OUTPOST TP: The Return to Moria: A Day of Excitement

 

 

Uruk wander back and forth through this area, tending to their weapons and other business that normally accompanies such camps. Towards the rear of the camp, a number of snaga toil at digging two large holes in the ground, next to which a covered body lies beneath a coarse blanket with a mace and shield on top. "<Uruk> Put your backs into it!" snarls one of the snaga to the others. "Unless you want to stay in these holes."

 

Sohargh sits on a large flat rock near one of the fires. Both eyes gaze into the flames, occasionally glancing at passing uruks. These golden eyes reflected the ever-changing lights of the fire and the fragments of red coals that slowly rise on currents of hot air only to lose their light and fall back to earth as a gray slip of cool ash. The gatherer's long claws drum on the rock beside him in random patterns, betraying a restless spirit.

 

 A wee orc gaits towards the holes with notable gusto; taking twice as many steps to reach his destination as those on the same path. Bozblot dips his chin behind his vest collar and nibbles at.. perhaps the lining? Perhaps not.

       The jailer squeeks with a full mouth: "Them-ers very large holes you got there.     mmmmmmmm," Bozblot emphasizes 'very', and emphasizes 'large', and emphasizes that he very much enjoys his snack.

 

A lone Guard moves through the interior of the camp quickly, metal armour ringing out even in the heavy rain that pours about him. Sheets of water cascading down his helmed visage, Huzghash walks past some snaga digging a grave; a grave for the former Master Guard, Irt. Giving only a cursory glance as he passes near the snaga digging the hole, the Guard moves out to the perimeter, booted feet sinking into the freshly muddied ground. Schunk! A boot is softly pulled from the ground as the Guard takes another step. His eyes looking off into the distance, the Guard moves a good distance from the gravediggers and stops. Feet coming together and sending small jets of water of into the air. Water pouring down around and on the Guard, Huzghash lets his gaze search the area in front of him for anything he can see.

 

Onyx claws click softly upon packed earth, as Raugha, Black Warg of the North, enters the Morian Encampment. He moves with soft, self-possessed stealth; lightly the sable creature advances, eyes glowing like incarnadine coals. Nostrils flicker wide as the Warg inhales the scents of the camp. With the softest of growls, Raugha whispers to himself, "I smell blood. Something has happened."

Like a baleful shadow, now, the Warg advances further into the orcish camp.

 

Morgth puts his back into the digging, stopping occasionally to look up and swear at the rainclouds that keep threatening to fill his hole with muddy water. Scoops of mud and rock pile up next to the trench he's working in, while the two snaga in the other hole are likewise excavating a good deal of earth from it. "That does it!" he shouts, clambering out of the grave. "Deep as we'll get it in this weather. Pick it up later, if we need to make it deeper."

 

One of the logs in the fire pops and spits, finally some hidden pocket of moisture has erupted into hot gasses. Red ash takes to the air and floats in all directions, propelled by the jets of warm air created by the flames. One small slip of ash finds itself blown into Sohargh's left eye. Sohargh blinks, saving his eye but allowing the ash to burn its lid. The sudden stinging pain calls the orc back to his senses. The gatherer jumps up and claws at the eye, curing the fire in many ways.

 

Arkan is busy helping to dig the graves and looking up occassionally as ocs pass by. Mumbling to himself, he continues to concentrate on his task... As Morgth shouts over he straightens up, throwing down his spade down into the puddle of water forming in the trench he has just helped to dig. Wiping the dirt from his face, he looks around.

 

Softly, now, the Dire-Wolf moves through the Orc Camp, slipping toward Sohargh, his ears laid back against his skull, eyes half-closed. In a breathy whisper, the Warg speaks:

"What has transpired? I smell ... blood. Orc-blood. Have the elves, with their arrows, struck down ... no. The elf-scent is not upon the wind."

 

Bozblot 's little nob-nose perks and waggles to the left, and then the right, and then takes in two long-drawn snotty sniffs. "Oh do make it deeper," requests the jailer of Morgth, "Here, I'll help." Bozblot's feet kick out from him, and with artless ease, his little rump toboggans down the mudslick sides of the hole. Securing his snack within his vest, he takes up a dissused pick, and begins scraping the hole's floor. "What's this crater for anyways?" The jailer ignorantly works through the warg's whispering.

 

CRACK! Lighting crashes through the sky, lighting the ground and iluminating the horizon for the briefest of moments.

      Huzghash stares out through the torrential downpour at the trees and plains before him, but soon the Guard shuffles his feet and turns; again facing the camp. Slowly, Huzghash walks back toward the camp, metal armour ringing slightly amidst the terrible storm that is about the Morian camp. His pace slow, the Guard eyes the silhouettes of the orcs ahead who are present on the outside of the camp.

 

Morgth looks back at the uruk who is now down int he hole he just climbed out of. "It's a grave," he says simply, pointing at the tarp-covered corpse of Irt with his shovel. "Master Guard got put down by the she-hai, and we're gravediggin' now." He takes a few steps back from the hole to survey it, then looks up as the dire wolf approaches the camp. "Oh, for the love of the Flame..."

 

Both of Sohargh's eyes widen in shock. One moment he is cursing the flames that have punished him for sitting too close, the next staring into the eyes of a massive warg. That is one eye staring into the wargs two eyes, his burnt eye is blinking too furiously for him to see through it. In a hoarse wheeze the gatherer responds, "Heheeh? No, no elves. Must be another fight. Uruk killing a weaker uruk, I would say."

 

 *Blink* *Blink* Bozblot digs harder.

 

       "Master's maggot food eh? Pity... He treats'd us well," gloats the Jailer, finding that praise trips off the tip of his tongue easily as he digs the /grave/ himself.

 

"And which orc is dead? Slain by whom?"

Raugha's voice is soft, pensive, rasping between his yellowed fangs. He considers Sohargh quietly, red eyes glowing, baleful, harsh. Yet the Wolf's voice is merely curious.

"One desires to learn ... forthwith. You will tell us, will you not?"

 

A loud call is heard from somewhere inside the camp. A scurrying, cloaked and hooded character scrambles toward the warg, carrying something in his arms. "The warg!" he gasps. Arok has been searching for the warg for many days, trying to pay him back with a gift.

 

Huzghash slowly passes by the gravesite once more, this time his path taking him back in towards the camp. Giving no glance to the pit this time, Huzghash's eyes find the unmistakeable form of a Warg up ahead. Bowing his head slightly under the beating of the rain, Huzghash moves forward, still slowly, towards the Warg and the few orcs near him.

 

Sohargh cranes his neck and draws it back, as if the physical movement would clear his jumbled thoughts. The gatherer's wheezing voice pipes up again, "Irt, The master guard and Thrakburzum Shakh is dead. Strange that I did not thing about it sooner, but your fearsome self caught me by surprise. I know not who he was killed by, though some say," The uruk's voice cracks on that last word, "a She uruk-hai."

 

The sun sinks in the sky and falls below the horizon. Nighttime takes over.

 

"Ssssso. Irt ... has fallen. I thought he might." The Warg's eyes glitter dangerously. "Killed by a she-Orc? I know of few she-Orcs. Haaaahh. Interesting."

The Warg's claws click as he advances forward, graceful and fell, his beastly countenance thoughtful. "I wonder if Zijgrak the Orc will bear this philosophically, or if he shall be angered." Pausing, Raugha raises his voice. "Cloak-and-hood. Come hither. Have you my dinner yet?"

 

Arok stumbles forward and lands with a thud on the ground in front of the large wolf. Holding up a dead rabbit like animal, he cowers, 'Y...yes... it is a rabbit... I chased it through the fields... I've been looking for you for long days..."

 

Morgth stratches his arms, and walks over to the corpse of the fallen Master Guard. "C'mon, let's get 'im in the hole. It's pouring out here, an' the quicker we get under a roof, the better." The snaga gather around the tarp-covered body, preparing to lift it and deposit it into the hole in the ground. "On my mark, lift."

 

The Warg turns away from Sohargh, approaching Arok quietly. Then the crimson eyes blaze, scarlet and fiery. "This will sssssuffice. It is a fitting offering to us. Quickly, now, cut out its eyes and hurl them into the fire."

 

Drenched from the still pouring rain Huzghash ambles forward a few more steps, finally reaching the fire near the Warg and the orc known as Sohargh. Bringing himself up near the fire, Huzghash turns to regard both Sohargh and the Warg with a quick salute. "Nasty night." Huzghash says quickly, "A Nasty morning too. The Guards stand leaderless for the time." A slight nod from Huzghash as he moves a bit closer to the fire, trying to warm himself a bit as the rain has chilled him.

 

Arok nods slightly, and moves over to the fire. After a few moments of picking and... well, I won't explain, Arok manages to get the eyes out of the limp creature and casts them into the flames. He walks back to the warg and once again offers the meal. Luckily he doesn't know its five days old.

 

 A digsnaga, rather tall, peers out from the grave; his visage growing rather peakid. Bozblot seemingly tries to decipher the gangly orc's change in demeanor, but is dissapointed whence turning out to be less the gumshoe that he thought himself to be. He finally asks, "Wots you see dig-snaga? Pointears?"

       "The warg has come... and he wants to know who stiffed the master guard." answers tall-orc.

       "Inquiries! INQUIRIES! My speciality!" chirps the jailer, now scrambling and scraping up the mucous mudwall. It takes Bozblot nothing short of three dozen sets of clawmarks in the slipping silt, but he summits the grave-lip undaunted.

       The warg will eat. Bozblot seems over-pleased.  t "Biiitess ittt"

 

Raugha approaches the meal, sniffing suspiciously at it. At length, the beast seems satisfied. "We are pleased with you." he declares, his teeth catching the light, glittering ominously. "You will dine with us."

 

Sohargh mutters to himself more than anyone else, "Too nasty to stand here. I must prepare more bandages in my tent." The uruk strides away from warg, guard, and fire. One arm tosses back the flap of his tent, allowing him to vanish within the shelter of cloth and fur.

 

Arok gulps, looking up at the large warg. Hmmm... hopefully the beast won't eat him instead of the rabbit. Let's just hope...

 

"Now," Raugha instructs, all business, "Tear off one of the creature's legs and devour it. Take or leave the bones. We don't really care."

 

Arok raises an eyebrow, and nods a little. Grabbing one of the rabbit's legs, he pulls it hard, and it rips off with a crack. The uruk isn't very fond of week old meat anyway, but doing as the warg says, he starts to eat the meat off the bones.

 

 "Lil'Boz cares, yes he does... take the bones!" comes a lustfull chant from behind the warg's dinner party. "The bonesss!"

 

Huzghash stands calmly by the fire, his gaze turning from the recently departed Sohargh to the feasting Warg. The Guard watches in silence, with morbid fascination as the Warg instructs some uruk to tear off a rabbit leg and devour.

 

Satisfied, the Warg gestures with his nose toward the creature's belly. "You may have itsss ... viska ... vissy ... vis-cer-ae." To Bozblot: "Come forth and eat the bones!"

 

 *Pit pat pit pat pit pat* "Biiteess the BOOOnnesss!" *crunch crunch crunch*

 

       Bozblot ogles at the warg, but not on the warg, the Jailer's lips glistening with rabbit flab.

 

Morgth grumbles as the uruk climbs out of the hole, then stoops down to lift Irt's body. "In the hole, now," he says, as the other remaining snaga lift and position the corpse, trhen lower it in as best thay can given the weather and conditions. His mace and shield follow suit, also being placed in the hole, then the snaga scramble out and begin to put the dirt back in on top of him.

 

Arok once again gulps. The rabbit isn't half bad actually. It's three fourths bad. Wait, maybe two thirds. Who cares? The uruk manages to swallow some of the meat, and starts to tear in the eyes. The smell of the dead creature is almost as bad as the taste. He tosses the bones aside, for the strange uruk who has a strange obsession with bones.

 

The Guard lets his eyes dance back to the fire. The flickering flames flaunting their superiority to the uruk with every twist, swish, dive, and bow of their burning essence. The flames wince slightlyt under the rain, but sizzles and pops can be heard every so often as the war between water and fire continues.

      Huzghash stares deep into the fire, letting his mind drift from the current surroundings so he can think. Rain dropping heavily onto the helmed head of the Guard, he bows his head slightly, but keeps his eyes upon the flame; mimicking their every motion.

 

Chuok moves out from the main perimeter of the camp and casts her eyes where the last battle was held at. She stares there for a bit and as she scans the area spots the area of where the graves are. She says nothing but moves out in the opposite direction. Presently she spots the form of Raugha and some others eating though she maintains her distance from them for now.

 

Smugly, Raugha watches Arok eat. "Good. Gooood. Eat, eat." Stealthily, the Warg begins to slink toward Morgth and the cadre of orcs lowering Irt's body into the grave, probably trusting that Arok and Bozblot will be too busy eating to follow. "Krrr. What have we here?"

Slowly Raugha sniffs at the pit the orcs are filling with dirt. Quizzically: "Why are you wasting the meat?"

 

Bozblot watches Arok curiously as the snaga gets misty over one measly coney. The jailer's nob nose fizzles twice, but he seems to enjoy the rank meat's pungent bouquet, as he greedily resumes snapping rabbit bones in his busy bite.

 

Morgth looks up as the Warg addresses the diggers. "Not wastin' anything, just puttin' the dead Master Guard in the holycrudyou'reawarg. Ummm..." The snaga stammers a bit, then regains his composure. "Was told to bury the Master Guard with his kit. So, I'm buryin' the Master Guard with his kit. In the hole."

 

The flames dance across and around the fire pit, hissing wildly at the rain that tries to extinguish them; But the water fails. Like a scene of rejoicing it is as the flames continue their silent dance, only hissing when water dare to come to close. With a pop, crack, or a snap the flames chase away the lowliest drop of water; Not wishing themselves to be destoryed.

      The Guard smirks behind his helmet as he watches the show carry on before him; Flames singing to themselves. The eyes of the Guard burn brightly as he looks on, a mere reflection of the intense secene that carries on before him.

 

"Sssss. Yes; I am Raugha of the North, Friend to Magog and to Z'macht." Raugha sniffles at Morgth. "But why is it that you put the master-of-guards in the ground with the meat on his bones? He is not edible?"

 

Chuok strolls the outside perimeter of the camp and her thoughts leave the recent events and turn to the troubling dreams that haunt her sleep. She moves to the tree that the archer escaped from and leans upon it. She stares towards the fire for several minuets and then begins to move towards it. Spotting the guard she had spoke with earlier she moves to stand near him.

 

Arok continues nibbling at the rabbit. "Some coney... heh..." he keeps eating, spitting every once and a while.

 

Morgth blinks his beady red eyes at the warg, not quite knowing how to answer that. "Well," he begins, then stops. His mouth moves a little, no sound coming out, and finally starts working again. "I was told t'bury the Master Guard in his kit. Y'go and eat all the meat off'n hiim, his kit don't fit no more, and it's nothin' but problems from there." He looks down at the hole behind him, waving his arm behind his back to try and signal the other snagas to sto pburying the corpse.

 

"This is true." Raugha ponders this for a moment. "What waste! Putting such shiny metal into the ground! But orcs have their own ways."

 

"Whip! Smash! Burn! And Bash! Water's head our flame will gash!" The flames sing out as they march; at war.

      Water drives down in a tremendous burst of force, for a moment pushing the flames back; forcing a retreat. "HISS!" The flames yell in defiance as they try to fight back 'gainst the onslaught of water. Pop, crack! A piece of wood splits apart, the combination of water and flame being too much for it.

      Undisturbed by the commotion about him, Huzghash continues to stare at the grand battle unfolding before his eyes. The fire fighting the water; neither winning, neither losing. The cold water continues to run its course down Huzghash's armour and body, but the Guard pays no heed; lost in the battle of Fire and Water.

 

Morgth nods, visibly relaxing in front of the Warg. "Yeah, it's a waste, but hey... orders is orders. These here," he says, pointing to a crisscross of pink waised welts, "is what ya' get 'round here if you don't follow orders. So, I figure, I don't want no more of those. And I follow orders, and don't get the business end of the whip." Looking down in the hole, he turns on the other digger snagas. "What're you stoppin' for? Keep on going!"

 

The sable Warg considers Morgth, grunts. "Tell me of the death-of-that-one-you-are-burying-in-dirt." he orders peremptorily, seating himself and wriggling into a fairly comfortable position. The huge, lion-sized Wolf waits for the story ...

 

 With all the proclivity of a seasoned vulture, the jailer goes skippingly to the scavange. Bozblot sets upon the grave, as an aptfull hyena to a drought-blightted watering hole; he scries the bloated buffalo beside the 'lion': the orc corpse. The runt orc notes that the Master Guard's arm stiffly protrudes from the deepening dirt, and he hefts the helve of his new scimitar: all to eager to insert an iron partition between Irt's shoulder and the rogue limb.

 

The bitter light of the stars casts its pale radiance over the water and the foul shapes at its edge. For one stands strangly close to the water, his cupped hands dipped in the wetness of it. Then the ghoulish shape of Tyrak's tosses the cold water over his dirt streaked face and wipes it away with the back of his hand. Spittle flies from his mouth to replace the water he has taken, and he stands. Now his feverish eyes turn toward the gathering of orcs and he makes his way toward them. Something dire must be in his mind and on his steps.

 

Morgth's eyes widen again, and he takes a deep breath. "Long story, but..." He looks the Warg over. "... it don't look like you're goin' anywhere. I got in trouble, for droppin' an armload of spears, when the she-hai said t'head over and see what she wanted. So, she *cough* gave me t'one o' the Guard, t'help him out an' stuff. Said I could be a guard myself, he did." He blinks, and looks at the large beast before him again. "But I'm guessin' yer not interested in that none. Long an' short of it, the Master Guard got mad like she was tryin' to buy the Guard, and then she beat 'im colder than the floor o' Moria, and twice's flat."

 

Sizzle! CSSHH! Water is wasted away as the rains have drawn themselves to a close. The fire dances happily now, battle done for the day; intent upon its old course.

      The Guard watches the final moments unfold before his eyes, and then his gaze passes past the fire and out into the night, looking at nothing in particular. Swiveling his metal helmed head, Huzghash looks over his left shoulder at the figure of the Warg; its figure silhouetted with the light of the stars. Letting his gaze linger only a few moments, Huzghash shuffles his body slightly closer to the fire; hoping to draw some warmth into his cold body.

 

Arok tosses the remains of the rabbit on the ground. Mumbling a few choice words, he stands from his crouching position, and begins to walk away. Stupid warg... he had spent weeks catching the wolf's dinner, and then spent more time trying to find him. And now, the beast makes HIM eat it??? Why does this sort of thing happen so often... he should have a title. Arok should. What could it be? Arok the Mistreated? Arok the Servant? Arok the Slave? No... no... too much... how about... Arok the Underestimated...

 

Tyrak slows as he passes the site where the Master of Guards is being layed to rest. Then his glittering eyes rise toward the moonlit faces of the other orcs that gather. Tyrak's tongue flashes from his mouth to wet his lips, then hje barks, "What happened here? Who's blade took this orcs life?.." For a moment his voice runs dry, then he gravels, "Did he die in the service of the flame? Or like a weak little snaga?"

 

"So. Do we speak of *my* she-Hai?" Raugha ponders this thoughtfully.

 "Hissarm's still stickin out, want me to clip it?" chirps the runt-orc. Bozblot seems to gloat as he sues for leave to amputate: "Brambles bothered my snagapit, I've an eye for hedgework."

 

       A clear, clean gleam runs the course of the jailer's canoed bladeface.

 

Morgth shrugs his stooped shoulders. "Don't know of too many of 'em, myself." As Tyrak begins bellowing, the snaga turns to look at him, wrinkles his nose at the comment of "weak little snaga", and then turns back to the Warg. "But..." He looks at Bozblot. "Just stick it in, however you want to."

 

Tyrak glances down at the arm that sticks like a cry for help from the dirt. Then he shrugs and nods simply, "Yes yes. His arm is of no use to him now. And blood will need to flow if his soul is to pass on to the flame..." Now his face darkenns and he snaps, "Now! Tell me what has passed here. Or I will kill the first one of you orc's that I see.."

 

The black Warg spins swiftly about, stalking toward Tyrak. "You insult us," the Warg declares coldly, as he fixes Tyrak with his glittering gaze. "These are not your orcs to kill -- are they?"

 

Arok now is walking quickly away, cloak flailing behind him. Glancing back, he watches the group burying the dead uruk, and the ones questioning them. And the warg... some day, that warg will learn. Some day, all of them will... "Agg!" Arok walks straight into a very large orc. "Gerroutta my way pathetac slave." Growls the uruk. Arok looks up at its ugly face, and moves around it. All of them...

 *shhhhUNK*

 

       The jailer hefts the orc arm with two fingers, and whistles to himself as he faces it this way and that with meticulous care, as if arranging a delicate centerpiece.

 

The fire crackles on, merrily burning away the wood that is its lifeblood. Turning from the fire, Huzghash looks over the orcs, and Warg, gathered near and begins to move. Clomp! Splish! Each step a watery stomp as the Guard maks his way nearer the Warg and its storyteller. Spear held tightly in his right hand, and eyes burning brightly with intensity, Huzghash moves to a position in the Warg's field of vision. MEtal armour ringing as he comes to a stop, the Guard casts his gaze to the grave pit one last time as he notices the body of the fallen Master Guard has disappeared, probably into the depths of the hole.

 

Now from the darkness comes the huge form of the beast. The slither of the starlight over its fur seems to ripple and draws in the crimson eyes of the uruk and hold its. Hypnotic..The darkness and the light. The stars of the elves shining off the darkness of Melkor's true evil. The spawn of Carcaroth. A struggle to pull his eyes away. Tyrak's voice is thick from his mouth as he utters, "It is the right of strength that gives me to right to kill the weak. Yet not as strong as the great beast of the mountains.."

 

Morgth edges back a little as the Warg's attention is drawn elsewhere. He looks at Tyrak, now facing the great beast down, and a wash of relief sweeps over him. "Good job," he says to Bozblot as he looks at the newly-positioned arm of the corpse. "That'll do for now."

 

Raugha considers Tyrak's reply with magisterial indifference. "So we can kill what we wish?" he inquires, interest slashing through the bestial composure of his voice. "We can? ... interesting. Bring us meat now."

 

Shadowy..Changing even before the orcs eyes. This is no wolf that comes through the shadows before him. This is a demon. Some fell beast that moves along the underside of night. A shudder runs through the orcs body as the strain grows. Only the force of the Warg's words shatter his hypnosis and he turns and looks away. Down at the grave of the Master Guard..."This orcs spirit passes. To the Feasting. If the ritual is not done then his pitiful strength will not pass to the flame. One of my snagas will bring you meat..."

 

"Let us observe this ritual," Raugha growls, his red eyes bright with fascination, interest. "I, Raugha the Warg ... shall watch."

 

 The jailer looks less satisfied with his arrangement than Morgth, and he takes up the un-trunked limb in a two-fisted handshake. Bozblot grits in strain. He eventually plies the ever-stiffening chief-digit to a point, and giggles and snorts as he slips the High Guard's pointer finger up his nose.

       "First one must pick, before one does the 'feasting" irks the Jailer.

Huzghash looks on in silence as dirt is continually thrown into the grave of the Master Guard. Bowing his head slightly, Huzghash says a silent prayer to the flame and raises his head again. Turning to the right, Huzghash notices his spear teacher Tyrak is speaking with the Warg. Watching them a few moments, the Guard walks, as quietly as possible, nearer the two; though he makes no effort to hide himself. Reaching the two, Huzghash issues forth a quick salute saying, "Evenin' Great Warg and Tyrak." His salute ended, Huzghash raises up to regard the two with his eyes. The Two flaming orbs dart between the two stolid figures as he watches, eyes still burning fiercely.

 

"Then let it commence." Tyrak growls, his voice as quiet and grim as the depths of the Black Pit. The little creature draws the fur hood over his mane of hair and draws the cloak in close around him. Only the faintest wink of his mail can be seen. Yet his voice echoes through the camp as he calls out, "Orcs of Moria! This one's body passes to the flame. Death passes to destruction and blood to power! The flame grows stronger!"

 

The words echo off of the erected tents and a row of snaga fall to their knees before the one who speaks the words of the flame. Heads cower away from the ritual words, but their mouths tremble as the gathering speaks them as well. A congreation of carrion birds watching over the dead..

 

"Death passes to destruction and blood to power! The flame grows stronger!"

 

Bozblot leaves Irt, all of Irt, in the pit, and sadly moves out from under the hail of earth. Once topside, the little jailer elbows the snaga next to him; picking his nose and pointing to the corpse in mock immitation of his gag. Bozblot giggles and snorts while the elbow'ed slave eyes the proceedings more reverantly.

 

What Raugha thinks of this new rite is unclear; for he snorts softly, and slips away, a spot of shadow, toward more fertile hunting-grounds.

 

Now Tyrak steps forward almost onto the top of the grave. He stares down into the earth and calls forth again, "Did this uruk die in batte? Before the eye of the flame? Or did this one pass away alone under these pagan stars! Hated and cursed!" His foul eyes cast over the gathered, falling on the one who still giggles and twitches. And there they rest as he awaits his answer..

 

Morgth edges away from the ritual, too - it's been a long day of digging and nearly getting killed and talking to Wargs and more nearly getting killed. The tired snaga shuffles off into the circle of tents.

 

Huzghash bows his head in reverance as Tyrak speaks, not caring that he was ignored in the least. Looking up finally, as Tyrak begins to speak, Huzghash watches as the eyes of the uruk fall upon Bozblot, giggling a laughing. The eyes of the guard stab out from beneath his helm, like two arrows launched toward a target, eyeing the uruk Bozblot. Wanting to answer the question himself, but waiting instead, Huzghash watches the crowd of uruks nearest the grave wondering who will speak.

 

 Tyrak's ruefull gaze is not unfelt by the runt. Bozblot tries to mask his mouthy chortling behind his paw, elbowing his neighbor again.

       "Speak up, answers are is demanded!" says the jailer behind the curtain of fingers... but he mutters side-smiled into the snaga's ear "Maybe he died cuz'he digged too deep" Bozblot picks and points with his other hand.

       The snaga next to Bozblot grows red. Both orcs giggle. Bozblot snorts.

       The jailer then swiftly sweeps his curtain-hand behind his neighbor's neck, and grips at the nape, as if holding the taller orc up... "Want me to question him? mmmmmm" Bozblot emphasizes 'question', and emphasizes 'him, and emphasizes that he rather enjoys 'questioning'.

 

"No. Tyrak, sir. Irt, the former Master Guard, was slain in an honorable duel between himself and Chuok, the She-Hai. He did not die as an elf would." Huzghash steps forward, head held high and voie strong as he says this to Tyrak. His gaze locking onto the speaker for the flame, Huzghash stands silent now, his explanation done. Never let his glance slip from its place on Tyrak, the Guard stiffens and straightens his body out of respect for the proceedings.

 

Bozblot craftully bequeaths the hot stares to the snaga next to him, or so he thinks. *insert in pose above*

 

Tyrak turns toward Huzghash now, his eyes points of blood from deep inside of his fur hood. The transformation from warrior to witch seems to have come suddenly, but now the uruk seems a figure of hatred atop the grave. Spawned from the embers of the flame. And a growl crosses his lips as he utters, "Chuok has claimed his title then? She carries herself as the new Master of Guards. Then it will be so. But only the flame will take this one's wretched strength." Both of the uruks hand's rise into the air and from the fists comes a rain of dark snow. Ash floats down to cover the grave.

 

Huzghash waits silently, words swirling at the tip of his tounge as he waits for the uruk to finish the ritual. Watching as the ash floats down into the grave, the Guard bows his head and says another silent prayer to the Flame. Now, returning his gaze to Tyrak, the Guard says quietly, though loud enough to where Tyrak may hear, "She did not claim his place as Master of the Guards. It was a duel over a slight committed upon her by Irt. There was no claim of position made." The eyes of the Guard stare out from beneath his helmed head, two pools of crimson fire burning intensely. The Guard straightens himself once more, looking back upon Tyrak.

 "Good for nosebleeds" Bozblot explains the ash to his neighbor... *more giggling*

       The jailer's smile is now so tightly stretched to full, that he must wrestle it for use of his lips... but Bozblot does harken to the phrase 'flame will take.. strength', and grows as earnest as is allowed him by his supressed mirth.

       "Flame takes him! Goodbye master," says Bozblot, in a timbre most-serious; surprising the snaga at his side.

 

The ash stirs as a faint wind brushes over it, whispering cold words as it comes. Tyrak turns toward the faintness of the mountains to the west and calls out toward what lies in their depths, "Flame! His soul is here! Take what you will." One of his arms pumps into the air and he lets out a bellowing howl that burns the cold of the air. One after another the snagas take up the shout toward the west..The beastial cry to the demon that lives in the depths..

 

The Guard stands silently by, his words apparently lost in the wind as he watches Tyrak close the ritual, sending Irt's soul to the Flame. Again, a silent prayer is said by the Guard as he once again bows his head. Looking up once more to Tyrak, Huzghash looks on, not wishing to interrupt the process any more thanhe already has. However, his eyes do not waver from the form of Tyrak.

 

 The crags of the misties seem petina'ed in shadow-tangible; whisping void. The grave cantation stirs the stomachs of Bozblot and the giggling orc; giggling no longer. The two are awash in distending sickly-green; eerily flecked with loaming fields of cinnibar and thalo in the firelight's perverted glow. The chant issues from them, and of them, and it seems to take all ardor the two can muster, to keep their own spirits from being suckled away and guzzled into the far-looming silluoette.

 

Mordral sleeps fitfully, still struggling to escape the dark depths of his apparently never ending suffering. The noise and bustle of the camp swirls about him unheard and ignored, until the calls of the snaga to the Flame somehow penetrate the cloak of illness which smothers him. His mind works hard to focus, allowing the calls to drag him back to conciousness. As he awakes, the pain fires again through his many wounds causing him to convulse, straining at the leather and cloth bandages which bind his body. Ripping at his constraints he is then able to free himself, although the pain is still immeasurable. The swollen, sweaty face of Mordral then turns to survey the camp, the scene clowly coming into focus....

 

Tyrak at last lowers his arms as the wind settles. The ash only stirs slightly atop the mound of earth that buries the slain uruk. Tyrak reaches up and throws back his hood, letting the moonlight bath his horrid features. He nods to the gathered uruks and utters, "It is done. The flame has come and the flame has grown stronger. And know another thing. The Thrakburzum tribe grows weak. Its leader has fallen and wastes away. The flame guides my hand. Soon the tribe will have a new leader." His lips twitch in the hint of a grin, then he lowers his head and whispers to the buried body, "Burn..Burn well."

 

 The shadow, all shadow, for every patch vaccuous gloom now seems of one essence, probes at the snagas, tranfixed in the grip of their own song even as he healer glibs his grin. Bozblot flexes his diaphragm to near exhaustion, willing every pustule and pocket of aveoli to exert their gasseous hordings. Another snaga takes up a drum. Yet another taps an axe on a coppery symbal-shield. The swellin din floods across the dale in tumid hunger; feasting on every scrap of shadow in its wake... amplifying.

 

 *RRRaaauuuuuoooggggg... Flammee's Baanneee... Raauuuoogggg*

 

Huzghash can only watch as Tyrak finishes the ceremony, his eyes bowing to the grave once more. "A forgotten soldier, the Flame take his strength." The words slip quietly from the Guard's mouth as he looks upon the grave of Irt, only half filled with dirt. Then, the Guard straightens and watches the snagas star a song in praise of the Flame, while still watching Tyrak go about his work. The eyes behind the helm of Huzghash burn ever brighter, darting between the snagas and Tyrak.

 

Nazgok quietly enters the group, appearing as is from nowhere. He is attired in black cloth covers over his hide shirt and pants. On his face is mud, stained black from the fire's ashes. As the cool night wind blows softly, it ruffles the cloth covers making a soft whoofing sound. "The master guard has returned to the Flame as a warrior" Nazgok speaks quietly, his red eyes catching the starlight. "He has taught us well, and it is for us to follow in his path, for those of the guards to stain their shoulders in blood to remember his learning, for the rest of us to knash our teeth at his death and for all to stain the earth red with the blood of the light lovers. For they have caused his death, by causing us to be here tonight and over these past days...with their pitiful attempts as taking what the Flame gave us. The foul stain of his death must be cleansed in that blood. In only that manner can he be close to the Flame forever!" With that, Nazgok steps forward and with the wooden spear in his left hand he runs it up the surface of his right arm. Above the sound of the booming drums, you hear the blade cut Nazgok's flesh, and your nostrils flare at the smell of blood. Nazgok grimaces in pain, and holds out his arm over the half-filled grave. The blood drips over the mounds of dirt and corpse. With his left hand, he smears the blood over his face, and stains his left and right shoulders with it. Then he binds his arm, and moves back into the group.

 

A dark shadow silently meshes into those already cast by the flame's dance on the surrounding Morians lamenting the death of the Master Guard. Two distinct, golden orbs peer from the depths of the hazy figure, roving the assembled crowd in tight scrutiny. Finally, the strange eyes come to rest upon the grave of Irt. A sickly light flares up momentarily in Malghruk's cat-like eyes as they slowly narrow. Little can be discerned from this slight display of emotion, but the ensuing appearance of the wiry archer convinces any who may have been slow to gather it's meaning before. The thin orc slithers up to the rim of onlookers quite boldly with an eerie worm-like sneer splitting his stony visage in almost gruesome delight. Inaudible hissings and mutters can be heard as the spindly archer comes to squat on his haunches at the grave's edge.

 

Huzghash moves closer to the grave, opposite the side of the snagas and other uruks praising the flame and Irt. With a quick movement, Huzghash matches the motions of Nazgok in slicing his forearm over the grave, and smearing the blood on himself. Turning to face the crowd of uruks, Huzghash says loudly, "Let this be known to all uruks gathered here: Irt, died an honorable death in fighting Chuok. But one named Zupgugh dared to interfere with their duel and shot the former Master Guard with an arrow. This act shall not go unavenged!" Turning back, Huzghash extends his arm over the grave, letting more blood drip into the half filled hole.

      "Let this be known among all the Morian Horde: The Guard Huzghash makes a blood oath, that the interference by Zupgugh in the duel between Chuok and Irt shall warrant his death! From this day on I shall hunt down this orc amongst the horde and he weill by killed for his treason against the Guards of Moria!" Squeezing his fist tightly, dark streams of black blood pour down his arm and go sliding down into the small pit below. The black blood staining the already drak ground with a promise, a promise of death.

 

 The mountains' evergreen wreathes lament of everblack sins, pure, unfathomable; lapped against their pale hips in vehement scorn through ages beyond their memory. Still the snagas chime. Still the doombreeze whines. The misties lay raped-bare beneath the hellish rise of a tar-toned jaw of countless claws; emminating from the far lid of Khazad Dum, but the cap of a glacial fang whose roots lie coddled in the world's black heart. The world's heart must be black, for the jailer's deathquire's cant breathes; lives.

 

 *RAaauuooogggggg        Flame's Bane      RAauuuoooggggg*

 

Nazgok quietly crouches down, and his eyes drift shut. He blocks out the light to help his hearing improve. Nazgok appears to be concentrating on the thin orc's inaudible hissings and mutters, but can't really tell what is going on. Slowly he continues to wrap his arm, his left hand close to his spear. He hears Huzghash's blood oath, and slowly sucks in air inbetween his teeth. Zupgugh had best run to the elves and plead for mercy with them. His life is forfeit here...The sound of the drums beating and chanting overshadow the muttering by the grave, and Nazgok has trouble hearing any of the words....

 

The loud voice of the Guard continues, his face contorting menacingly, "Let it be known that Huzghash hunts this rogue orc! For he is no longer a Guard in my eyes! His dishonorable act shall be avenged only when I cleanse the horde of his presence with my spear!" The Guard finishes his proclamation to the surrounding orcs and pumps his spear wielding hand into the air.

"FOR THE FLAME SHALL ZUPGUGH BE PURGED! FOR THE FLAME!"

 

Gwaihir arrives from the northwest.

Gwaihir has arrived.

 

A pale, thin arm snakes over Malghruk's shoulder to produce the thick, ebony bow, Sun-Blotter. Still gazing at the grave from his haunches, the shady archer begins to slowly twist the weapon in his bony hands, making small, regular circles in the unearthed dirt. The inaudible mumblings become unfortunately audible as the uruk hisses quietly, "Quiet your incessent squakings, Guard." The last word is didainfully emphasised as the uruk continues, "You know nothing, and for that I have no quarrel, but to make war against an innocent, and a friend, that I must protest." A beast of few words, Malghruk continues his vigil of the grave to allow Huzghash a moment to stew over his words.

 

 The drumsnaga wearies, and his mallet is discarded. Bozblot leaps at the mallet and takes it up, eager to maintain the cantation... but the poison has run its course; though the night seems not unaffected by their dire music, the ghoulish pitch falls too the earth, and seeps therein.

       The jailer seems pressed to digest the deathcant in silence, and both guards' speeches seem shrill and offensive to his sombre mood.

 

The head of the Guard snaps around to face this new voice, eyes glowering Huzghash says, "Know nothing? No, I witnessed the event in question. I know enough. He interfered in an accepted duel! Even the She-Hai chased after him, but he ran as an elf for the woods!" Huzghash quits his speech in much the same way it began, with a start. Turning his body around, he now fully faces the uruk who questions his motives. "I would not do this unless I was in the right" The Guard continues more softly, "If Zupgugh had not interfered, then there would be no need for his death. As it stands, however, he did interfere and his death is rightful punishment."

 

Bozblot traipses haughtily between the barking dogs, his stub arms raised up on either side; the low end of an angry 'M'. "Threats and more threats, The Flame burns warm'nuff this night without you squawker's hot air to boot." The jailer retracts his hands, and puts them to better use, namely yyyyaaaannking up tentspikes, pitching them in a messy pile.

 

Off in the distance, there is a terrible crash and thrashing from a stand of trees near the river. The sound of wood splintering and leaves rubbing together rasps in the night, and the groaning of tortured treelimbs echoes across the land. Then, there is again silence in the night, broken occasionally by the sound of wind through the trees, leaves rustling eerily.

 

Not even the slightest blink crosses the feral gaze of the crouching Malghruk. Without releasing his view from the final resting place of Irt, the orc begins to speak once more as he slowly rises to his feet, "My dear little Huzghash. If you cannot but understand the simplicity of the situation, then by all means let me enlighten you. I am now giving you the opportunity to throw off this inane hunt of the uruk, Zupgugh, and continue on to... guard things." At the words of the small jailer, Malghruk ends the unprecedented flow of heated words. A slight smile spreads across his features as Bozblot carries on, but the archer remains stoicly regarding the grave below him with little heed in the direction of Huzghash..

 

"Am I not your superior in the Guards, Apprentice?" The words sliding from the mouth of Huzghash, "Yet, I will hold my hunt, for now at least." Huzghash turns his eyes away from the Apprentice Guard and back to the Grave, one last prayer said before turning to leave. As he begins to walk away, the Guard hears a faint rumbling of sound in the distance and stops, considering it as best he can. Shaking his head slightly, Huzghash continues his walk, further from the grave of Irt.

 

Nazgok stays squatting by the fire for a few more moments, then rises and slowly leaves the flickering firelight. He moves towards the encampment to see about some meat and some patrolling that may be on for tonight.

 

The sound of rustling leaves continues, a heavy wind rising, though the night has been somewhat still until now. On a sudden, the sound changes, the fluttering growing nearer and nearer, as though the trees themselves were closing in on the encampment, creaking limbs seemingly coming from the sky itself.

 

---CRASH---

 

A tree lands with a thundering crunch right on one of the campfires central to the encampment of orcs, nearly putting the fire out in its fall.

 

Arok , walking through the camp, yawns, and looks about for any interesting happenings. The breeze seems to be picking up, and his cloak begins to flail in the wind. Suddenly, the large tree begins to fall, and Arok is very near. He dashes away and leaps, luckily being away from its fall. Turning, he looks at the fallen tree, many orcs caught under it screaming their last screams.

 

The sun flashes brightly on the horizon. Night gives way to morning.

 

Scarcely a moment passes before Sun-Blotter is resting firmly in its' accustomed position in the archer's outstreatched hands. A black shaft is already in place as Malghruk slowly pulls back on the tight string, allowing its creakings to echo throughout the gathered masses. "Halt where you stand, Huzghash!" The thin uruk tilts his head slightly to rest his aim on the orc's retreating back. "Forsake the hunt, or your life is forfiet. I will not see needless slaughter, and I will NOT see the execution of a decent uruk!" As the tree thunders to the fire, ash and debris spray about the archer, but Malghruk stands stolidly, seemingly unphased.

 

Malghruk slings a thick, black bow from his back in a fluid, snake like motion. Seconds pass before a black barb is nocked in place, ready to be launched with acute precision from the wiry uruk's weapon.

Malghruk puts on Studded Leather Armor.

 

With a loud crash a tree lands on the large firepit, not so far from where Huzghash is standing. All his prior thoughts erased, he searches the sky for the reason for this falling tree. Hearing the words of the uruk again, Huzghash turns saying hurriedly, "Decent? Bah! But I will forsake my hunt! Though he has slighted the horde through his dishonor of the duel!" Turning again, Huzghash searches the sky for the unseen invader, bright crimson eyes darting from star to star searching for some unknown shape.

 

Malghruk simply nods. Nothing more, nothing less. At once turning his attention to the direction of the disabled tree, the spindly uruk scans the starry night for the cause of the mayhem. Sniffing the charred air for signs of the disturber, Malghruk straitens slightly in horrid recognition. Replacing the thick bow at his back once more, the archer slinks quickly and quietly from the camp to seek the blessed shelter of the shadows.

 

Another sound fills the air; a rough sound, and loud, growing in volume with the amusement of its source. It is the laughter of the Windlord, Gwaihir, as he circles the camp and watches the tree slowly catch fire. Interrupting his chuckling long enough to shout down to the orcs, "I told you to all run home!" as passes, he makes again for the stand of trees, adding, "Now I will see if I can persuade you to agree..."

 

Bozblot stands in a stream of fleeting snaga, each continuing each other's terrified tummult:

 

       "LOGS'AR"

 "FALLING"

       "FROM THE"

 "SKYYYY"

       Bozblot leers past them, more than suspicious, he /did/ hear a thump. "Snagas got into Sog's special vintage." The jailer concludes.

 

Arok shouts up into the air, "Fly away birdy! Or you'll be the wargs next meal! As y' can see! We're headin' home!"

 

"An eagle! Of course!" The Guard blurts out after hearing the words come calling down from the sky. Moving swiftly, Huzghash conceals himself behind and cart laden with weapons. Setting himself into a crouch, Huzghash watches the sky for the silhouette of the eagle to appear. Drawing his spear back to his shoulder, Huzghash's eyes scan the sky, praying, waiting.

 

Stooping on a great fir tree, Gwaihir seizes the trunk about midway off the ground, and launches himself sideways from it, his great wings flapping as he does; such great weight and his pulling are too great a strain for the tree, which snaps off from its stump, and the Windlord carries it laboriously over the camp. Spotting a number of orcs together, in some confusion over the first tree and not far from it, Gwaihir carries the tree over them, and drops it over their heads.

 

CRASH! A second tree lands among the orcs of Moria. This tree hits close to the Guard Huzghash, too close. The tree lands on the cart the Guard was hiding behind and flips it. One of the wooden stilts comes up quickly and catches the surprised Guard under his armour. As the cart continues its flip, so does the Guard as he is hurtled across the camp and into one of the few remaining tents. Huzghash crashes hard into some of the wooden tent supports, and lays motionless. Apparently rendered unconcious from his recent flight.

 

Encouraged by the success of this unorthodox approach, and entirely amused with the results it garners, Gwaihir swoops off to again seize one of the fir trees, and lunges aside to snap it from its trunk. Bearing it aloft, again the Windlord looses it over the camp, again hoping to entangle orcs in its boughs.

 

 The great length of timber rolls though the few steamy layers of camp air with increasing ferver. It impacts along a line of slaves, chained to each other by the wrist, and unable to agree on one route of escape... with a great, visceral, ear-splitting *KRrONNK* it hits.

       All that remains of the impacted snagachain, are maddly splaying feet... lots of them. The fallen log looks more like a great brown centipede, a myriad of black legs hoofing idly in the air.        Bozblot is dumbstruck.

 

Huzghash lay motionless for a few moments before soemthing else wakes him. The collapsing tent. Suddenly Huzghash is awake as the whole of the tent comes crashing down upon him. Writhing in his new found darkness, Huzghash groggily stands and tries to work his way out of the mass of cloth that has overtaken him.

 

Circling the encampment, again the Windlord lets out a roaring laugh, amused by the sight below. He hovers as best he can, his wings beating forward and down to mostly hold himself steady, the gusts of wind stirred by his wings fanning the fires below, which begin to slowly spread through the trees tossed on the camp. The laughter of the Great Eagle trickles off, however, as he seems to consider something.

 

"This rather reminds me of something," he calls down to the orcs, his voice still filled with amusement. "I believe a number of years ago, the situation was not completely dissimilar, although there were more trees... I believe your crude tongues fashioned a song!..."

And then, booming across the landscape, the Chief of Manwe's Messengers in Middle Earth begins to sing.

 

"Fifteen birds... In three fir trees!

Their feathers were fanned in a fiery breze

But, funny little birds... They had no wings!

O what shall we do... With the funny little things!?

...."

 

The form of the guard still writhes beneath the pile of tent-cloth. His motions stilted and awkward due to the added weight of the cloth, Huzghash is slow in removing himself from them. Then the words of the Great Eagle reign down and resonate off of the ground around Huzghash, the guards form quickly dropping to the ground fearing the Eagle is upon him. Slowly, the Orc begins to crawl once more, though slowly, trying to free himself from this trap that has befallen him.

 

Bozblot thinks of /several/ things to do with this 'funny-little-thing'; most of them derived sagely, from the deep-fry school of thought. The runt jailer squeels to the routed slaves at either flank, "Its tur-kee day once to often in this bit o' jungle lads, pack it up!" Bozblot then packs up his own little heiny, and packs it out in haste.

 

Gwaihir laughs again at the irony of the situation, and watches the orcs scurry about below. Deciding he's caused enough havoc among them, the Windlord flies off, calling to the encampment of orcs, "Make haste back to your holes, little mountain maggots. You are far too enticing a source of entertainment while out in the open." Then he speeds away to the west, back to his eyries in the Mountains.

 

The Guard finally manages to wrangle his way free of the fallen tent, and he looks up to the sky quickly as he hears the parting words of the Eagle. Shaking his head to rid himself of the pain that has gathered their, Huzghash uses his spear for a support in standing his body up. Slowly, the Guard is able to stand and look out over the chaos that the Eagle has caused. Snagas runs every which way trying to put out fires or move the logs from the camp. Huzghash, however, can do nothing as he stands, groggily looking out over the crowds.

 

 Even as the great eagle rises into the west, his path is pocked with the pink peaks of morning in the misties... Yellow face is charrioted from the east, and her shining needle-nets begin to cast themselves out flatly from forrest-wall. The camp, is bedlem. /Flight/ mode seems prevalent, and Bozblot finds himself made of little better mettle than the fleeting throngs of snaga.