King Elessar Telcontar stood in his imposing chambers, the soft glare of sunset refracting slightly off the glass. The ornate window was the definition of antique, dating back to days when the fabled Valar walked freely and gladly upon Endor - Manwë, Lord of the Breath of Arda. Nienna, Lady of Tears. Oromë, Huntsman of the Valar, and more besides. The sleek glass could have been handled by the first of the Elves, the Sindar of the Teleri, before the Silvan Elves left the Great Journey. The focal point of the window held on three visceral and piercing jewels, that were almost preternatural in their simplicity.
The great King looked upon the detailed jewels with a content longing, thinking of the Númenoreans he directly descended from. He had acquired the opulent craft-work from a sparsely crewed Corsair ship out of Umbar, among various other notable pieces of loot. Elessar's Reunited Kingdom had been looking toward Umbar during their voracious reclaiming of Harondor and the lands stolen from Gondor since the Kin-strife. The valiant veterans of the War of the Ring had not lost pace after Sauron's defeat, nay, in fact they were more determined than ever. The upper hand of Man would not slip as it had after the War of the Last Alliance, allowing Sauron to rise again and come so close to complete devastation. The men occupying Minas Tirith could barely stay behind the walls if an opportunity to crush a dark force arose. They had swarmed southern Ithilien and had set up pseudo camps of war, pushing further every month to the south.
Elessar turned his head away from the roving expanse of Ithilien, focusing instead on the looming Ephel Dúath beyond the Anduin. He silently prayed for the fellowship of men that had departed with the intent of braving Mordor's ever-threatening population of Orcs. Though, there could not have been a more formidable group assembled. Elessar trusted in Vísesinda and his men to strike irrevocable blows against the corrupted Orcs.
Elessar then stared south-east, at the currently unreachable lands of Harad, Khand and Rhûn. He was often plagued with concerns regarding the remaining resistance that dwelt in those lands. Sauron had amassed an insurmountable force, and it lived on in those untouchable lands, and in the chaotic regions of Mordor. He knew there was a lapse in the power of Mordor, and that if enough time was provided - it would be filled. The unknown Easterlings, and the Haradrim, and the Khandish undoubtedly had noticed the succulent opportunity that the Black Lands advertised.
As much as he hated to admit it, the western King had little power over this imminent contention of Mordor. He could only bide his time and gather his strength for what the coming conflict would produce.
Aragorn's grip tightened on the smooth-fashioned wood that comprised his windowsill.
The war for Middle-earth was far from over.

Along the western mountain range overlooking the Isenmouthe stands the fortress of Durthang. Built by Gondor in the days of old, it stood as a guard against Darkness' return. Taken and defiled by Sauron, it is now a mockery of those early intentions. Nothing more then a marshalling ground for the armies that would wage war against the realms of Men. Its dark and foreboding towers blanketed by centuries of ash from the fumes of Mount Doom, it thrusts into the abysmal sky like the bones of the mountains. With the defeat of Sauron, the shrill cry of Nazgul from it's darkened towers is replaced by the bite of steel and howl of Orcs. War has never left this place, and within the shadowy corridors, it's inhabitants turn on each other. For Durthang is a cursed place. It's stones thirst for blood and they will not be sated.

The main keep of Durthang stands several stories high, raised up upon a mountain foundation with a narrow path winding up from the Isenmouthe plain. Catacombs and a vast tunnel network descend the mountains depth and spread throughout the mountain range with openings on either side. A semblance of order could hardly be claimed within the fortress as factions battle for control.

Claiming lordship of the Durthang is a Uruk of fierce disposition. An oddity since spawned, the Uruk Captain Gorgul was born with white skin in stark contrast with his brethren. Earning scorn in his youth, Gorgol persevered over adversity to become an especially brutal Orc, earning him fear and respect amongst his fellow Uruks. The many Morannon Orcs and Snaga that inhabit Durthang endeavour to be free of his wrath. Those who displease him do not do so again.

It is no surprise then that panicked words of Gorgol's coming leaves the halls preceding the captain empty. The albino Orc walks with severe intent and a scowl spread across his lips. Behind him is his lieutenant, Yaz. A Black Uruk with a mane of spines he wears around his neck and shoulders, fashioned from the bones of fallen enemies. They come to a door and heave it open with such ferocity it shudders and nearly breaks into splinters.

Inside the chamber bodies lay strewn about and splatters of black blood decorate the walls in grisly fashion. Cracked urns and broken crates litter the room, and once there were supplies was now death. A small group of snaga sifted through the dead and debris, shrieking and scattering from Gorgol's entry. A squat Morgul Orc with cruel slanted eyes watched over the goblin slaves. He lowered his ears and whined through his tusks as his captain entered.

"Arms-master!" Barked Gorgol as he stroke into the room. "Report!"

The Morgul Orc kept his gaze to the floor as he turned to face the Uruk captain. "A raid, Captain. The swine left nothing."

Gorgol narrowed his eyes at the lesser Orc. Yaz stepped into the room, his keen eyes looking around as he ventured deeper, the snaga giving him a wide berth. "Who?" Gorgol asked the arms-master.

"I do not know, Captain." Whined the orc. "I'll find them and gut them!"

Gorgol back handed the Orc with fearsome strength, knocking him the ground. Gripping his face and leaning down toward him the captain growled, "I'll gut you! What hole did you hide during the attack?! Why do you breath my air while they lie dead?" Gorgol pointed to the dead strewn about the chamber.

"I was patrolling, Captain. I have three larder's under my command, I cannot be everywhere at once!"

Gorgol released him with a sneer, turning toward his lieutenant. "Yaz?"

"This wasn't the work of the Hasharin." Said Yaz, leaning over a dead Orc. "Not a spec of mans-blood. I don't recognize this lot."

"They're not of my charge!" Pleaded the arm-master, hoping any help he could give would spare his life.

"This is Ufthak's work." Yaz concluded. "The Hasharin would not attack such a fortified position, the coward."

"I will skin his hide!" Gorlog growled, clenching his fist.

"Shall I prepare an attack?" Yaz questioned.

"I will not send another blind charge into those forsaken tunnels. Get a scouting party together. You lead them. Return with were Ufthak cowers or do not come back at all."

Yaz grunted an affirmation before looking at the trembling Morgul rat. "And him?"

"This is the third storeroom they hit in as many weeks. The band has grown complacent. They need a reminder of what should happen if they fail me. Take him to Bolg." The Uruk lieutenant seized the underling's ankle, and dragged the shrieking failure away to meet his fate at the hands of the marauding demi-troll.

Dawn broke across the fields of Thaurband.

The townships had not changed in appearance much since the fall of Sauron. A large dam, part fortification and prison, with a township build atop and on either side. Two massive waterwheels, each larger than a siege engine, slowly turned with the passage of water and powered the turnings of the massive mills that flanked the dam on either side. Irrigation channels and ditches crisscrossed from upriver, running kilometers out into the wastes of Nurn. In the distance, the silhouettes of plantations loomed.

Men trudged back and forth across the wastes in small groups, and lights bloomed in the twilit darkness from the stone edifices of the town. All the men about were free of chains, but were burdened by tired eyes and a slow, slothful pace. With the slaughter of every goblin and orcish slave in Thaurband, even with more than two thousand men to claim the town everything was undermanned. The fields, the mills, the plantations, and the forges. Less men at least meant less mouths to feed, but tension filled the air - these freed men of the lake were neither equipped nor fully able to defend what was theirs.

Standing within the highest room of the Western mill, Vísesinda peered out at distant handheld lantern lights as men tracked across the ashen scapes. An elf, with long red hair that hung from his head like jungle creepers, with vicious scars drawn across his face and neck, permanently contorting his ruined lips and cheeks into a drooping visage of despondence. His right eye was a ghostly shade of white, appearing blind and impotent - his left was the color of a winter Maelstrom, and filled with a nameless rage.

"This standing," His voice came out in a faintly hoarse rasp, lacking the smoothness of his unblemished kin. "Is not what we hoped it might be. Two thousand mortal men do abide us, but we have few armaments to hand them. The prison has been renovated to hinder siege, but everything we hold of value lies beyond the depths of Thaurband."

He spoke for the benefit of his forlorn rangers, recently returned from week-long scouting expeditions elsewhere in the contentious land of Mordor, where the shadows dwelt even the wake of timeless evil. Three men and an elf, all wearing cloth spotted through and through with soot and dust as though each had risen straight from the grave; their complexions telling similar tales. Their expressions neutral, their gazes stern.

"If we are sieged, we might hold for weeks upon weeks, but our enemy need not control the dam to seize what they want. We must be swift and strike now, quickly and hard. Tell me of your findings."

The first ranger to speak was Duran, a man with graying hairs but still lithe and muscular, his body occupying the span of time where strength and wisdom were briefly matched. "It is as you said at the sister town of Caran. The few men we brought with us as spotters recognized several of their tormentors there - the orcs and overseers of Thaurband have cast in with the lot of Raugz Sorr. Two volunteered to mingle with their chattel for our purposes before we left, but there is no assurance they will be live upon our return. The orcs have many wargs at their disposal, and so we were unable to press as close as we might have liked for fear of our scent being tracked."

"If the taskmasters of Thaurband are there, their commander must have been aware that Thaurband had been overtaken by its captives." Vísesinda mused. "Elsewise they would have come here instead of going out of their way to occupy Caran. We must assume they will strike at us soon if we do not move."

Next to speak was the elf Llendiel, unremarkable for an elf but a vision of vigor and power besides the mortal men he accompanied. "A large host of Orcs have set up a large camp in the midst of Nurn, and there men move free of chains. Our own volunteers, who briefly mingled amongst them, claim that the men of Aukhen Agon are free - that their master, the savant Tuskkar, has freed all slaves amongst their number from bondage. There was much word of setting out to build a stronghold in the plains, which concerned me - I surveyed the area thoroughly under cover and with great care. There were no quarries, no traces of lumber or mills, nor charcoal pits or forges. As I understand it, the rabble carries with them only the food and stores of several plantations they have raided."

"Curious." Visesinda stated flatly, his left eye coldly narrowing as he thought. "While you were away, we did receive a small handful of men from that direction, claiming to have been let loose by their captors. They spoke similar nonsense of being freed from bondage, alongside many Goblins and Orcs. They claimed that those who remained were too fearful of being fell upon by less merciful hordes or starvation should they leave. How many men do you suppose were left?"

"Perhaps three to five hundred." Llendiel replied. "We had to move carefully, as there was little cover for us to exploit. Most of our information comes from our volunteer informants."

Visesinda thought silently for several moments. Three to five hundred men - that was nothing to disregard. Each of the warbands in Mordor outnumbered the men of the lake of Nurnen significantly, but even a difference of one hundred men could turn the tides of a protracted siege. "That is worth delaying an immediate skirmish." He declared. "Send instead an envoy, to ply and lure the hearts of the men there - have it said that they have no need to live amongst a rabble of orcs and goblins, and that they might join with the Free Men of the Lake of Nurnen - where they might come to be a part of a new nation of men, for men. Ply such for two nights or until you are rebuffed; then you may attack at will. You may have two hundred of our rangers for your purposes. Be cautious. Spread disarray rather than death, mayhem rather than chaos, do not spend more lives than you must. Without a proper fortification, many of this sad camp will likely break and flee." He then turned to face the two remaining rangers - brothers, Saturos and Karst.

"Cirith Ungol has become more fearsome still with the death of Sauron." Karst spoke, his voice a soft murmur, as though he feared the words might carry and be heard elsewhere. "There are no bound men there, only Orcs, Goblins, and Uruk. All through the night, one can hear the cries of drakes and their handlers, and in the day one flies through the airs, mounted by a black Uruk wearing the armor of an Easterling. The many roads and crags by and through the place are well patrolled and traveled, and we dared not weave too deeply through them."

"Then there, at least, our path is certain." Visesinda said, a air of confidence in his words. "You will take two dozen men and do what you may to break and disrupt these passages. Create rockfalls and landslides if you must - aim to make their forces abandon these collapsed paths, to allow us to move unhindered through them. If they do not fall prey to such a rouse, they must spend time and effort to clear each road. Take these opportunities to strike and divest them of their labour. Do not engage in protracted battles, volley and then flee." He then turned back to Duran.

"Until the pitiful host amidst Nurn has been scattered, we may not deal with the Raugz Sorr - such would be foolish. You will take as many men as needed and devise a channel across Eastern Nurn to deter the passage of Uruk and Wargs alike. Fill it with the waters of Nurnen, raise the Western bank to be higher than the East, and erect a palisade atop as well." Seeing Duran's objection coming, Visesinda raised his voice slightly and carried on speaking. "The channel need not be large - it merely must traverse across the road of Khand. Beyond that we may guard as we have done for the past weeks. This measure only needs to keep the wargs and blackguards of Caran from creeping along the shore of Nurnen to lash at us."

With that, Visesinda grasped at his cloak, lying upon the nearby table, and dorned it. "I shall go with you personally to oversee the project. The rest of you should depart immediately - especially you, Llendiel. The sooner that rabble is dispersed, the better." With that, the rangers all descended from the mill and went their separate ways, each forming bands and departing from separate ends of Thaurband.

In time, each would reach their destination, and there havoc would be borne.

The parapets and battlements of Durthang offered an expansive view of Udun of north-western Mordor. To the north, mountain ranges stretched on toward the Black Gate. To the east, the fields of Udun broke before the passage of Isenmouthe. South the mountains broke through the earth like jagged teeth as they bit across the horizon into the fumes of Mount Doom. And to the west, stars peeked through the dark pre-dawn gloom over the world of man. Upon the highest tower, his dark eyes surveying the lands beyond, was Gorgol, captain of Zi Vadok.

Since the fall of Sauron, Gorgol had felt an oppressive force be lifted from his mind. The dominating will of his master was gone, and for the first time in his life, the Orc captain was his own master. He was free. His lips curled up in a smile as he looked upon that which he claimed as his kingdom, but the smile was fleeting, and it soon withered into a scowl. So long as the Haradrim and Ufthak's Morannon Orcs defied him, his claim was fragile.

The rebel Ufthak and his horde are able to strike out into the Udun plains and retreat back into the tunnels of the mountains before Gorgol's patrols are able to respond. Meanwhile, his orcs fret at the shadows of his own halls, for there is no telling where Hasharin and his Haradrim assassins lurk. He must bring his enemies to heel or destroy them. Until then, his looming destruction oppresses him as much as Sauron's will. With one final sneer at the fiery glow of the easterly sun, struggling to penetrate the ashen plume that covered the land, Gorgol descended the tower and held court in his solar.

Skewered rats, charred batwings, and boiled hrad roots awaited Gorgol as he took up his seat upon his throne. The high seat of Durthang, once claimed by Nazgul, was won by Gorgol. Cut from black oak and troll bones, the high back of the chair rose high up with three great spikes, mirroring the three spires of Durthang. Gorgol snarled as Radbug served him his breakfast. It was meager fare for an Orc lord, yet he ate better then most. Many would endure the day with empty bellies as their supplies dwindled rapidly.

Radbug kept his gaze down as he placed the measly meal before Gorgol. Radbug was the leader of the snaga, the lesser orcs and goblin slaves. Shortly after Gorgol came to Durthang after Sauron's fall, the snaga revolted. Radbug agreed to help Gorgol quell their pitiful rebellion, and for his aid, Gorgol raised him up to their leader.

Gorgol bared his fangs, tearing into the burnt rat as his court of uruks looked on. "What news of Yaz?" The captain demanded, spitting a rat bone from his maw.

"Word reached us in the late hour of Yaz's victory over a Morannon rabble," said Zarfu, a sergeant and his standard bearer, a black uruk of broken and jagged fangs. "Yet Ufthak's whereabouts continues to elude him, and he calls for more Orcs."

"Yaz has the gull to waste lives on a pointless battle and call it a victory, while the rebel Ufthak eludes him?!" Thundered Gorlog. "He will get no more orcs! Send word to Yaz that my patience is at an end. Find Ufthak or I will cast him from the battlements!"

"As you command, Captain!" Saluted Zarfu.

"What of our supplies?" Gorgol asked, stripping the skin from charred batwing.

Gorgol's newest arms-master stepped forward. Kurz, a Morannon Orc, broad shouldered and as tall as a Uruk, a halberd strapped across his back. "Our stores are low, Captain. The orcs are restless, but I have no choice but to lower rations yet again, or we will be starved out within a month. Aside from the odd thief trying to nab a loaf of bread, our store rooms are secure. The rebels likely too busy with Yaz then mount another raid."

"Take the hands of any thief you find," growled Gorgol. "And hang them in the main hall to show the others how we deal with their kind. See to it that our stores remain safe unless you wish to suffer the same fate as your former master." Kurz saluted sheepishly.

Radburg stepped forward. "If I may, my master..."

"What is it, cur?" Snapped Gorgol to the slave-master.

"A snaga reached us last night, half starved and near death, having marched all the way from Nurn."

"What do I care for such a maggot, not even suited to provide a meal?" Chortled Gorgol, prompting laughs from amongst his court.

"This one was well beneath your magnificence, my Master," whined Radbug. "Yet he brought news and with his dying breath he told of the man slaves of Thaurband and their revolt. They have taken the town, and flooded the eastern Nurn to defend their treason."

Gorgol tossed his head back and laughed. "Har! I would boil them in their precious watery tomb that surround them, so their man-flesh falls right of the bone! May they count their fortunes they are not within my reach, for my belly growls!"

The door to the solar suddenly sprung open, interrupting the howls of Gorgol and his court. "Captain!" Called a Uruk with a bloodied brow. "Bolg is on the loose. He has escaped his hall."

"The troll has served his purpose well," said Gorgol with a twisted smile. "Perhaps he could be put to a better use." The orc captain rose from his seat, turning to Radbug. "Fetch my armour... I will deal with Bolg myself."

After the fall and subsequent destruction of Sauron, the dark magic started to fade from the fortress of Seregost and the dark twisted creatures it held within. Without the magic to bind them to the dark lord, many of the lesser creatures embarked from the fortress, seeking to flee the decaying land that surrounded them. Though some stood strong and loyal, now awaiting the return of their former master like they had done before. Creatures so loyal to him that they proved capable of waiting centuries for his return, for they were made by the dark lord himself. Perfected into the strongest and most corrupted form, so twisted had they become that not even the destruction of Mordor could sway them from their path and servitude.

They were perhaps the greatest Orcs that Sauron ever created, held in such high regard that they answered only to the Dark Lord himself and to no other. They were the largest Orcs that Sauron ever birthed, used to guard the most important areas of his realm, even the very throne of Sauron himself. Though few in number, all but a few perished whilst fighting at the Black Gate. The remainder met their end as the Gorgoroth plateau and most of northern Mordor collapsed under their feet. Those that survived banded together and chose to return to the place they called home, the very place they had been created. A place surrounded by lakes and rivers of molten lava, hidden behind a dark smoke screen so that no creature but Sauron himself could lay his eye upon it, the fortress of Seregost.

Now the dust had settled and the last remnants of the dark lord's magic were seeping away, the once mighty fortress was only a fraction of its former glory. The lakes and rivers of molten rock having hardened, only a few of the largest flows of lava still remained. The dark screen of smoke having lifted and exposing the structure to the light of day. Yet the fortress remained standing and was quickly reunited with some of its former inhabitants, and through them would live to see another day.

Ukshak had only one thing on his mind, rebuilding the fortress and to some how enable it to create more of his kin, though without the use of magic that seemed impossible. But Sauron would return once more, like he had done before. And in preperation for the return of his master he would need to unite the different factions in the ruins of Mordor, with them he could rebuild, not only the fortress but all of which had been destroyed throughout the realm. Only an united army could keep the alliance of Humans and Elves at bay and force them to man the gate like they had done before. And from there he could raise his armies in secrecy, hiding them in the many mountains that stood around them. Awaiting the return of their master so that they would be allowed to strike once more.

The very image of Goblins and Humans being treated as equals, and that of his very kin proclaiming themselves as warlords, disgusted him. There oath to the dark lord was bound by death, it could not be broken or erased in the absence of their master. The time had come to strike out, to make an example out of those that stood in open deviance of his will. Ukshak had set his eyes on the former slave fields and the fertile land down south, he who controlled the food would eventually control all living things in Mordor. They would need to face him in battle or submit to him freely, yet either way they would end up on their knees.

The highest floor of the tower was made his own, used to look down upon the remainder of the fortress and the land that surrounded it. He had not bothered with a throne or any other structure that could be used to show his might, the very bones on his armour served as a constant reminder and did not need reinforcement. The room was shared by four of his closest kin, black Uruks like himself. They had proven themselves strong enough to deserve a position to lead, and with them he had complete control of the fortress and its inhabitants. Ukshak stood poised over the stone railing of the tower, looking down at the Goblins and Demi-Trolls at work. They were rebuilding the areas that had been struck by the eruption of Mount Doom.

Ukshak had send out a patrol of a dozen black Uruk, instructed to travel out of sight and to remain hidden. They were to be his eyes at the slave fields down south, send to inspect the damage and the rumours of a slave revolt. Fighting an army of slaves would be easy, no matter the number. Underfed and worked close to death, it would take some time before they could be a formidable force. A show of force would surely shock them into submission. Controlling Thaurband and a couple thousand of slaves would surely strengthen his position and enable a constant flow of food once things were properly set up. And if any did dare to oppose him, he'd strip them of their skin and feed them limb for limb to the Demi-Trolls. And whatever remained of their mutilated carcass would be turned into another trophy for his armour.

They were safe, secluded, and they had their shelter. What more could they want other than food and power over Mordor, these things came in time but first they needed to regain an easy passage into Mordor. Ûrul over looked the lands beyond the Black Gate into Mordor, that would be his in due time. "What shall we do to restore our connection my liege?," one of his Uruki lieutenants asked.

"Would a draw bridge work? Have you thought of that yet?" Ûrul asked before the lieutenant nodded and left. They would need to build this draw bridge to withstand the heat of the lava that came from Mt. Doom.

A scavenging party was also sent out, a party of fifty orcs on wargs into the mountain side to find a safer passage and maybe some food. They still had enough to last for a good two weeks, however, without a steady income they would be forced to cannibalize. That was not something that they wanted to do but they would if needed so the rest could live on.

"Get those drakes fed!," Ûrul shouted from his little tower as her heard the roads of the drakes grow ever louder. They were unrulely but they would prove their worth in short time, their young raised to be obedient and silent. An army of lesser drakes for the orcs would be absolutely worthwhile as they would be able to kill off their competition with ease.