================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Nighttime < About 10:25 PM >
IC day is: Orithil <Moon-day>
IC date is: 32 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 19:48:31 2007
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In the chieftain's tent, a fire smolders. Shakolbag is again the orc of the
hour...from foiling plots to capturing elves, he
seems to be unstoppable. Rawk is gone....or more correctly, has not returned as
of yet. The Gothshaka has also not been
seen. But Shakolbag and the Morghash admirers are more than happy to mind the
prisoner in their absence.
The Jailor plays with the rough piece of amber hung about his neck on a thong of
leather. He looks lazily at Galharth,
admiring his fineries. The ellon has been gagged - too many haughty "I promise
thee's!", no doubt.
"You sure do look purdy, elf. If I put you in a dress, I bet I wouldn't know you
were a boy-elf."
Gagged, only the sudden flash of worry in the firstborn's eyes show that the
Uruk's comment has been heard. Though still
before, he's still no more. Falling over he wiggles as a worm attempting escape.
Certainly there would be no calm acceptance
of a dress this eve.
"Lads," the Jailor asks sweetly, "Why don't you strip mister melody there of his
fancy clothes? Let's see if our suspicion
about boy-elves is true - orc lasses always say an elf might be tall, but he
falls short."
A few heavy-set Morghash guards fall in on Galharth, getting busy with roughly
handling him, hitting him about the head and
stomach, pulling and or tearing off his clothes.
Nearby, a sack of half-rotted potatoes lies spilled on the floor, likely
tonight's dinner - sans the white meat piece de
resistance.
"Let him dress in that burlap, when you're done. And throw some blanket or
something around his shoulders, if he turns blue.
Blue-er, anyway. We might want to take a peek for the wenches, but I don't want
my eyes to have to linger on his pale
filth!"
"Grarrrrrroffff meeeeeeeeph" Galharth shouts through his gag as he's set upon.
The sound coming forth is a muffled gagging
sound. Angry? Fearful? Outraged? From the sounds coming through his gag and the
fight against his attackers, it could be any
or all emotions taking hold. Silky blue cloth, finely embrodered gives way,
falling aside from the elven body that is not
fully pale. Deep blue and purple bruises shine upon his chest and down his side,
over his hip, and down his leg.
As the last of the cloth is stripped away, the Tailor turns his face into the
dirt to hide his feelings.
Where the guards encounter the shackles and binding of Galharth, they simply cut
his clothing away where they must. The
fineries are not so fine as to unbound the ellon's hands. Cut, tear. Easy
enough, despite the struggle. Shakolbag runs his
hands along the fringe of Galharth's grey cloak.
"Fine, FINE work here, pretty one. I dare say: you might fail at swinging your
sword, but you wear some real nice clothes. I
think I'll take my pick among them, in fact. Rawk won't mind, no, no." The
Jailor tosses a slice of raw pig meat at
Galharth's feet.
"For later..."
Left with burlap, slung carelessly over his waist. the shaggy, dirty material
covers enough. Over his form, almost over his
shoulders is another scrap of the sack. Beneath it all Galharth curls into a
ball, tuning out both the scent of pig, and the
Uruk's comments. Rest for now, heal, later may come a time to escape......
"I'm letting you off easy. I tell you: a trophy I REALLY want is a hand,
precious one. Were I not ready to further climb in
the graces of my betters, I'd chop one of yours straight off, then wear it
around my neck while I chewed on a piece of your
heart on the 'morrow!"
Shakolbag snickers cruelly, then gives the ellon a last look to be sure his
bindings are still in place. Satisfied, he
speaks to the guards.
"Don't even blink, lads. He's quick, like a fox. Even while tied, I'll bet."
With that said, the captor sits, rolls onto his side, and tries to fall asleep.