================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Dusk < About 7:44 PM >
IC day is: Orgilion <Stars-day>
IC date is: 30 Rhiw <Winter>
Moon phase: Waning Crescent <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 17 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3041>
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RL time: Wed Sep 12 10:54:54 2007
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Foothills of the Misties - Near Caradhras
The landscape about you resolves into only shades of grey and black, as the night envelops the area in it's black claws. The
path runs north/south as far as you can make out. Pitch black outlines of mountains to your west indicate the presence of
the Misty Mountains, though they are almost indiscernable from this distance. The ground is barren and treacherous in the
biting wind around you, and the air feels stinging and freezing. There chill is almost unbearable, the ice gently crunching
under your feet.

The strong wind is howling and whining and the night sky, is darkened by the stormy clouds. The twilight winter air is
biting and frosty. The moon is above the horizon and in its last quarter phase.

Contents:
Galharth
Shakolbag
Mornakh
Maalduf
Grong
=====================================================================

Night settles in on the sloping lands north of the Lorien Wood. To the south, two camps of orcs are set, both within sight
of the limber trunks and yellow leaves of the Mallorn. Here in the north, a few tracks run hither and yon through the
rolling grasses, through the isolated copses of trees and low-stands of underbrush clogging the low creases between the
hills.

At one such thicket, a tiny stream has collected itself into a pool. In this pool, a great grey beast stands on four legs,
long tongue lapping lazily at the brisk water flowing slowly between it's feet. Maalduf, servant-warg to the Morian orcs,
takes a rest and takes in water.

Some dozen yards away, an orc is huddled beneath the canopy of a willow, and slowly is coming about to greet the falling of
night. Day has been a time of sleep, and recovery.

With the last glimmer of daylight, the shadows grow deeper at the base of the mountains. Movement is revealed in the
changing hues of grey's and black against the star lit landscape. It is in these changing shadows that a grey cloaked figure
moves. With his hood drawn down over his brow, the Tailor Galharth moves from tree to bush as he silently observes the
beasts that now move near the water.

"Maalduf?", the voice of Shakolbag croaks from under the willow. "You better be close-by, eh?" The orc's nose sniffs about,
and he stops rubbing his eyes ling enough to blink, blink, blink...and catch sight of the huge wolf, not far off but nearly
hidden by the density of willow branches.

The leaves are almost all off the underbrush in preparation for winter. Likewise, the nearby copses of trees are mostly
barren. Where things grow beyond the enchantment of the white witch, the eternally-mild conditions of Lorien are not
enjoyed.

"Dey's..... be a much....... way.....Durn trees..." comes the broken conversation as three Uruk approach from the south, a
large one, almost Uruk-hai from a distance, his arm decorated with rank, and two smaller uruk behind him, their rank, or
even gender unscene in the night.

Once we's find a ways in, we's taken dis here grog.. Not good stuff again, this warg urine... and we's soakin da trees...
den we's light em from da camp again." Yes, apparently Grong is still on his 'lets burn it' kick.

Mornakh follows along behind Grong using her battle axe as a walking stick for some odd reason. A large pouch is at her
waist filled with bandages and such for healing. She keeps a watchful eye out for anything worth value. "You no burn," she
grunts at Grong, coming up beside him. "Only have little grog left. Snork get mads at us."

The morian orc heaves a yawn and experiences an involuntary trembling though his shoulders and neck. It has been a warm day
for the time of year...but lest he begin to move, and soon...this night will not be good to spend beyond the comforts of a
fire. He gathers first the pile of leaves which served as his bed about him, and secondly his thick cloak closer to him.
Then, voices. Maalduf is the first to hear. The warg growls, softly. Then Shakolbag hears the same. Orc-voices. The Jailor
perks his ears, wraps his arms about his knees, and keeps to his place hidden under the brush.

The sound of voice, give Galharth pause, and he shrinks back into the brush. The sound, much like the scrapings of a
grinding tool against stone, causes the ellon to wince slightly. Reaching up to touch the raw wound at his cheek, the Tailor
frowns. Clearly, this path does not lead home, at least not while these creatures roam the land. Placing one foot before the
other, the crafter begins to move eastwards.

Maalduf's hackles rise. He has his nose pointed toward the approaching orcs...but his ears cocked towards another place, a
position somewhere across the hollow and to the north. The animal is tensed, ready.

Shakolbag can see that the warg senses something beyond the approach of the voices. His face shows signs of consternation as
he seems to struggle to remember something. Finally, he whispers once, sharply, "Ukh-roth!"

The warg hears this, and immediately responds. It takes off towards whatever it senses, moving out in an arc with the
possible intent of circling 'round behind whatever rouses its suspicion.

"I Rakarg. You do's as I say. Like in tent." Grong snaps as he keeps walking. "shhh. Grong hear something." Grong... a name
that is whispered through the sentinels of Lorien, after his altercation with Maglind which left the elf near death.

Beady eyes scan the darkness as if it was light, spotting two different sets of movement. "We goes and sees what dat it
first. it bigger." Grong says as he sets off towards Shakolbag and his warg.

Mornakh nods and follows, frowning at Grong. "I's do as Grong says in tent, but nots out heres," she hisses. "Snorks wants
grog left lone." She grunts and moves steadily beside him.

Grong says, "Dis my Grog...I left Bossun's alone dis time."

Grong says, "You's still dog... I's in charge"

Mornakh nods and grunts. "As long as nots Snork's," she says. "I's not wants clean up thats mess." She frowns at him. "I
mays be Dog, but if yous wants me in tent..." She leaves the rest unsaid, moving a few paces to the side of him.

Shakolbag has silently drawn his blade, and now crouches in a ready position, balancing on the balls of his feet. He too now
looks to the north, but his ears are trained backwards, arching upwards as they do through and above a pair of voids in his
helmet crafted for this very purpose. Bat-like in appearance, the veiny organs twitch at the sound of the she orcs protest.
He grimaces, and creeps out from under his hiding spot. Assuming a three-limbed, primate-style walk, he pads quietly towards
the curious Mordain.

Maalduf, meanwhile, slinks slowly, belly low to the ground, head out and neck extended. He seems to have a bead on
something.

"Psssst..." Toward the pair of orcs the hissing comes.

Movements to the south, seem to cause a hurried motion in the grey cloaked figure. From the brush, he creeps low, moving in
the open lands towards another group of shadows. Upon reaching the shadows, he pauses to look back towards the strange toned
voices that seem almost in arguement. A breath is drawn as he catches sight of a Warge, and he turns and hurries into the
shadows, seeking a place to hide.

The Rakarag Grong's Axe is out in a moment, as he crouches low, gripping the weapon, as he calls out, in Mordain, and
common, each in turn. "who's dere?"

Grong draws a Battle Axe from its belt-loop.

Axe already in hand, Mornakh crouches beside her mate, at the ready for whatever may come.

Tucking back against the rocks, the Tailor draws his longsword which points outwards towards the south. His breath grows
heavy in fear, and yet he manages to tuck himself into the haven of the rocks. Brush blocks his view, but he holds at ready.

Maalduf keeps to the higher ground, gradually working his way so that he can block off the possible escape route of his
quarry. Between the warg and the orcs, this is where he has been trained to keep the prey.

Shakolbag appears suddenly before the pair of orcs, as though materializing from the air. How could he move so quietly? How
could his approach (probably) not have been noticed?

"Fools!", he whispers, "Silence! Something is _there_, above! Do you wish to find an arrow in your neck? Silence...just
listen to me..."

The Morian is trying to assume command of the situation. It's clear in his voice...not so clear in the position of his
weapon. The scimitar is held almost casually at his side, not by appearance ready to defend himself if necessary.

Mornakh hisses out in a raspy whisper, "If elfses, yous wants a capture, right?" She looks to Grong for but a moment before
turning to the movement. She nods to Shakolbag.

Grong Straightens. " I no take orders from you! I in charge of dis group.. " He snarls, gesturing with his own axe, for
accent. "And I knows der summon der.. An elf.. fought with one of us... He injured.. and I's want him to flush tree rat's
out."

"Oh, you _will_ take orders from me," Shakolbag huffs, eyeing Grong, Mornakh, and their meager retinue. "You walk on lands
that are claimed by your betters, and any spoils are _ours_ to claim. So listen well, or run back to your camp and don't
ruin this."

The sounds echo around him, as if the stone listens and repeats. The cloak shivers slightly. Is the Tailor cold? Or has fear
begin to take hold? Pressing deeply against the rocks, the ellon does not move, save for the silent movements of his lips,
well hidden beneath the hood of his cloak.

Now getting close to having a position exactly above and behind Galharth, Maalduf's wretched, massive muzzle breaks into
what can only be described as a smile. The warg sits down, his attention riveted on the situation below.

Maalduf thinks it's peachy.

Mornakh growls lightly at Shakolbag then turns to Grong. "He's knows this place betters," she says to her mate then turns to
Shakolbag. "But we's needs that elf for ours betters." She turns to Grong and looks for approval.

Shakolbag's scimitar goes swish-swish, its tip describing neat little ellipses above the ground. The jailor's body is quiet.
Still. Unsprung. A half-second can be stretched to encompass whole thoughts.

Grong watches Shakolbag with rolling contempt. "If dis yer land fine. I's only wantin dat elf." He says, his fists whitening
slightly as they tighten on the haft of his axe, the Morian's Scimitar never forgotten, and it's lazy movements cause for
concern.

Mornakh shakes her head and moves away from the two posturing males, keeping her eye on the elf in the shadows. She licks
her blade and goes into a position, ready to strike if need be.

"Sorry," Shakolbag snips, "I can't allow that. Elves of the wood are our treat. If we decide to share one with you, fine.
But Gothshaka, or Rawk...they get first picking. You dogs...you'll have to wait your turn." Swish-swish. Even Shakolbag's
lips seem reticent to move while he speaks. Stillness. Potential.

Stationary breathing, close, and foul, seems to surround the Tailor's hiding place. Two quick breaths are taken, and slowly
Galharth looks upwards. The sight that greets him causes a soft gasp. Within an instant, the crafter is up and away, running
without hesitation as if he were a rabbit racing for his life. With his sword still in hand, he sprints southwestwards,
aiming for a tight group of trees.

His axe starts to move, even as his lips do, but Grong stops himself after a moment, pointing over Shakolbag's shoulder. "De
elf! he's runnin away!" He hollars

"He's getting away," Mornakh grunts and takes off after him, moving as silently as possible through the brush to get to him.

All to ready for the chase to begin, Maalduf bounds after the elf. Is that a growl, of a laugh of joy? The warg's natural
power is evident, is terrifying. He goes from sitting to sprinting like an arrow leaving a bow.

"He's not getting _anywhere_.", Shakolbag refutes. "Maalduf is well-trained, and a fast bastard if there ever was one. That
elf will be treed, I'll warrant, in a few seconds. Now. As to you folk, and my folk...that is, me. You got numbers, but I'll
bet you I have your number. You follow, oaf? You just turn around, listen to your bitch, there, and beat it back to your
camp. Go play with fire. Otherwise...well...you got problems."

"Den we's got problems. yous no call me oaf, or her bitch..." Grong says, as with a quick snap and two hand motion, the only
true tell is within the bunching of his shoulders as Grong's axe tries to work itself across Shakolbag's midsection, as
Grong retreats a half step for better position.

Grong attacks Shakolbag with his Battle Axe, but Shakolbag parries the attack with his Scimitar!

Shakolbag deftly moves aside so that the battle-axe just misses his body, and he does not have to try to absorb the blow
with his smaller weapon. The scimitar clangs against the axe-blade before dancing upwards, trying to slip beneath the drape
of Grong's armor and tickle his guts.

Shakolbag attacks Grong with his Scimitar, but he misses by a handspan.

"Problems, problems.", chides Shakolbag. "Why can't you just listen, and obey?"

Grong also twists to the side, showing that while not overly intelligent, he is skilled. Crossing his feet in a sidestep as
he dodges Shakolbag's Scimitar, Grong releases one hand off of his Battle axe, letting the weight, and his movement swing
the weapon, trying to bring it to bare against the Morian's sword arm. "I don't listen to Nobody by Snork!" Grong growls

Grong attacks Shakolbag with his Battle Axe, but he misses by a handspan.

A scream vibrates through the air! Indeed, this is a Tailor, not a Guard that is now being chased! Shifting to the right to
avoid encountering more, he ducks around one bush, and jumps upwards to catch a low branch of a tree. As he pulls himself
up, he turns back a moment, only to pause. "They're fighting eachother?" he mutters in disbelief. Shaking his head, and
carefully balancing on the lowest branch, he looks upwards, reaching up for the next branch.

A full-spin revolves Shakolbag's body about, for the quick orc has anticipated the arc of the slower weapon and now wends
his way inside the protection it affords Grong. His sword arm, his right arm, it flicks the blade at the Mordain's neck or
shoulder. Just as quickly as he strikes, he already moves to take his next defensive stance.

Shakolbag attacks Grong with his Scimitar and mildly wounds him!
|pMornakh chases up to the tree, nodding to the warg out of respect and hoping he won't attack her, but keep his eye on the
prize. She looks up into the tree. "You's come down here," she growls up at him, raising her axe and striking upward, in
hopes to nick the elf before he can get higher.

Mornakh attacks you with her Battle Axe!...
...and she misses!

On the elf's heels, Maalduf arrives at the base of the tree, just a split second after Mornakh. The Warg seems to share it's
master's view of the Mordain orcs, and it tries to position itself between the tree and the orc, growling fiercely and
baring its fangs.

Stooping on the branch, preparing to leap upwards towards the next highest branch, Galharth catches sight of an Uruk's axe
only moments before it strikes. Following through with his leap, it is more a leap along the lower branch.

"Go play with your friends!" the Tailor shouts as he bats at the beast below with the tip of his long sword.

Mornakh growls at Maalduf. "I gets stupid elf," she tells it. "Takes it to /your/ master." She steps back and waits to see
if the warg understood. She eyes the elf momentarily as he scurries further into the tree. She grunts and eyes the Warg.

You attack Mornakh with your Longsword...
Your attack against Mornakh badly wounds her!

Grong is stalled at the blade scraps up his shoulder, catching a loose ring, and leaving a small scratch. Grong looks at it,
his eyes hardening. Circling around his opponent, he says "Yous good." an acknowlegment of Shakolbag's skill, which seems to
mean something to the proud Uruk, before he steps in again, Performing a masterfull feint, before doublehanding the
Battleaxe again, and Pivoting half way on his heel, trying to sweep in from the Morian's sword side, perhaps take the arm,
if not cleave him in two.

Grong attacks Shakolbag with his Battle Axe, but he misses by an arm's length.

Mornakh gets sliced across her scalp and growls up at the tree, turning to see if the Warg has taken heed of her words, yet.

Shakolbag again proves a hair too quick to be caught by the skillful attempt by the Mordain. Clearly, though, the game is on
in full. A battle axe cannot be toyed with - for long - , and the Morian orc slashes his curved blade at Grong's midsection
more forcefully. His teeth are bared, his expression, most dire.

Shakolbag attacks Grong with his Scimitar and moderately wounds him!

"I give you the same," Shakolbag quips breathlessly, "Now...concede to me that the elf is mine, and let's go get him!"

Grong grunts as he feel the impact against his stomach, and his axe swings wide. "Elf yers. I dun need im anyway." Grong
says with a nod, now that his she-orc is not around to impress. Growling, he nods to the Morian, and runs towards the fray,
spotting the Treed Elf quickly. " you's come down, or we's come up." Grong hollars at Galharth.

Shakolbag seems satisfied for the moment that things are at last going his way. What has happened to the other mordain orc,
anyway? It looks as though the cowardly bugger has slunk off...probably at first sight of the warg! He is on Grong's heels,
and the two of them sprint madly toward the tree.

"Maalduf, away!", Shakolbag shouts, calling the warg off before it might attack or be attacked by Mornakh.

Maalduf stands aside.

Mornakh nods and climbs onto a low branch. She strikes out at the elf, trying to merely knock him from the tree. She grunts
with the effort as she aims for the branch at his feet.

Mornakh attacks you with her Battle Axe!...
...and she hits! Ouch!

Shakolbag taunts the elf, waving his scimitar at the treed first-born.

"Hah! Look at him! Wears a sword, swings it like a fishing pole! Even your bitch 'as got the better of 'im!" A loud guffaw
bursts out from his gross maw, and he slaps his thigh.

Maalduf is less amused, but sits by patiently, surely confident that his master will share with him a portion of the spoils.
He's been good. Very good.

"You's stop callin her bitch. Least I not a warg charmer!" Grong says menecingly, but not without some modicum of humor as
he watches the elf in the tree.

"She's a bitch, you're a dog. Or so I hear you talk, dog, dog, dog. In the mines, being a productive bitch brings honor on a
she orc, and pride to the Demon!" Shakolbag waves his scimitar around some more.

"For being a bitch, I'll tell you, she's smart, and able! Better than most orcs can claim."

Surprise at hitting his mark, and the sudden withdrawal of the Warg, distracts the Tailor so that he misses the swing of
Mornakh's axe until it's too late. A cry of surprise rings out as the branch is cleaved clean through. Impotent, and
falling, Galharth leaps from the branch as it crashes to the ground.

Landing several feet away, he strikes a rock underfoot. Something snaps, and the ellon stumbles but remains standing. From
the pinched expression, he clearly is in pain. "Foul beast, foul creatures." he curses under his breath, turning with a
limp. Hopping forward towards the Uruk with an unmistakable limp, he stabs at Mornakh's form. The strike is sloppy and his
balance is clearly wavering.

You attack Mornakh with your Longsword...
Your attack against Mornakh severely wounds her!

"Gah!", shouts Shakolbag, "He GAFFED her! Skai, and ... let's get 'IM!" The morian forgets whatever else holds him back, and
leaps for the lowest and nearest branch, trying to one-hand scramble up the thing while still grasping his blade.

Mornakh backs off, bleeding badly from her arm. "You's gets him now," she says to the two male orcs. "He bes hurt...and so
bes I." She hrrumphs as she hops off the branch and moves away, sitting unceremoniously on her rump and holding her arm.

Maalduf moves over towards the she-orc now, looking at her wound somewhat eagerly. The beast's eyes seem to glow in the
gloaming of the eve; if ever there were beacons which shone pure evil, these are they.

The warg's tongue escapes its mouth, licking it's snout once. It whimpers.

Grong Shakes his head, and runs towards Galharth! " you goes sleep now!" Grong says, as he weilds his axe over head head,
trying to bring it down on the elf.

Grong attacks you with his Battle Axe!...
...and you parry his attack with your Longsword!

Mornakh eyes the Warg warily. She stands and sneers at it, turning toward Shakolbag and calling, "Call off your friend!" She
never once takes her eyes completely off the warg.

"Maalduf!", shouts Shakolbag, but he is cut short in saying more, as he struggles to gain good footing on the tree, and
decide which will be his next move among the sparse but stout branches.

"Maalduf!", shouts Shakolbag, but he is cut short in saying more, as he drop from the tree, and charges at the
master-tailor. He sweeps his scimitar blade low, in an ankle-endangering fashion. Hopefully the elf has darned himself socks
of mithril.

Shakolbag attacks you with his Scimitar!...
...and you parry his attack with your Longsword!

Stumbling in pain, the Tailor raises his blade to cut down the she-Uruk. "Vile beast, pay now the price for not letting me
run."

Just as his sword begins its decent, a movement to his side draws Galharth's attention. The downward sweep of his blade is
set towars the axe, and as metal meeting metal rings out, the crafter is pushed back. With little time to recover, the ellon
sweeps his blade downwards to meet a low sweeping strike. Again metal clangs against metal. Stepping to the side, a gasp of
pain escapes his lips as the firstborns injured leg briefly supoprts his weight.

"Enough, go back," he cries out. Fear taints his words, and the pained expression upon his face hints of frustration.
Hopping forward, he strikes out at Grong, hoping to clear a path between the beasts that now threaten to trap him.

You attack Grong with your Longsword...
Your attack against Grong lightly wounds him!

Grong twists a shoulder, to soften the blow from the elf. Grong does not even block, the Longsword bouncing feebly against
the Ringmail the Uruk wears. " you weak! you not hurt Grong." The uruk says in the common tongue as he hefts his axe again,
to bring it to bare on Galharth, "SLEEP!" he growls

Grong attacks you with his Battle Axe!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Mornakh frowns as she sees Grong take a hit out of the corner of her eye. She shakes her head. "Do nots make mys job harder
as healer," she grumbles at him, knowing he probably does not hear. She looks at the warg, watchful.

Shakolbag skirts the edge of the battle between elf and Grong, positioning himself to attempt to block any further attempt
by the ellon to run. A snap of his fingers, another command issued to Maalduf, and the warg leaves the she-orc alone and
stalks Galharth, ember-eyes still burning brightly.

"He's dodgy!" quips Shakolbag, weighting and unweighting his feet in succession. He lets the other orc do the dirty work,
for now.

"Take him down!" the Jailor adds, garish cheerleader from the sidelines of a sporting match.

"Uppercut! Body-blow! Lay it on, southron!"

"You stop moving... or you's die." Grong mutters to the elf, as he yells to Mornakh. "Bring's rope!.."

Shakolbag certainly has no rope. He looks back to Grong.

"Pah. He doesn't need feet! Cut one off!"

Mornakh nods and runs toward another orc. She grabs rope from him and takes it back swiftly to Shakolbag. "Here," she says,
readying it to tie up the elf if she is needed to do the deed.

Slow moving, and clearly in pain, the tailor can take no satisfaction in having managed to strike the Uruk Grong. A sudden
strike to his head brings Galharth down. Striking the ground with a thud, he lays unmoving for several moments.

Just as the crafter begins to move, clearly confusion and pain take hold. Crying out in both frustration and fear, he kicks
and scratches out frantically. Upon hearing the suggestion to cut off a leg, he falls still, letting them have the moment.

Maalduf skillfully keeps Galharth between Shakkolbag and himself. The warg is twitching with anticipation now. At some
point, even the rigors of training and the perils of torture succumb to pure animal nature. The beast want a piece, NOW.

Shakolbag grabs the rope offered to him by Mornakh, and tosses it towards Grong's feet. Hopefully it won't trip him up.

Grong Grunts as he laughs, taking the rope once it settles at his feet. "I will's cut off a foot ifn he moves again." He
says as he sheaths Cruncher, and looks to Mornakh. " I knows you hurt, but I's tie him, you keep him still." Grong says to
her as he works to bind Galharth's hands and feet.

"Maalduf!" shouts Shakolbag once again, by now a familiar refrain. He has sensed the warg is near snapping...and training
fails it! The great grey brute launches itself at the fallen elf, taking on Grong in the process.

Mornakh growls at the stupid mutt. "Get off my orc!" She attempts to pull Grong from the fray.

"Skai! Worthless beast!" The Jailor rushes in with his blade, trying to snip at the wolf's ears with it to get it's
attention.

Grong grunts and throws himself out of the way of the charging warg, rolling, his axe back into his hand, and the rope
forgotten as he watches the Warg warily.

Maalduf is in a zone. He squares off against Grong now, glaring remorsefully at Shakolbag once, fleetingly. The Jailor
reaches under his belt and procures a simple pair of shackles - tools of his trade, after all - and begins trying to slap
them shut around Galharth's ankles.

The warg and the Mordain now, for the second...who will strike first?

Shakolbag attacks you with his Bare Hands!...
...and he misses!

Mornakh :lightly cackles as she sheaths her battle axe.

"Call off yer warg!" Grong hollers, as he keeps himself defensive, having seen these beasts fight in the past, and not
thinking himself prepared for teeth and claws perhaps.

"He don' wanna listen!" Shakolbag shouts, still struggling to control at least part of the situation.

Dropping her axe, she goes to the aid of Shakolbag. "Yous want me to holds him down whiles you ties him up?" she asks,
moving to do so, even before he gives the word.

Clamping his jaw tightly to keep from crying out as he's tied, Galharth struggles to remain still. Still and limp, for
certainly a nonresistant cative is one that requires great effort to move. The Tailor does however squeek in fear as the
Wolf pounces near enough that the firstborn cathes the scent of poorly kept fur.

Alas, the jailor's harsh slap of metal against his ankles is more than he can bear, and the edhel cries out in pain, though
falling quickly silent in all but heavy breathing.

Mornakh attacks you with her Bare Hands!...
...and she hits! Ouch!

Galharth hisses through his teeth as the uruk female holds him down. Glaring at her, his crystal blue eyes hint of a hatred
that spans the ages.

Mornakh spits in Galharth's face, tying him up. "Yous lucky hes wants you alive," she says with a growl. "For now," she adds
with a grin as evil as her heart.

Maalduf lunges at Grong, snapping his jaws, but not coming close enough to take a bit out of him yet. Shakolbag, meanwhile,
tries again to shackle the elf.

"Wiggly-worm, be still!"

Snap! Snap! The shackles bit into the ellon's flesh. They are fabricated for smaller limbs...so this surely hurts.

"Heh. Took it like a little girl-child in the end! Figures. MAALDUF! Git 'way from that orc, now, you smirking pile of
bargronk! I'll slice your balls off if you DON'T LISTEN NOW!"

Begrudgingly, slowly, Maalduf obeys. The warg glances at Grong once - was that a knowing look? - and clears a path to
Shakolbag, who is engrossed with Galharth, and is not paying attention to the actions of his rival.

Mornakh nods and looks to Shakolbag. "Dos you wants me to treat the wounds on this one?" she asks of the elf. "Keeps him
alive for yours leaders?" She looks to Shakolbag then Grong. "And treats yous two for wounds afore I tends my own wounds."
She looks back to Shakolbag.

Turning to wipe the spit from his face, Galharth draws deadly still as the Warg-rider calls out his threat. To whom? Does it
matter? The Tailor closes his eyes, and gulps as he focuses upon stillness. Dirty hands touch and at his feet, and yet he
remains motionless and compliant....for now.

"Treat 'is wounds?" Shakolbag verily stutters, "He's not gonna DIE. Yet. No, you take care of yourself...and if you feel
well enough, visit MY tent later on. I'll give you a present you can be proud of!"

The shackles are now secure, and the Jailor begins to rise slowly to his feet, eyeing the mordain she somewhat lavisciously.

Mornakh narrows her eyes at Shakolbag and moves to Grong's side. She takes out her bandages and tends to her wounded arm and
head.

"Gar! You'd think a gal would be HAPPY to get a crack at some misties prime-rib! What do they teach you in the caves of
barraddur, anyway?" The Jailor thumps his chest with his fist, the hollow sound that comes forth from beneath his mail
supposedly some indication of his virility. He aims a kicks at Galharth's lower trunk, trying to connect with something
soft. Mash the elf-parts. This usually comes with some sort of jig, and...sure enough, Shakolbag obliges. He's shuffling his
feet swiftly in-out, to-fro, and clucking and clacking his tongue against his teeth merrily. Another attempted kick,
mid-dance.

"Change yer mind, pretty! You'll find I fit your bill!"

Grong abadons the main path, and works his way southwards...

Mornakh eyes Shakolbag as her mate stalks off. "And what you have to offer dat Grong don't have?" she asks, watching his
frenzied dance with wary eyes as the rest of her party stalks after Grong, watching her then moving on.

The kick comes swift, and sends the Tailor into a tight ball as he screams out in pain. Tightly holding himself in the
protective position, he gasps harshly. Is he now blue in the face, or is this a reflection in the night? A soft sound
escapes his lips. Is this a song, or a whimper?

The Morian spits on the ground, and stands with his hands balled and on his hips, his hips thrust forward, and his scimitar
pointing at Mornakh's midsection.

"Won't know, 'till you try. But this here, 'tis _Demon-Blessed_. And THAT's means happy-time, long-time for you, trollop!"

Then, as suddenly as the glee of victory had spread to contagion through Shakolbag's otherwise business-like demeanor
(though an orc's business is questionable, at best), the Jailor drops his dancing and romancing.

"Bah! Fun's over, anyway. You southron, march back to your camp! Tell them we have a prize. If you wants a part of
it...well, we might save you some!" The orc then displays his surprising strength, and hoists the larger elf up forcibly,
and tosses him over Maalduf's back. The rope snicker-snacks, round and round, and in seconds the beast is set to bear a
trophy back to the camp of the flaming fist, to be offered to the mighty one...Rashka, king of the mountains.

Mornakh grunts. "Fine, you misses out on me, then," she says and stalks toward the camp.

"Second tent on the right, once you cross under the pike with the baby's skull on the end!", Shakolbag shouts after her, no
doubt regretting a missed chance at a tryst on top of Galharth on top of Maalduf. Or something. No matter, the elf is a far
rarer prize than a willing she-orc, and the jailor is pleased enough with the outcome of events. What better way to wake up
in the morning, after all?

Unable to hold his tight balled position, the Tailor gasps out as he's drawn upwards. He wiggles slightly as if to struggle,
but quickly finds a face full of fur. Coughing and spitting the fur from his mouth, Galharth gags at the smell.

Mornakh looks back and eyes Shakolbag. She looks toward where Grong disappeared then looks back, following Shakolbag for
now, silent.