A large domed cavern. The walls and floor of this place are stone, black as pitch. In the center of the floor lies a pit, close to one hundred feet in diameter. A railing stands around the pit: a ring of black iron poles about five feet tall, and linked together with four levels of chain.
The floor of the pit lies ten feet below, made of loose blood stained sand. The dismembered carcases of Orcs, and large predatory beasts lay in the sand. Jammed atop the iron poles are countless severed heads in various states of decay two, sometimes three layers thick, most are easily recognizable as Uruks, but many bear fine Elven features, or long Dwarven beards.
When there are fights here Uruks line the pit screaming in thier vile voices and shakeing fists, eager to see blood. There is no gate into the pit, combatants must climb the chains and drop fifteen feet to the sands recognizable as Uruks, but many bear fine Elven features, or long Dwarven beards.
The only exits from this room are an arched walkway leading up a long flight of stairs, and a sloping tunnel winding down, farther into the mountain.
Contents:
Shek'Traak
Matashkra
Nudrog
Puck
Grul (Me)
Khamul
Grishnakh
Glaz
OOC Transmitter
Mahlruk
Deep within the obsidian tower, far into the bowels of the earth where no sunlight streams in welcoming rays, where no wisps of illumination stretch out their warming hands to caresses the flesh of the cold or enlighten those crevices which harbor dark and ungentle shadows, there gathers now a congregation of Orcs. Loud they are, many pouring into this stale and torch-lit chamber, the reason still unclear to them -- but the call adamant, decreed under the order of the Vorazg and the Nine. Some chatter in their fell tongues, their black lips spouting out words which ring in the din of the wicked hall, while others partake in small groups which gamble: rolling dices and tossing those coins they've collected in their service. Yet, there is one among, stooped and squat, long ape-like arms clasped behind him, who mounts the very edifice that surmounts the great fight pit. Eyes like crimson, pale and luminescent of some malevolent will, this Uruk glares ungently about, his lips pursed into a cruel and calculated smile. Barking out, however, suddenly, he shouts -- his volume near a bellow -- the words, "Rabble! Listen up!"
Within this Fight Pit, the ranks of Orcs and other creatures of Dol Guldur begin to swell and grow larger by the minute.. Orders have come through to each of the quarters of snaga and dogs, the slaves and warriors, to report to this dreaded area. Still, even through the dread, there is a festive feeling. Whenever the order comes through to report, someone dies, occasionally a few someones, but always blood is shed. Tonight, the orders come from the top. Rumors say the very top, and from sources who would know.
Shek'Traak grins as he slumps into a corner, picking some bones out of his teeth. He pokes another snaga next to him. "Dis is gonna be good fight, yes? I bet da troll wins. He beat warrior even after gettin beated up, right? Dat uruk gonna get squished purdy bad."
Mahlruk grins and turns to the snaga next to him, one named Shek'Traak, and begins to answer his question. At the loud commentary of the announcing Uruk, he shuts his mouth before a syllable is uttered, and snaps forward in his seat, appearing intent on nothing but the upcoming battle. His nostrils flare in anticipation of the coppery reek of blood to be spilled, and his eyes narrow as he searches for the contestants.
From the opening back towards the stairs leading to the other chambers, another clammer is heard... Darkness covers the entry as three huge shapes arrive. Trolls, the dreaded Olog, walk in with footsteps of stone upon stone, the echos of it reverberating throughout the area. There are three Trolls, it soon is seen, two are among the mightiest of Dol Guldur, and the third is being grasped firmly by them, taken in against his will and through a force greater even than his own...
Glaz is among the first Uruks to arrive. Driven by his officers and whichever other warrior deems himself strong enough to command the little snaga, he is pushed across the viewers' area to the furthest corner, which hardly leaves him anything to see.
Shek'Traak cranes his neck towards the large orc, listening to his every word. Acidic saliva drops down his chin, dripping to the floor. A bit of blood is still visible on his teeth, from the meat just eaten. His skin, normally grey, is nearly bright red in many places, as is the case with many snaga, after being beaten.
No orders yet... The tension builds in the room as the troll is led in. Speculation soon begins and indeed, bets begin to be made even before the other combatant is brought inside. Jeering and cheering rise to great levels as the Olog is dragged in and thrown to the center of the pit, "Orders!" yells one of the mighty trolls, "We got orders to bring this traitor to the pit, and then to rough him up a bit..." The largest of the two troll guards looks around, "And if anys of youse messes him up too bad, youse are gonna take his place!"
The jeers of seated uruks arise from the stands. Shouts, laughter, and cries, lashing out towards the shackled Olog. Snaga scurry about the seating, mugs of grog, slabs of meat. The filthy creatures jumping to the sides as the massive beasts approach. A great mass of smells together form one rancid odor of orcs.
Shek'Traak gulps and scratches his neck, feeling a large scar from the last time his Logaz had had a bad day. He pokes the snaga again. "Ya, he do it too, Shek know. Dem Olog be nasty. Dey crush all dat dey no like. Dat why me tink da olog gonna win."
The Olog-prisoner's approach isn't forced, however, his long thundering strides remaining consistant with the others'. In his hands he holds an enormous axe, huge twin heads gleaming gently in the ill-lit cavern, the long spike jutting out from the tip. Slowly is this mammoth axe turned in the beast's large hands, causing the blades to spin. The violet eyes of the Olog glimmer brightly, shining with a light of their own, the beast itself not even knowing why it has been brought here. A soft, steady growl comes from the beast as it's held by the others, low enough to thunder dully in one's ears, vibrate deep in one's bowels. For other races, the sound of a troll's footfalls is the sound of doom; perhaps it's true for trolls as well. Thrust to the ground by the larger Ologs, the beast falls, face first, into the sands, yet the axe never comes out of it's grip. Slowly the beast stands, silent, not even growling.
Near one entrance to the huge cavern, the stairs leading upward toward the center of the mountain, a large Uruk-Hai stands with her arms crossed. Scars litter Matashkra's face, and strange tattoos almost completely cover each of her muscular arms. A sardonic smile is painted upon her lips, bearing no teeth, yet seeming almost jovial. No, perhaps it could better be described as mocking. A large mace hangs at the guard's waist, and her stance seems relaxed, yet ready to attack or defend at a moment's notice.
Before long another figure, much less imposing, but still powerful in his own account is brought into the same arena. The Orcs watching out over the crowd are not too eager yet to face this opponent, still strong and armed, but blood and numbers begin to push them forward testingly..
The other prisoner comes in with less fanfare and is still held to the side as the orders of the great troll are yet to be obeyed. The great Troll shouts out again, pointing a thick finger at a few of the waiting and watching orcs, "Ere now... You, you and you... Get in there or I'll show you what for!"
It is with patience, a patience written upon his brow and sculpted into his features, that Grishnakh eyes the gathering horde in their numbers -- the figure of the lumbering troll being caught within the very flame of his narrowed eyes, as if it dragged forth from the inky shadows and through the fight pit's archway, deeper still into the very rotunda of the room. Letting the trolls who have secured Puck speak in the moments of his called silence, their own orders clear, he nods once to them, reiterating in his foul tongue to the clamoring horde of goblins the commandment of their master. "You heard 'em worms!" he says, a pausing briefly interrupting his speech as a wicked chuckle escapes from the confines of his throat, "Right, you heard 'em. The troll is to be made fit for tonight, roughed up a bit, eh? I think you lads can take care of that, can't yah? Well!?!" Shifting then on the ledge which his low-crouched figure stands, the Vorazg lifts his right hand towards the edge of his helmet -- twisting his neck to the right to listen for an audible and understandable reply to come from the thralling masses which hoot and jeer amongst each other.
Rhaarz pads down the steps leading from the Morlat.
Rhaarz has arrived.
Shek'Traak smirks, "What? We getta hurt big olog?! Me been waitin for dis." The snaga leaps toward the olog, along with several other orcs, to pound in some injury. The snaga pounds futiley on the olog's back, giving a small thud, barely audible in the large room.
Shek'Traak attacks Puck with his Bare Hands and mildly wounds him!
A lone snaga scurries to and fro, a tray with meat carried in his hands, and sweat beading on his face. Suddenly the snaga falls, sending strips of equine flying. Wincing as he scrambles to his feet, Lurzni turns briefly to see what tripped him, and growls beneath his breath when he notices a group of Uruks not much larger than he laughing hysterically and pointing in his direction. Swallowing whatever feeble comment he might have made, the snaga turns and begins gathering the now dirtied food, quickly placing it back on the tray.
A chill comes into the air of this humid, fetid fighting arena. But rather than make the room more tolerable, instead this chill is that of the undead, of ancient flesh long ago grown cold. For lo! from the shadows, as if composing his figure from the darkness and air, comes The Fourth. Indur, Cloud Lord and Shadow of the south. He appears hovering, his booted feet seemingly above the ground. But who can tell, for the long grey robes of the Ringwraith trail to the ground, rustling as if there was a breeze where the Nazgul's chest is. He floats to where Khamul presides, gold eyes glinting from underneath his dark robes. No greeting does he give the other wraith, for none is needed. He merely takes his place beside the other, another man doomed to die.
Mahlruk leaps to the side, not wanting to be implicated in any way by the announcement that he was the speaker who wanted to attack the troll. He suddenly glances up, feeling a premonition of doom. As he gazes up at the ringwraith, he feels naked and alone, despite his robes and the surrounding audience. He falls to his knees and whimpers pitifully, in hopes that the dread gaze of the wraith should not fall upon his hunched shoulders.
The Lord of Dol Guldur, Khamul, known as the Second Chief, the Black Easterling, the Shadow of the East and Sauron's Lieutenant emerges with his companion, his brother Indur, the Cloud Lord. The aura of these two beings is that of fear, but not a cold and silent death, but rather that of a fury and a blind terror of rage. Orcs scream and panic, who are closest to this Nazgul, and none are unaffected by this terrible presence..
The Lord of Dol Guldur watches the attacking of the lone troll for a few moments and raises his hands in a motion that all should heed his words... There he stands as he awaits obedience..
The Lord of the Clouds stands impassively, silent. The only movement on the wraith is the slow flap of the edge of his cloak--it flicks almost like the end of a poised snake. Indur's eyes glint golden in the darkness that is his shadowy face, immune to the wail of the orcs about him.
Shek'Traak continues 'beating' on the olog, beating his tiny fists on the troll's humungous back. "Me finally get to hit dem back!" He continues to pound recklessly at the troll, doing very little damage, if any, to the oaf.
The Trollish prisoner, the one known as Puck, allows his violet, glowing eyes to turn upon the snaga who dare to attack him, and with their bare hands at that. One of them is selected, the beast's eyes narrowing slightly, pupils dilating ever so slightly as they focus upon the poor little creature. Thrusting the left arm forward, the poor snaga's head is taken in one hand before it may react, and the life-force of the snaga is extinguished as the head is crushed by the enormous hand. Gazing, then, a moment at the others, the beast draws back it's hand, it going to the haft of the enormous axe. Turning slowly, the Olog warrior turns it's eyes to the pair of Nazgul, silent still.
Standing beside two great beasts of massive proportion is one of grimness. Shaggy hair covering his body matted, against the flesh it lies, wet with perspiration. Head turns, gazing briefly upon the Ologs, shoulders held tightly by their massive hands. Crimson slits flickering about the arena, jeers of mocking uruks not affecting his stature. Rather amusement upon his scarred cheeks, soon to be opponent assulted with pithy blows of slaves. The uruk-hai Nudrog, ceasing his flickerings, raising the battle axe gripped tightly in his claws, smooth but sharpened blades flickering in the dim light. The fury of the Nazgul's do not escape the creature either, but head does not raise as the impending presence of the wraiths fill even the sturdiest with dread.
Shek'Traak turns up to see the dread lord, and flings himslef to the ground. He whines loudly, making a horrible screeching noise, praying the Nazgul will not take notice of him.
Mahlruk, despite his own intentions, feels an uncontrollable urge to stand and obey the wraith. As he rises and observes the silent command, his only compulsion is to stand and await the next command. He turns into a living statue, losing sight of all but the powerful leutenant.
Having said his due, Grishnakh moves to dismount the rough ridge of stone that he has precariously placed himself upon. Stepping down gently from its height, the deep pit below --- rather behind as well -- offering up a chill wind which bites at his ebony flesh and assaults his frozen heart with the feeling of unspeakable dread. It is that icy grasp of death, that morbid touch of rot which in itself seems far more horrid in imagination and mind rather than body. Quite familiar with it, he a messenger -- although one bitterly so -- of these wraiths, the Vorazg chooses to embrace it for the moment rather they cower in its wake. Thus, stepping into the roaring audience, their swelling numbers a great tidal wave that pours as if a black sea amongst one another, he allows himself to merge with the crowd, his squat figure turning finally to face the gathering specters -- to train his pale eyes upon them, watching them closely with suspicion, disdain, and fear.
The Uruk-Hai guard pauses from her watching the throng of uruks, snagas, and occasional uruk-hai entering the cavern from above, immediately recognizing the cool chill that sweeps over the room. Sniffing the air like an animal, she searches in the direction of the feeling, shivering when her eyes finally place themselves upon the dreaded Nazgul. Although another had already been in the room, she had grown used to its presence, and the entrance of another had only heightened the feeling of being watched....
Matashkra's eyes fall then upon the uruk beating the olog. Contempt for this creature fills her mouth with a taste that she would wash out at that moment if she could. Arms uncrossing, she places her right hand upon the handle of her mace, loosening it so that it will be easier to wield should the need arise. Nose twitching once more, she turns her head back to the two Ringwraiths. Though dread fills those around her, and they cower with fear, the only sign that she has recognized the orders is a slight stiffening of her back.
From the depths of the hood which covers the face of Khamul, the Lord of this Fastness of Sauron, a laugh emerges as red eyes beneath a silvery crown looks from Orc to Orc, watching his troops and delighting in the power of his Master, the Unblinking Eye.. The crowd goes to a still cold as the hissing of words emerges to replace the laugh, "Servants of the Eye of Mordor, the Master bids that his will be done in this as in all matters..." He pauses a moment to engage several of the Orcs with his gaze and his will, "Among us are two who have disobeyed his commands, issued through me, that none slay his servants without need.. Each Uruk and Olog is needed for the battles ahead and none should be thrown away useless.. This troll.." He moves his blacker than night arm to point to Puck, "And this Uruk..." He turns to regard Nudrog, "Have each disobeyed... The command then, is that one of them die by the hand of the other." He pauses a moment again and again the fear he wields raises to a near cresendo, "Let the Will of the Eye be Obeyed!"
Shek'Traak, against his own will, rises and lifts his puny fists into the air. He cheers loudly, sounding nearly like a howl. A final drop of blood drips out of his mouth as he cheers uncontrollably, the icy grip of death embracing his already black heart, controlling nearly every movement of his frail body.
Just as Lurzni finishes placing the last of the fallen strips of meat back upon the tray, standing weakly, a feeling of dread so encompasses him that he lets out a shriek of terror, causing him to drop the tray of food in his grasp and cower upon the floor with his hands over his head. Squealing and crying out like a beat dog, the snaga attempts to crawl away from the cold voice and evil laughter that fill her head.
At the words of Khamul, the other ringwraith laughs in glee, a sound more horrible than any scream could be: a contempt for life and the living from the shadow world more horrible than can be imagined.
Suddenly, with a terrible shriek which fills the air and a dread which washes over every living thing within the fortress, Khamul draws his cruel Scimitar. The scimitar, an ancient weapon wrought about with spells of destruction and of slaying, glows with an evil fire which traces up and down the blade.
Khamul brings forth a long curved black bladed scimitar from the shadowy depths of his cloak. This weapon shines with a pale light; enscorceled by the darkest spells of Mordor.
Sparing a moment to give his wrist a slight flick, the slickness of brain-matter and blood not good for one's grip, Puck watches silently as the Nazgul speaks. Not even a glance does his opponent recieve, the glittering violet eyes remaining upon the pair of Wraiths. Other than the motion to remove the goo from his large hand, the troll remains quite still, slowly blinking it's large eyes, as the Lord of the Tower draws forth his unholy weapon.
Smiling thinly at these orders, this speech and commandment issued by the Pulgorburz Lord, himself, Grishnakh remains inconspicuous amongst the throng of Orcs who shout and cheer at the coming bath of blood. Raising high their daggers, fists, hands, and even the rotting detached appendages of the unfortunate, they protest not at these games but swear upon them as a great source of entertainment and curiosity. The fires in their soul, those wretched and unquenchable thirsts for the decimation of all life, are all the more kindled and feed as if thrown new fuel for their furnaces, while still their minds boil in anticipation and lust, a greed really, for more savagery. The features, however, of the Vorazg are cruel and calm, and though he stands amongst his lads, he jeers not with them or celebrates this event in holler. Instead, his eyes seem to burn with the repute of vengeance, of a merriment and great satisfaction, of an applaud for his luck as if some vile scheme of his had come to one final fruition -- some festering hatred about to be quenched. Yes, his furrowed brow and fell smirk suggest such, and though he takes no open delight in all this reveling, there is surely pleasure in it for his heart.
Nudrog raises his head slowly, the cheers of uruks coming to such a level. Grounds vibrating, the jeers sounding now like the beat of their war drums. A rythym flows into their mocks and insults, only spreading the excitement, wildfires of energy flowing through the room even with the Nazgul's presence, perhaps that even enlivening it. The grizzled uruk-hai merely, staring out amoung the crowds. Lips stretched into tight frown, crimson slits locked upon the Olog, unconciously hefted his own great battle axe into his left hand.
Mahlruk, who couldn't even bring himself out of his fear-induced stupor, stares hard at the weapon of the Nazgul. Drool slowly forms at the corner of his fanged mouth. His eyes are flung wide with desire, greed, and longing. He is so fully enthralled by the glamor of the evil weapon, and his desire to have one like it, for such are the dreams of slaves, that he never notices his fellow snaga being so casually destroyed by the giant troll.
Shek'Traak breathes deep as the icy grip releases him. He wipes the cold sweat off his brow, as he leaps on top of the olog yet again, pounding his futile fists at the massive creature. "Ya, you be warg-meat when da fight over, trolly!" The snaga snarls and sinks his teeth deep into the troll's flesh.
Shek'Traak attacks Puck with his Bare Hands and mildly wounds him!
Indur does not lift the curved scimitar that he carries. Only his head does he throw back, another hideous laugh echoing around the arena. The sound seems not to come from the Nazgul, exactly, but rather from the air about him, as if the evil in the room had voice.
Delighting in the cruelty being inflicted at his command, the Lord of Dol Guldur watches with apparent glee... Apparent if only from the aura which he commands being poured forth, driving his subjects to desperate cruelty and fanaticism. Indeed, his will becomes so great in this matter that he holds his scimitar tightly, watching to ensure that this Olog is wounded before the fight begins, and ready to carry out his wishes himself.
Seeing now that the number of orcs entering the caves has slown to a mere trickle, Matashkra moves forward through the horde of beasts toward the railing which overlooks the massive fight pit. Uruk and snaga alike fall back as she approaches, the space behind her filling as soon as she is no longer occupying it. Snarling as an Uruk refuses to move, she quickly wields her mace and prods the creature out of the way with one of the many four-inch spikes covering the mace's head, not intending to cause any harm, yet not regretting any that she may have inflicted. As the Nazgul emits a hideous laugh, the Uruk-Hai pauses and swallows before moving again. Finally reaching the rail, she places the mace back at her side, and clasps the metal bar with both hands, letting a loud cry of battle loose from her lips.
The Olog beast totally ignores the attacking Snaga, their hands, teeth, and whatever other bodilly weapons they have scraping off the troll's thick skin harmlessly. The glowing, violet eyes roam about the cavern once the speech of the Lieutenant of the Eye is done, enormous battle-axe still held firmly in both hands.
As the wraiths laughter only seems to further incite the frenzy of the booming room, Grishnakh does take to heart the slowness of the wounds being induced upon the troll, indeed he sneers at it in disgust and apathy. Thus, drawing his dagger from a place hidden well within his ichor-hued mail coat, he glares coldly at the small, jagged, blade; letting his pale eyes illuminate it faintly in their crimson glow. Raising it, however, finally in a careful aim for Puck he comes throw it as if one would throw a dart -- having aimed the pointed tip of his knife for the stone beast's great throat in hopes to further wound it. There is a concentration to his movements as his right foot takes a step back and his stooped back arcs for an instant to thrust forth the weapon, springing his figure into an odd combination of mobilities before returning it to its normal stance. Yet, once the dagger has been loosed, the Vorazg does little more except to watch it, surrounding in by the ebony crowds as if just another of their numbers, his keen sight tracing its whistle through the air and its final strike.
Grishnakh reaches behind him with his right hand only to draw a gleaming dagger with an obsidian tinge.
Grishnakh throws a dagger...
Grishnakh's dagger throw hits Shek'Traak, moderately wounding him!
The dagger lies now upon the ground now at his feet.
Shek'Traak screeches as the uruk-hai's dagger hits him square in the shoulder. "EAAACK!!! Why da master hit Shek?!?!" he screams out as he pulls the weapon out. He screeches again, wobbling aroudn frantically, eventually finding a spot back in the crowd to slump down and recuperate.
The Orcs around the pit who are not attacking the troll whoop and cheer as cut upon cut is made on the Troll, circling around him and confusing him with their numbers.. Other Orcs laugh and jeer as their captain, Grishnakh, burries his dagger in Shek'Traak's shoulder who was standing in the way of his throw against the troll.. Or perhaps it was some personal grudge, but in the confusion, it's impossible to say.
Puck, ignoring totally the snaga, Shek'Traak as well, even upon the poor creature's screech, allows his eyes to roam through the crowds. The beast is, quite obviously, becoming bored, the violet light coming from his eyes dulling gradually. In silence does his stand, still largely unmoving.
Growling, his dagger having steered from its course and missed the troll, smacking instead into the shoulder of the snaga Shek'Traak, Grishnakh's temper begins to be tested as he once more pushes his way through the crowds of jeering Orcs. Wielding his scimitar, the wicked blade being brought from its sheath with a violent metallic ring, he is soon offered without hesitation a clean path to the very rim of the fight pit which seems more like a waterfall -- the lives of Orcs pouring over it as they fall into the pit below in an effort to strike and hack at the massive troll all upon the wraiths' behest. Yet, so close is the Commander to his sought revenge, that he is soon to join them and climbing down one of the chains which hangs loosely off the walls of the great hole, he plops to the floor only to swing outward at the enormous stone beast -- attempting to use this moment of confusion, chaos, and multiple assaults in an effort to protect himself from rebuttal by the creature.
Grishnakh slides a gleaming, razor sharp, blade out from its sheath.
Grishnakh attacks Puck with his Scimitar and lightly wounds him!
The revere of the ape-like uruk-hai is interuptted. Grip released on one shoulder, prod a troll's mace upon his back. With a growl Nudrog moves strides foward. Jeers and mocks pass alongside him, but all seem to flee as the creature approaches with two great beasts escort. His own gaze affixed ahead, battle axe swinging slightly with the slow, procrastinating pace. With a grunt the creature is lifted, near the railing, tossed like a dagger by the massive creatures of darkness. A thump, landing, mail clinking, helmet rattling before his hand secures it. Battle axe falling only feet away, grabbed quickly as the orc regains balance. Persipiration forming upon his brow, dripping into the sand at his feet. Hair matted to great heaviness, steel armor and weapon standing out against the covering of this short beast. Still ignored by the snaga prancing about the troll.
Matashkra cools her lips with an almost pitch black tongue in what must be some sign of discomfort. All around her the throng of uruks and snaga pulse ever forward, attempting to reach the pit below. The only thing hindering their further movement is the metal rail behind which the Uruk-Hai stands. Snarling with contempt at the pressing horde, she jumps over the railing into the pit 10 feet below, snarling loudly. A flame seems to enter her eyes as she gazes upon the troll surrounded by various creatures, each beating and clawing and tearing at the beast. Wielding her mace in two hands, the creature hurtles forward, swinging the mace in a wide arc toward the ologs body even before he has been reached.
Matashkra pulls the restraining loop off the handle of the mace "Pounder" and brings it to the ready.
Matashkra attacks Puck with her Mace and mildly wounds him!
Cheers go up from the crowd as two attacks come crashing down upon the Troll! Cries of "Get 'em! Show him for what he and their kind have been showing us!" and "Them Morgul types finally get what's coming to them!" as well as several others going back and forth around the pit are heard while stamping of feet match their volume.
Slowly an idea begins, apparently, to form within the beast's head, as the eyes begin to glow brighter now. A slow, evil grin begins to spread over the stone troll's lips, as the Olog readies it's axe to fight. In a quick motion, the beast thrusts forward the butt of his axe's haft, cracking open the skull of one of the snaga who prance about him between hits, watching in satisfaction as the creature lets out a scream, before colapsing onto the sands. Then, however, the ones with weapons come, and only one is apparently noticed by the troll. Matashkra's mace comes at the beast, the troll raising it's own axe up to parry, yet the smaller creature is a bit too fast for the troll, and the blow lands upon Puck's left shoulder, hard, the sound of cracking bone going throughout the arena. As well, as the beast lets out a groan of pain, flexing it's left arm as if to check it's functionality, the Vorazg's blade slices through the air, striking the beast's collar-bone hard, and the beast falls onto it's back, blood flowing freely, the beast's thick skin obviously not quite so impenetrable in certain places. The Olog warrior holds quite still for some moments, dark blood coursing over it's chest and neck before pooling itself in the sands of the arena. After a moment, the Olog begins to stand, ignoring the hot blood coursing out of his body, taking it's axe firmly in one hand. Wavering slightly, the beast does make it to it's feet. The troll blinks it's large eyes, slowly, as it prepares once again to fight.
From the background, the two Nazgul remain motionless, though the scimitar is resting more lightly in the hand of Khamul, seeing that finally sufficient damage was done to the troll Puck to begin the combat in ernest.. He watches as the Uruk Nudrog squares off against his opponent.
Blood. Until is was shed, the nazgul Indur has stood impassively. But now it flows, gushing black. The Shadow of the South dips his hooded head, pleased.
Nudrog gazes foward. The masses of snagas slowly disappating, climbing over the walls of the arena. The pit littered with fallen bodies long deceased and those newly gone. Empty mugs and scraps of food, all fill the great sand floor. Over and amoung these obsticles steps the short uruk-hai, black boots crunching the soft bones beneath his feet. Jeers and shouts arise suddenly, the great troll falling to the ground, blood seeping through its impenetrable skin. A rush of adrenaline flows through the blood stream of the Sub-Lieutenant, grin flashing, eyes locked, flat ears cocked back. Lunging forward, the creature comes. Axe of battle streaming over one shoulder, cry of war utterd from his mouth. Down they come together, weapon and uruk, head of the axe slamming downward towards the creaturs already injured collarbone.
Nudrog attacks Puck with his Battle Axe and moderately wounds him!
The minute damage done to the troll barely satisfies the Vorazg as he performs the hack, his figure all the while trying to stay meshed with the milling numbers that are scattered and swarming at the base of the great troll's feet. Holding still firm his blade, its curved, black, shape glimmering faintly in the ghostly embers of torch light that fall from the ceiling -- being wafted over the pit where their faint glow is thrown downward in a spiral of translucent orange and red. He comes to relinquish any further assaults, seeing the grievous wounds done to Puck after his own by the Mace-wielder. Smiling, content apparently for the time-being at this injuries of the stone beast, he spins quickly upon his heels and slides into the shadows which occupy the many corners of the pit. Grasping then onto a chain which dangles downward, the Commander is quickly to lift himself out of the hole only to slide his scimitar back into its sheath while his stubby figure climbs out -- leaving him to rejoin the mass numbers at its top, once reached.
Shek'Traak scowls and screams, "Eaaarghhh!!! Dat olog make She kget hit by knife! Shek want uruk to bash him now! Les go, nudrog! Bash his insides inta pieces!"
As if hearing some order inside her head, or recognizing some gester of the Nazguls, Matashkra retreats slowly, stopping only when her back has hit the wall of the pit. The Uruk-Hai replaces the mace at her side, letting it hang loosely at one of her belt loops. Having done this she grabs a hanging chain and nimbly hauls herself upward, muscles bulging in her arms. As she reaches the level at which the many creatures view the fight below, she turns to gaze up the pit, arms crossing as she resumes that position which she had when guarding the stairs.
Puck, taking a step back, prevents the other's axe from hitting his weak point, only to take the slight shock of the weapon in the stomach. Nudrog's battle-axe burries itself into the troll's belly, before being drawn back out, cutting into the Olog's skin, yet failing to penetrate. The troll draws up it's left hand to the axe's shaft, before thrusting forward, striking out toward the Uruk-Hai with the long, sharp protrusion at the head of the beast's axe, aiming for the stomach. As it strikes, the troll draws forward it's right leg, crushing the chest-cavity of one of the fallen orcs he'd already killed. This goes ignored, the troll's eyes glowing brighter now, at the prospect of victory against a worthy enemy.
Puck attacks Nudrog with his Battle Axe and badly wounds him!
Satisfied that blood will be shed and the Eye's justice will be done, Indur turns and floats out, orcs scrambling to get out of his way as he passes, many wailing pitifully. The wraith's eyes of gold do not register it at all. And then he is gone, back into darkness and shadow.
Laughter and glee at the suffering of another rises in a sudden pitch as the impact of that weapon is clearly imagined in the minds of the onlookers. In support of the troll, several of the great trolls still guarding the entrance stamp their terrible feet upon the stone floor.
Indur disappears in a rough hen tunnel winding down into the mountain.
Indur has left.
The bloody wound in Shek'Traak's shoulder continues to bleed the horrible black color of the Mordain. He growls as he plays aroudn with the still-bloody dagger. He raises his head and shouts, "C'mon, Nud! Hit 'im harder! He's too slow! Hit 'im quick! C'mon!!!"
Nudrog lands upon his feet, glee in his eyes, delight upon his face. Another shout falls from his maw, screaming curses at the beast. Weapon coming around again for the troll. A thrust, upward for the creatures throat. But before the uruk-hai's weight shifts foward, the spike of the Olog's great weapon buries itself deep into the guts of the Rakarg. Black blood flowing forth the mail, forth the flesh, it flows to the ground, only strengthening the stain of blood upon the sand. Snarling, two hideous fangs reveeled. Backward he steps, dislodging the weapon, more blood rushing forth. Before the weapon can be replaced into his body, the uruk-hai stabs upward, still with some strength left in his adreniline pumped muscles.
Nudrog attacks Puck with his Battle Axe and mildly wounds him!
Shek'Traak grins, as he twirls the knife about his claws. He smirks wider as an idea slowly forms in his small mind. "Dis for makin' me get slashed, big troll!!!" he shouts as he launches the bloody dagger at the troll.
The Lord of Dol Guldur continues to watch, seeing that the fighting is going well enough he returns his weapon to it's sheath. He moves in a fluid motion, swiftly and with grace but with no other movement. His red eyes continuing to watch as the blows come one after another and the black blood flows..
Nudrog merely grunts, his ill strengthed attack falling massively short of any injury to the creature built like stone. But anger again infuriates him. Little strength flowing into one smooth attack, axe coming behind the uruk-hai before sliding foward, upward slightly, for the troll's tree trunk arm. As the quickness of the skilled warrior finds itself useful, the weapon of the olog still returns as the attack finds mark or no. Midsection again pouring forth black blood, chain mail digging, bending. Mixing into the blood seeping more heavily now into the ground.
Nudrog attacks Puck with his Battle Axe, but Puck parries the attack with his Battle Axe!
Orcs are jumping up and down, and some of them cursing violently.. Bets which have been exchanged one to another are beginning to be demanded, so sure are they that the troll will win. Arguments begin to break out in the stands and only the presence of the Nazgul and his command against killing keeps the flash of steel from being drawn against each other. But as the fight is not yet over, payment is again put off.
Greedily, Grishnakh gazes at the two opponents as they fight each other. The spray of blood, of gore, of inners and the blackened essence of both the troll's and Orc's life cast upon the rough walls of the deep, smooth, pit. Slowly, unclasping the arms he has for some time now kept behind him, held upon his warped and protruding tailbone, the Vorazg releases this posture only to come to fold them against his chest in an impatient embrace. The glittering merriment of his eyes, their pale and crimson depths fueled by flames far darker than the inky blackness which surrounds the dome of the vast chamber, he watches the battle of these two foes with a detached interest and a sadistic form of pleasure. His lips, curved into a cruel, unforgiving grin, seem to gain more shape and roundness with every cunning stroke by Nudrog as he cuts into the stone flesh of Puck. Yet, as the troll, itself, wields damage against his fighting goblin -- his expressions seem to move in the opposite direction, growing all the more firm and rigged in their frown.
Shek'Traak picks up a Dagger.
Shek'Traak growls and smirks. "Dis is for makin' me get slashed! You gonna bleed bad, troll!" He takes the bloody dagger and throws it, nearly blindly, as he is wounded and is untrained in the dagger,
Shek'Traak attacks Puck with his Dagger and mildly wounds him!
The Olog manages to draw up it's enormous axe to block the other, his own heavier weapon stopping the smaller. The Olog snorts, softly, puff of hot, stinking breath directed toward his opponent, eyes showing brightly in the ill-lit cavern now. The troll shows the dexterity it truly has with a very quick movement, at least for a troll, pushing his axe forward quickly, bloody spiked tip once again being thrust toward Nudrog, this time aimed for the chest. the Vorazg's dagger bounces harmlessly off of the beast's side, ignored, yet now the beast's breathing is coming much harder. The loss of blood has slowed somewhat, yet it is still obviously taking it's toll on the stone-like beast.
Puck attacks Nudrog with his Battle Axe and badly wounds him!
Goblins all around are stamping wildly, beating their weapons against the rails as they taste coming death in the air. Several Orcs in one section take to bashing their shields against each other's shields in a cocophany of sound as the screaming and excitement builds... Soon, very very soon they know that the orc or troll will die!
The snaga around the wounded Shek'Traak all stand, cheering louder than ever, pounding their feet and waving their fists. They scream their cries of bloodshed and battle, hoping the blood of one shall spill very soon.
Khamul, the Lord of Dol Guldur, now satisfied that his commands will be followed without question, turns and makes his way from the battle pit. He is unconcerned now as to which will die, indeed it is a triffling to him so long as order and discipline within the ranks is maintained. Goblins and trolls move swiftly from his path, for fear of the suffering which they may suffer at his hand.
Khamul walks up the stairway, heading towards the Morlat.
Khamul has left.
Nudrog takes a slow step back. Battle axe failing to find its mark now pulled near his chest. The uruk-hai's blood flows along his body, legs and arms mess of blood, hair, sweat, matted and knotted. Crimson eyes flickering about now, taking in its surroundings. Ears release from their cocked position, no longer observing the troll before him. Sudden scent of troll breath reviving him, to late still. Battle axe knocking the troll's away before spiked in the chest. Rather the heavy weapon digs through the orcs shoulder, bone crunching as it pokes through the other side. His own assult back, meek in comparison, a final swing before death seemingly certain. Shifting the weapons grip to a higher position in his one good arm, the creature steps foward and down, swinging for the legs of the beast. Apprehensive is still the attack, for through the swing it falls back.
Nudrog attacks Puck with his Battle Axe and badly wounds him!
Shek'Traak manages to pull himself to his feet, to cheer Nudrog on. "There ya go! Knock the nasty thing's head off! Crush 'is bones and drain 'is blood! Yaaaaa!!!!" The snaga surrounding him follow his cheer, screaming for the orc.
The focus of the Vorazg is bent upon this near climax of the fight, the goblin in the pit -- that mouse set against the Lion -- nearly falling. Snickering, doubtfully caring little about the life of the Orc but more of his wish to see the troll murdered, he raises up his own fist, hollering out the words, "Skin that troll, maggot!" at the top of his lungs: the din of the sound that reverberates about the great fighting hall causing it to merge, however, and soon forcing it become completely lost in the clamor of other's noises. Trudging forward then, the Commander taking note of the wraith's departure, he assumes a place very near to the rim of the great pit -- shoving aside those whom get his way, and keeping firm his place by stomping down his iron-toed boots, he remains silent and still as if stone. Long, ape-like arms, still set in an embrace about his chest, this Uruk knows that the time is coming when soon a victor must be declared, and in all urgency he realizes this victory will not be the one he desired to see.
A solid hit manages to find it's mark upon the Olog warrior's left knee, which causes the troll to waver momentarilly, before regaining its balance, avoiding a fall. Still, the Uruk-Hai's blade may be seen to come away with a bit of blood. This is largely ignored, however, as the troll swings it's enormous axe behind, up, and then down toward his enemy, apparently trying to finish this quickly, even if it is at the cost of a few more wounds by being left open.
Puck attacks Nudrog with his Battle Axe, but he misses by a mile.
A stray snaga, serving ale for the event, hustles down the rows. However, a sly warrior sticks out his foot, knocking the snaga down into the pit. The worried uruk scurries about, screeching for help, trying to escape the fighting pit. The snaga gets dangerously close to the two fighters, still screaming for help.
A large crowd of Dogs laugh hysterically at the lone snaga, stomping their feet and slurping their ale. "C'mon, ya worm! See if ya can't beat 'em both!" one of them cries out, laughing harder than all the others.
Revitalized, cheers arise. The uruk-hai finds new strength. Black blood pours from his flesh, through his armor, from his bone. His own blade finding the olog's blood, grin flashing, a scream of war passing his cracked lips. His eyes alit with grim determination, with full hearted joy, and with lust of blood unknown to many. Crooked legs supporting it, axe flashing behind his head, stepping foward, coming down, for the Olog's own head.
Nudrog attacks Puck with his Battle Axe and badly wounds him!
All the snaga stand up, screaming their joy of the next great hit against the giant. Even the wounded Shek'Traak finds the energy to once again shout for the uruk-hai. However, they pay close attention to the lone snaga, who is still a bit too close to the fight.
Puck, remaining relatively silent, saving his breath, which comes still harder, gives another snort as the battle-axe of his opponent hits him squarely in the head, bouncing off of the metal helmet, yet apparently jarring the beast, as it wavers just a moment, before drawing his left leg forward, making a long, wide sweep with his axe, cutting cleanly through the snaga, though the main focus of the blow is for Nudrog.
Puck attacks you with his Battle Axe!...
...and he hits! Ouch!
ARB: You've been injured for 20 hp's by Puck's attack...
...you have 31 left. Please RP this injury accordingly.
<OOC> Puck says, "Eep!"
<OOC> You say, "um.... ok.... what the hell was that?"
<Mordor> Khamul laughs, "Why did you hit Grul, Puck?"
<OOC> Puck sorries... was looking at Grul's name, and accidently typed it.
You forego your chance to attack.
Announcement: Bofa has changed the poll to: Get a new typist Puck!
Nudrog collapses to the ground, defeated by Puck!
Nudrog's weapon "Midnight War Axe" falls to the ground...
Another solid shot upon the Olog brings again exhileration to Nudrog. Alive nearly only by his adrenaline, the shot draws cheers from the crowds. His own enthusiam visible, stepping away from the troll, guard relaxed, sounds of the uruks enlighting him. Tis pity for the uruk-hai. The wide swipe of the olog bearing through the already far injured midsection of the orc. Cleanly this time, black blood forming a thick veneer over the metal head of the weapon. Top half of the body falling upon its back, legs going limp to the ground. In a puddle of its own blood, or perhaps that of others, the head of the once Rakarg sits. Eyes looking upon each uruk cheering, jeering, observing for the moment its actions... slowly letting the blackness creep... over into his mind.
And thus the mighty falls: the David who would fight Goliath, the ant against the human foot, Nudrog felled by Puck's massive battle axe, the death and match is complete! Standing like a vulture, a great scavenger, upon the precipice of the deep pit, Grishnakh's right hand having left its embrace against his breast only to be raised as if a visor across the brow of his forehead, he stares coldly down into the hole below, watching the black pool of blood ooze from his fallen warrior's frame and snickering harshly in reply to his morbid termination. Growling, a mumble escaping his lips, nay more like a curse, he comes to train the pale glow of his crimson slivers on the masses of Orcs who cheer and holler in joy at the killing -- caring little who was the actual victor. Those who had, however, taunted and scathed the troll are likely the most worried. The snagas that number high in their group falling back into the shadows only to cower their in absolute fear and terror. Clearing his throat then, the phlegm tossed from the bowels of his esophagus, the Commander comes to speak, his voice weak at fist and yet growing in a powerful momentum that comes in a deafening roar. "Hear me yah worthless maggots!!" he bellows, the wind passing from his maw "The winner is this troll Pulgorburzob. And as per the orders of the....of the Nine....it's free to live."
Blinking his large, glowing eyes slowly, the Olog takes his axe in both hands, still firmly, gazing down upon each half of the body of his opponent. In silence does he stand there, a moment, before giving a soft snort, and turning. The blood-rage beginning to fade, now, the troll takes two steps toward the dark stairs that lead out of the fighting pit, yet something seems to catch his eye. Leaning over, the beast grasps something in it's enormous hand, quickly hidden, before it continues out of the pit. Slow, long strides does the beast take, fighting off the weariness quite well.
Eyeing the troll cautiously as the great beast climbs up out of the pit, he is caught in a moment of curiosity as the stone creature stoops down to pick up something that has captured its attention. Noticing it to be the very dagger he had thrown at the troll, which in turn had been thrown by one of the many snaga within the cavern, only to finally be left upon the ground, he snickers once more -- feeling the rage of his soul further kindled and left to burn in malignancy. Biding his time, however, the knowledge that he's lost this round...this chance...the Vorazg steps into the shadows, and with a voice that rings over the din of echoes and the still drunken clamoring of other's voices, he shouts in a manner that resounds off of the obsidian sloping walls, "You are dismissed, rabble. Return to your grog pits, dice pools, and whatever else you want to spend this sparse moment of free time with. I don't want to hear about any scuffles, though, the Nine have made themselves clear and if I see or find out about any I'll be adding your hide to that fallen worm's in the pit's there."