldn't answer yet was when she would have the chance to do what was necessary, nor where it would be best for her to go to do it. She was not going to mess their nice rugs with her blood! She needed somewhere that would wash clean afterwards, somewhere where all trace of her could be rinsed away like the blood from her fingers in the stream had been. Then Borongil and Malheril could be happy, and not have to worry about her anymore.
In the meantime, however, she needed to stay awake. None of her fears were going to trouble her owners this night! Inzilanî settled back, crossing her legs in front of her in the way she used to when a small child, and began a low chant to the spirits that had so often helped her in bad places. This was not a bad place, but she needed help all the same. She would add a plea to the ancestors to watch over her owners in the night, to give their sleep - or whatever they had - depth and restfulness, and to shield their ears should she fail in her efforts to stay awake and dream again.
oOoOo
Inzilanî was exhausted, but she had managed to stay awake all night! She could hear the murmur of voices from elsewhere in the apartment, and she stretched out muscles that had grown stiff in the cold. She pushed herself to her feet with a grunt so she could climb back into the too-comfortable bed before either Borongil or Malheril could catch her sitting on the floor. She pulled the covers up over her shoulder and closed her eyes, fully intending to pretend sleep. But her exhaustion caught up to her almost immediately, and before she knew it, the dreams surged…
"Again."
She rocked forward to put her toes in the right position and then back again to rise to her feet. Her calves and thighs ached from this same movement having been done so many times in the past hours…
The whip caught her across the buttocks, with no cloth to soften the blow. "Clumsy!" her Umbari captain yelled at her. "You look like a cow getting up. Now down."
She used her hands to mime tucking in a skirt so that it wouldn't billow and sank to her knees and sat back on her heels. Again the whip fell, this time across the shoulders. "You nearly fell. Can't you learn anything? Up again."
Her calves and thighs screamed as she rocked forward, then back and tried to flow upwards the way he wanted. It was so hard… And the whip landing on her buttocks told her that she had once more failed. Only this time it didn't stop, but fell again and again and…
And then she was under the uruk again, and he was pounding into her again and again and…
And then she was sitting in a blood-spattered circle of trees, her arm moving up and down as if by itself, and the dagger made a loud, squishing noise again and again. She looked down, and red eyes burned at her. "Uruk! Monster! Just look at what you've done."
She didn't want to look. She didn’t' want to see the way the parts and pieces that she herself had cut away from the still-twitching body lay scattered. She didn't want to remember how it felt to stomp down on flesh still trembling.
A hand landed on her shoulder, and she started awake with a shriek and scuttled as far away from its owner as she could, blinking in the light that was now coming through the odd window on the other side of the room. She blinked again and then rubbed at her eyes tiredly, then quickly moved off the bed and to her knees in front of Borongil and gave him two hands to the heart, barely catching herself before she prostrated herself and angered him. "Aur vae," she recited carefully as she sat up straight again, struggling to remember the greeting he had given her on the journey in order to distract him from the fact that he had again found her in the middle of a nightmare.
"Aur vae, nethben." He was surprised, she could tell, but his eyes saw too much. He tipped his head at her questioningly and frowned. He pointed to her and then mimed her sleep pose, only to tip his head again.
Had she slept well?
"Na," she lied easily.
He shook his head. "Uin." He pointed to her again, and then ran his hand down his face, pulling his eyes to droop and his mouth to sag.
Did she really look that tired? Inzilanî gazed into those strange grey eyes that even inside this cavern seemed to glow with starlight, and then looked down, ashamed. She didn't want to lie to him, not when he'd been so good to her. She looked back up at him, tears filling her eyes, and she rubbed on her chest over her heart with her fingertips. Would he understand that she was apologizing?
When he nodded and gave her a half-smile, Inzilanî thought that her heart would burst. She didn't deserve the kindnesses, and yet, she craved them. At that moment, she would have walked through fire for Borongil gladly. But it seemed that all he wanted her to do was to climb back into bed. She gazed up at him fearfully and shook her head. Quickly she pretended to clean something in her empty hand, only to have his large hand capture both of hers. He pointed to her and then mimed her sleep pose again, then pointed to her pillow.
Reluctantly, she climbed back onto the bed, and this time it was Borongil who tucked the covers around her carefully and then sat down on the bed next to her. He smoothed her hair back and began to sing the song he had gifted her with on the journey, the one that made her think of trees and tall grass and fresh, clean, fast-moving water. His fingertips brushed her eyelids, inviting them to close.
With gentle fingers brushing across her brow rhythmically and a song chasing away all of the shadows that dwelt in her memory, Inzilanî couldn't help but relax and begin to doze. As she slipped away, she found herself wishing with all her heart that she were a nimir, and that Borongil were her attô. It would be so easy to learn to love him, and let him care for her, and the same thing applied to Malheril.
Too easy, her conscience scolded her sternly. Such thoughts were a trap that she didn't dare let herself fall victim to, if she truly cared about these nimîr. She gave herself over to the possibility of restful sleep, all the while deepening her resolve to remove herself as a bother as soon as possible. Borongil shouldn't need to worry about her all the time. Neither of them should.
oOoOo
The days passed slowly, filled with confusion and frustration. Inzilanî did her best to assume all of the housekeeping tasks, but Malheril would patiently stop her when two other nimîr women would come and take care of the jobs with a song and laughter. Inzilanî could only stand and stare at women who were more than happy to do the work, who in no way looked mistreated or even reluctant. She would turn and look back at Malheril, who would visit with these women and work on some delicate needlework while they cleaned, and wonder just how the nimîr were accustomed to treating their slaves.
The language lessons continued in the evenings, when Borongil would return from whatever duties had called him away during the day, his hair still damp from the vat. Inzilanî would watch her owner with concern sometimes, for he would sometimes sag in near exhaustion when he thought that Malheril wasn't watching. He caught her looking at him once, and with a gesture told her to remain quiet about it. Inzilanî frowned, but nodded. He was trying not to worry the mistress, and she could appreciate that. But she wished there were some way that she could lighten his load for him. That was her duty, after all.
Her nights were spent in the bed and not on the floor, however, for either Borongil or Malheril would seat themselves on the edge of it after tucking her in and sing her to sleep. Sometimes they would even stay late into the night with her and rouse her when her memories would once more attempt to drag her into a nightmare. The songs they sang were simple ones, with melodies that would stay with her into the daylight. There were times when the memories tried to surface during the day that Inzilanî would even try to hum the songs to herself, hoping that they would hold even just half the potency if she were the one singing. Sometimes it even worked.
Twice more she was taken to the special room where the vat stood and made to sit in the water, and Malheril showed her how to use the white stuff in her own hair and choose an oil for later. She also wouldn't allow Inzilanî to help the women who brought the hot water, or those who cleaned the vats after, much to Inzilanî's frustration.
But the trips to the vat finally presented Inzilanî with the location for when the time came to use the dagger. The vats were easily cleaned, easily rinsed free of anything that might soil them - even blood. Not only that, but other slaves could do the work, meaning that she could just vanish from the apartment one day, hopefully after she had gained enough trust to be allowed to move about the cavern like other slaves. Malheril wouldn't have to even think of her again. After all, was it not tradition that slaves took care of the remains of other slaves who had chosen death over continued service and abuse - if and when the opportunities arose? Such service to one's fellow meant that such would be accorded back someday. Inzilanî could only hope that the same traditions held among the nimîr slaves as well.
Most recently, Malheril had taken her out into the rest of the underground keep, their walk ending in a visit to the same nimir that had come to visit and seen her wounds and scars. Once more, Inzilanî was made to let him take the bandages from her wrists and ankles, only this time he brought out a jar of very pleasant smelling ointment that, when spread over her injuries, seemed to take away any hint of soreness. He bandaged her again with an ease that made her wonder if he were a healer. A little intimidated and yet very grateful, Inzilanî folded her hands over her heart and bowed to him. His answering smile was warm, and fingers that smelled of the wonderful ointment cupped her face for a moment, even as Malheril's fingers were working at the laces of her gown.
This time, however, her mistress pushed the gown completely off of her shoulders to drape at her waist, and Inzilanî stood frozen in shock as the nimir took his squat jar of ointment behind her and began ministering to the injuries on her back which had yet to heal. The touch of those careful fingers in spreading relief without causing more hurt made her close her eyes briefly. The surprise didn't end, however; for he then moved in front of her and pointed out to the lady the places where the urkan had bitten her on her breasts, some of which were still red and angry. More of the ointment was applied, and amazingly, the touch was impersonal, with no hint of desire or seeking pleasure. A broad bandage was then wrapped about Inzilanî's chest and back by hands that didn't stray from their task even the least bit, and he even helped her slip her arms back into her sleeves before being laced up again.
Again the healer cupped her cheek, and spoke gently to her before rising and addressing himself to the mistress. A dollop of the ointment he'd used was transferred to a smaller pot and handed over, with plenty of pointing to indicate the lady was being instructed in its proper use. Inzilanî had to force herself to remember to keep her gaze on the floor and her mind occupied on something other than their voices.
The vats; she'd think about the vats, and just how she was going to find them without help when the time came. How soon would Borongil know that his dagger was missing after she took it? Did he check his weapons daily? Would the other slaves, who no doubt knew where the weapons were stowed, betray her if they came after she'd tried to vanish? There were so many questions, so many things about these nimîr that she just couldn't know.
Malheril's hand landed on her shoulder, and Inzilanî gave her mistress her hand automatically, knowing from experience now that to be the next request. It was time to be led back to their quarters, where everything was too good to be true, and completely wrong.
Vocabulary (A)dúnaic (S)indarin
attô - (A) father
aur vae - (S) good morning
na - (S) yes
nimir - (A) elf
nimîr - (A) elves
uin - (S) no (that's not so)
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)