***** Erebor Time + Weather Service ******************************************

** Real time is: Fri Sep 03 00:15:24 1999, GMT -8 **
Elendor time is: Twilight (about 8 PM ) on Monday, 19 April 3018. In the Spring
sky, The last quarter moon hangs low in the sky but will soon sail high upon
its nightly course. 

****************************************** Erebor Time + Weather Service *****

The Holds of Darkness

The room you have entered spans before you, opening into a circular cavern of
carefully worked walls in the same manner as the Prison Complex on the other
side of the gate. The ceiling goes up very high and to a point far above your
head. The floors are smooth and everything is solid with no joints or seams.
Around this room you see many cubes cut into the walls, each of their sides
being half the length of a Man. Within each of the cubes are shackles, and
covering each is an iron gate, locked and barred. The cubes sit on two levels,
stacked one above another going in pairs around the circle. 

In the center of it all is a shallow bowl cut into the floor where none may
step upon pain of death. Within this bowl is a mosaic of the Lidless Eye,
fashioned in such a way that each of the cells look upon it and from each cell
it appears that the Eye watches them. It's malice hangs like a weight on all
and none can escape it's view.

Gumbart

You see an old dwarf, face caked in blood and grime, hands bound in heavy rusty
shackles, his wrists two festering wounds. Gumbart is wearing dirty rags that
might once have been sturdy travelling clothes, but anything of value has long
been stolen from him. He wears no hat; he has already lost a lot of hair; the
sad remains are encrusted with dirt and excrement. His beard is as thin as to
seem translucent. Gumbarts feet are a bloody swollen mess, several toe nails
are missing, one of the ankles seems to be sprained. From time to time, Gumbart
coughs blood.

Puck

He's a troll quite obviously. Noone could mistake him for anything else.
Really, he is quite large, standing just short of 14 feet tall when he stands
up straight, though relaxed, which he usually is, he is nearly a foot shorter.
His skin might be described as scale-esque, but is a shade of utter black;
sleek, dark, and supple, and beautiful in a way, distorting and then reflecting
the light that touches him, hideously. A few scabs adorn his skin here and
there, which are lighter blotches on the skin only noticable if one looked
closely. His hair comes out in a sort of crown formation, reminding one of a
balding man, long and stringy, platinum in hue, and hanging to his shoulders
and a bit further. His eyes are very, very strange, and one of his most
striking features. Rather than a normal pupil, he has a slit-pupil, like a
cat's eye. The irises are a deep violet hue and glow unnaturally, flittering to
nearly any movement they sense. A loin-cloth covers his nether regions, made of
leather died dark as his skin. He wears, however, no other clothing, relying on
his naturally thick, tough skin to protect him from weapons, rather than
relying on armour as other races do - though atop his head is molded a helmet
of steel, which clasps onto the back of his thick neck, and comes down over his
nose to guard it, between the eyes. His hands and feet are huge in proportion
to most other races', and constantly one may find him carrying a monster of a
battle-axe, six feet long at least, with twin heads and a foot-long spike
protruding from the head. In his arms, strong rippling muscles are visable
beneath the sleek black skin, which could crush most lesser beings with ease,
and very likely hold their own with those of equal size. Then one might notice
on the hands, the nails that grow from each finger, which are black as the rest
of him in hue and trimmed sharp, and look rather menacing.

Kalequa

--- <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> ---

A tall, thick bodied uruk can been seen before you, arched and highly developed
shoulders stooped low from constant ducking and covered by a layer of leather
hides tanned brown and covered in scorch marks, several marks containing ragged
holes where flame has literally eaten through the armour like clothing.
	The dark hides of the cloak the creature wears are grimy, as though she
has not washed their ancient pelts in years. The sooty residue covering the
material blends it into her skin where her hands thrust from the long flowing
sleeves, from dirty ebony skin to the grime smeared jet of the leather.
	Her features are mostly obscured from view by the hood of heavy
material which surrounds her face, obscuring it in shadows, except for the
strange eyes which stare out from the depths, filled with hatred and a longing
of cruel joy which flares whenever she sees another creature through these fell
orbs to the nether world. Rimming her eyes is a band of tattoos, one of the
many she sports upon her face, but these tattoos are writing, written in a
peculiar, flowing script.
	Her black skin is so deep black as it renders her invisible in darkened
places, but makes her a target in area's where light shines brightly. Scars run
across much of the skin which is visible, a network of grey cords which run
wild across her flesh.
	The figure moves with a peculiar grace for one so twisted and deformed.
Her movements those of one who knows command, but no mark of such bearing can
be found upon her stooped, shadowy form. A single red pouch hangs loosely from
its shoulder as does a coil of woven twine painted in blood, probably belonging
to a bow though none can be seen. There is a faint miasma of rotting flesh and
stagnant plants about the figures form, but what this could mean...
--- <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> <()> ---

Amidst the various sounds that one finds Dol Guldur makes at all hours; amidst
the sounds of orcs gambling, cheering and jeering above; amidst the sounds that
the earth makes at all times; amidst the sounds of the guards outside, metal
armour rustling now and again; and amidst the thundering of the fires and
hammers clanging against metal above, there is a different sound altogether.
It's not the sound of a hammer against stone or metal, nor the sound of
fighting. It is a soft, but very steady vibration that goes through the area of
the tower of Dol Guldur, that thunders gently in one's ears, and vibrating in
one's bowels, perhaps causing a sickenning sensation. Gradually, the steady
thundering which courses through the bones of Dol Guldur gets louder, more
intense, so steady it could be sickenning. It is the sound of doom. The sound
of a troll's footsteps. No being is large enough to cause the very bones of
such a fortress to thunder so.

Kalequa stumbles into the room, cracking her head once against the thick stone
walls on her way in. Her eyes glass over and she sways once, "D' dorfs," she
manages to get out before falling flat on her face.

Puck, much in contrast to the Uruk, stands for a moment in the doorway, all
seriousness. His eyes shine brightly, casting a violet light all about the
room, as they come to focus, pupils narrowing to slits in his eyes, as he does
so. He doesn't say a word, but in his hands rests an absolutely gigantic
two-headed battle-axe, long point at the end glimmering gently in the violet
light. Slowly, it turns the axe, so that the heads spin, catching the light now
and again.

The dwarves are all staring through the iron bars towards the entrance of their
isolated gloomy world. Eyes wide open, their beards full of straw, dirt and
dried blood, their hands covered in grime, their arms trembling with weakness,
drawing ragged breaths, they stare and dare not move. As the big shadow enters
the room, a strange sigh passes through the dwarven prisoner crowd; a sigh of
dispair perhaps, as the dwarves tighten their grips on their handholds, or a
sigh of hatred as old as the stones, as one dwarf or another suddenly jerks at
his chains, trying to get a better look at the monstrous newcomer. Hushed
whispers start going round; chains are dragged across cold cell floors as the
dwarves shift around behind their cell doors uneasily.

Kalequa opens her eyes suddenly, the lids flicking open to reveal the darkness
of the grimy floor. The Rakarg pushes her body from the floor, spitting straw
and mould from her now bruised lips. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" she swears
angrily in a titanic voice, turning around and looking for whoever tripped her
with death written in large letter across her features as she pulls a battleaxe
from its sheath upon her person and wields it quite proffessionally for one who
can barely stand upright. 'D'd 'ee s' who't w's th' 'it mah olog?,' she roars
over her ringing ears, blinking to clear her vision of the multiple Pucks who
seem to be wobbling their bodies seductively before her. Kalequa turns and is
almost noisily sick against the wall, dry retching for all she is worth. 'Ah
merc'ful Eye, pl's dun le' mah dah l'ke th's,' she croaks between choking
spasms.' Ah'm nah reade'.'

Puck snorts, hardly amused by the words nor the actions of the miner, violet
eyes turning toward her. "Ya terped on dead dorf." The beast states, tone flat,
but quite loud. Not surprising considering that the beast is easilly three
times the size of any orc. The violet eyes glimmer in the relative darkness, as
they turn toward the dwarves once again. "Ya ain't gonner die, neither. Ya just
be drunk, ya know."

The dwarves follow this surrealist encounter without saying a word. As Puck
kicks the dead dwarf, however, Gumbart whispers hoarsly "Jerin..." and angry
hisses from the other cells can be heard. To the right of Gumbart and Brican's
cell a dwarf moans, "I curse you, Gumbart, for dragging us here. Four are
already dead and the numbers keep diminishing. No decent burial!" The rest is
drowned by a wet cough full of phlegm. Another dwarf adds, "Aye, Ordin promised
you would bring back the dead ones to Erebor, and now look what you did, you
son of a dog, Gumbart." Defiantly, Gumbart presses his face against the bars,
trying to look over to the right, and answers, louder now, "Hold your tongue,
Ardin. We are all together in this. I cannot answer for yonder brutish beast,
nor can anyone in here. So shut up and wail not."

Kalequa pushes herself from the wall and over to where the olog stands
menancingly, her eyes filled with the anger grog often brings her. "Jer'n,
Ord'n, Ard'n, G'mb'rt, wh't a pr'ty lil fam'ly w' 'ave 'ere, I b' thn'k'n
th't'n b' d' m'my," she roars loudly in a mocking voice while pointing at
Jerin. "W'nge, W'nge, W'nge, ol' w'm'n dorfee s'ttin' in'na cell, how long does
Puck th'nk till w'm'ns h'd fell?" the miner chants at the gloomy cells as she
runs her fingers along her axe. "Ay' b' nuh lik'n 'ee's dorfs, 'ee annoy'n mah,
hear." She suddenly turns her head on its side and roars in pain as the mining
deafness returns full strength, the ringing in her ears making her eyes start
forward from their brow hooded depths as she shakes her head from side to side,
as though trying to clear the fog from her vision and noise from her hearing.

Puck ignores the miner's drunk antics, more or less, eyes focused upon one
particular dwarf. Toward the cell in which Gumbart is walks the beast, steps
thundering through the ground, the orcish guards not daring to interfere. The
violet glow from the beast's glittering eyes seems to become more intense as it
nears the dwarf's cell, until they provide enough light for even a Man to see.
It squats down, directly infront of the little cell, eyes going to said dwarf.
"Why you not be good dorf 'n' serve Eye?" asks the Olog warrior, setting it's
battle-axe down on the ground infront of itself and the cell, face only two or
perhaps three feet from the bars. It's tone is low, ominous, yet not quite as
flat as before. There's some curiosity in the beast's words, as it breaths, hot
stinking breath coming almost like a cloud into the tiny cell.

Gumbart shrinks back from the towering hulk as it sits down in front of his
cell.  His knees are wobbling slightly, and yet he holds himself upright,
gripping the iron bars of his cell's gate and stares into the glowing violet
orbs. At first, no sound can be heard when Gumbart opens his mouth to
speak. Slowly, his face turns darker, however. Shaking violently, he shouts,
"Get the gone, beast! If we were not half naked behind iron bars, but armed and
ready, we'd split your stupid monstrous head into tiny little splinters to be
used as carving tools by our children!" Gumbart is breathing so hard he seems
to be sobbing. He turns his head towards the obviously drunken orc, spits on
the cavern's floor, and shouts hoarsly towards the watcher, "I knew you
couldn't be trusted, foul beast of Mordor! I hope this is your master's voice,
punishing you for your stupidity, slave! There will never be any dealing
between us and the likes of you, animal."

"PUCK!" a voice bellows from with out the darkened hold. The sound of many
booted steps echo off the walls breaking any semblence of silence. A torch
bearing dog is the frist to enter the area containing the Dwarven prisoners of
the wriath lord. "PUCK!" the voice is hear again in a gruff westron as Tagakmog
comes into view behind the link uruk. Behind him his black guard, some 20
strong this evening file in with him as his countence and gaze land upon the
stone troll creature.

Kalequa grins slightly as she grips her axe tightly within her hands. "Mah
off'r w'z m'd 'n g'd fa'th dorf," she snarls in her overpowering voice, "Ye'z
w'z ta teach mah the dorf language an' I w'z ta keep ye alive fer az l'ng as ah
c'uld, nah mah fault iff'n ye thou'ght I promised nuna 'ee 'd b' h'rm'd." The
miner snarls and raps on the iron bars with the dwarven axe she carries. "
'sides, yer m'n thar said ah w'uld n'v'r learn th' dorf lang'ge, s' th' br'k 'n
tr'st b' yers dorfs." Kalequa snarls angrily as she steps back dramatically and
places a foot wrong, tumbling toward the ground in a drunken heap. She snarls
angrily and launches herself up again looking around for the creature who
caused her to fall, suspiciously eying Puck before turning her deathly gaze
upon the skeleton in the corner. "Ay' wh't 'ee b' look'n a' dorf," she snarls,
taking an intimidating step towards it. "Ans'r mah wh'n ah speaks t' 'ee." She
roars angrily, her voice excessively amplified by her hard hearing. The buzzing
in her ears become even more acute as she approaches the corpse and with a
primal cry she lowers the axe and half charges, half falls upon the skeleton,
spilling the bones apart. Her eyes loll in her head and she turns quickly upon
her side and finally manages to be sick, very sick. The stench of the effuse
reeks about the decayed corpse, grog equal to that drunken by the light
stomached troll Puck gushes forth from the miner. "Ay b' dyin' th's tim' olog,"
she says morosely, tipping her head aside to gaze at puck momentarily as Tag
walks into the room, she quickly pushes herself to her feet and bows as best
she can after her feat of gastronomics and tries to stand straight. "Teguk
Tagakmog," she bellows excessively loudly, ears humming with bell peals. "Ay'
b'n sick," she adds uncertainly. "There," Her hand wafts in the general
direction of the spillage and she screws up her face. "Dun' step in't mast'r."

There is a rattling of the key as the thick door which bars this inner most
room is opened briefly once more, allowing for a silent shadowed figure to
immerse into the warm and humid confines of this vile chamber. Squat it is, no
wraith fortunately, though with it comes a near equal evil and malice that
makes even the fierce guards who stand as sentinels on either side of the
exit's portal shrink away and advert their gaze. Broad and set atop two crooked
legs, this Uruk seems to command attention as it enters the long corridor of
cells, moving at a nimble pace even upon such malformed appendages. Eyes a pale
hue, set aglow so that their crimson slivers cast outward a fell and
unwholesome light, there is no doubt to those who know him that this Orc is the
Vorazg Grishnakh. Sly and insidious in his ways, his scanning orbs search over
those first present before coming near to the Teguk Pulgorburzob, Tagakmog --
that Uruk who shouts out the troll's name. On his lips he wears a frown of
countenance, his cheeks hugging close to the bony structure of his skull.
Whispering to the captain, however, this Commander asks him a low, hissing
voice, "... ... ... ... caught ... killer?"

The ebony beast that is Puck sits, squatting, just infront of Gumbart's tiny
cage. The troll's eyes glow brightly, brighter than usual, casting their violet
light upon the dwarf brightly enough that even a Man would be able to see. It's
eyes are focused upon Gumbart himself, pupils narrowed to mere slits inside the
violet eyes, and upon hearing the Dwarf's words, simply allows for a slow,
broad smile to cross his lips. The dark lips part, showing many, many long,
razor-like ivory teeth, showing in contrast to his skin. It opens it's mouth,
slowly at first, as though to say something, but before it does the mouth snaps
shut, with an audible sound as the teeth crash together. Standing, then, and
taking up it's enormous axe, all in one smooth motion, the beast turns to look
upon the figure of the Teguk, axe at the ready as though for a fight. He
relaxes somewhat, after a moment, as he comes to recognise the orc, however.
"Stupid orc guard," he murmurs to himself, "Come in 'ere wi' stupid weapon 'n'
ac' like dey gon' be stupid 'n' fight." Answering the Teguk, however, at
length, the ebony beast asks, "What Teguk want?" He asks, as his eyes turn
briefly toward the Vorazg. "Ooooh, Vorazg," the beast can be heard to mutter,
as though impressed, if only slightly. Still, for a troll to be impressed with
anything must indeed say something about the person of which he speaks.

Tagakmog glances down at the orc puke and looks about to make comment on it and
this she that seems to be responsible for it. His hardest galre is for the
Troll Puck though as if he would blame even this drunken officer on him. His
further acuzations are cut short though as the high comander of all orcs
slithers to the captain with his reasonable question. "in the very depths of
this pit I trust that I have and it stands before us know." He turns to Puck,
"Troll. The Lord of Pulgorburzob wishes your presence." He leers evily always
glad to do a troll an ill turn.

Kalequa lowers her head almost shamefully before raising it slightly to look at
the Teguk Pulgor with eyes that seem suddenly far less intoxicated. Her fingers
clutch the dwarven axe in her hand almost negligently as she resheaths it. She
listens in for a moment and when Tagakmog calls upon Puck she decideds to stay
well out of this.

Smirking thinly, the Vorazg perhaps catching onto the words of Tagakmog all too
well, he nods once -- apparently satisfied with this response to his whispered
question. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" he suddenly, however, mutters to the Teguk
in the sinister tongue of his highest master. Yet, not waiting for a reply,
Grishnakh takes several small strides forward, his heavy frame moving silently
upon the ground as even his steel-toed boots utter not an echo on the cold,
smooth, floor. Carefully avoiding the imprint of the Eye, that glaring lidless
image that so feverishly haunts all held within here, he comes finally beside
the troll and turns towards the dwarf being held within its cage. 'Ah, so this
is the one that was foolish enough to sleep under her children's nests? Woud
make sense, I must agree. Hmm, what use the Nine have for all of them I can't
quite say. Though most likely they'll end up like that one there in the corner,
all dried up and shriveled.' Chuckling then, his laughter more of a stifled
wheeze that manages to escape his lungs and throat, the Commander glares
cruelly at Gumbart in particularly -- his fiery slivers only further adding to
the illumination cast upon him.

Puck makes a shrug of his massive shoulders, in response to Tagakmog's words,
"'kay. Puck talk to Teguk. But Vorazg want an'thin' wit' Puck first?" He asks,
looking then to the much smaller figure of Grishnakh, "Dorf wanna fight Puck."
He announces, smiling, "Puck'd beat up dorf good. Puck good at killin' stuff.
Kills lotsa dorfs. And tarks. Puck like killin' tarks." He states, simpleton
that he inherantly is. "Eye happy when Puck kill tarks, huh? Eye don't long
tarks, do it?"

Tagakmog scowels at Puck fignering his spear tightly with his sole good hand.
"I am no tark that I would refer to me by such a tark title as Lord! It is the
Lord and not urukind that will see you and whats worse you him." He snaps a
finger to the blue banded she orc, "Souse! Take him and chian him just out of
reach of these Gazat! let them each create thier own hells for each other while
they await the master's will." HE throws back his head in cackle his bulbous
nose jiggling as if matching the flame of the link uruk's torche.

Gumbart exhales and the mad strenght he spend on insulting the troll and the
watcher seem to have left him. The other dwarves, about 20 are still left
including Gumbart and Brican, watch in silent horror as the denizens of Dol
Guldur talk to each other or puke upon their dead cousin. Gumbart watches his
fellow cousins and slowly pulls himself together again. He mumbles, "This is
not the time to accuse me, brethren. This is not the time." He takes one
hesitant step towards the iron bars, then another. Pressing his bloody face
against the cold metal, he looks back at all the uruks, mumbling to his friend,
"Heh, everybody is the commander of everybody else, all of them ready to kill
each other." Louder, he answers the orcs, "Perhaps we shall wait in here for
all of you to kill each other, unless your master puts an end to your petty
fighting!"

Grishnakh is far from amused at the words of Gumbart, his horrible face near to
the dwarf's own -- the two separated only by the bars which hold the dwarven
party within and keep the Commander out. Snickering, his head shifting for a
moment to glance at the tall troll beside him, he shakes his head only to speak
in the common tongue, "Listen to the Teguk, troll. He acts on orders from the
Lord of the tower." Then, folding his long, hairy, arms behind him -- the hands
clasping upon the tailbone of his crooked back -- the Vorazg takes one stride
away from the cage only to turn once more to face it, the fury of his
malevolent gaze thrown upon all the gathered dwarves in a manner that reflects
the cruel nature of his unquenchable soul. "This one that you've chosen to
speak for you is a brave one." he comes to finally state, his comment now
directed back towards the khazad who had stepped forward to speak. "Perhaps --
too brave." he adds, the gears of his mind almost audible turning as his
diseased thoughts twine their way through the multiple chambers of his brain,
"That's easily enough fixed. I don't think our masters will mind what condition
their prisoners are in when they question them...they seem to have a knack of
getting what they want anyway, and leaving their subjects insane. Hmm. I wonder
how much the little worm likes his tongue, or his toes at that. It has been
awhile since I have had either on a plate."

Puck blinks a few times, tilting his head slightly to the right, reguarding
first the Teguk, and then the Vorazg. "Wraith wanna see Puck?" He inquires,
violet light fading just slightly. He then, however, looks to Tagakmog, and
frowns. "Not good you talk Olog like that. 'specially when Puck save you ferm
Eagle. Puck beat up stupid eagle, an' save you, an' you be mean ta Puck. Puck
not like that." He states, tone dark, quite cold, surprisingly so perhaps for a
beast of such limited intelligence. He looks to the Vorazg for confirmation on
the subject of the Nazgul.

At the Captain's command the drunken she orc passes out cold on the stone floor
unable to comply with her orders. Tagakmog steals a steely glare at the dwarf
that stops his laughter with hsi taunts, "Oh you have gained my attention
little one. Master Torturer Tagakmog would be loving to dig out his old trade
tools jsut for you. His steps to join Grsihnakh at the cages edge are cut short
at Puck's tirade. Sighing he turns to the simple minded creature, "It isfor
niether like nor hate that yo uwill be chained but because the master will it.
Now he did not asy alive so I give you benefit of a doubt and repay you by
letting you keep yours for now. Now away with your nasty weapon and do as you
are Eye fated to do." The captain motions with his hook to the black garud and
the score of the draw thier scimitars in uniosn ringing the chamber with thier
echoing threat.

Thus threatened, Gumbart shrinks back again. With each step that Tagakmog
approaches, with each word that Grishnakh says, he slumps a bit more. As
Tagakmog pauses to talk to Puck, Gumbart seizes the opportunity to whimper,
"Please, masters, do nothing of the kind. It is not necessary. You must have
known that I was trying to taunt you." Lowering his voice even more, such that
perhaps even the dwarves in the neighbouring cells cannot catch his words, he
whispers to the two orcs infront of his cells, "I was hoping for a mercifull
death, but both of you saw right through my pitiful ruse. There is no need to
unleash your anger now, mighty ones." His groveling becomes ununderstandable as
he continues to mumble to himself, head bowed, staring at the straw and the
dirt that spreads before his knees, hands raised in supplication.

Snickering, there is no compassion that floods to fill the terrible facial
expressions of Grishnakh -- no sign of lament for the dwarves' condition, nor
of sympathy for their plight. Nay, his slivers flare all the more perturbed at
Gumbart's comments, and glancing once more at the troll as if to dismiss that
business first, he bellows at Puck, "He acts on the Nazgul's orders!" letting
his voice ring for a moment that forbidden word spoken therein, said with the
bitter tinge of hatred and undertone in fear. Shifting then his pale gaze back
upon the dwarves, their leader having grown more cowardly in the face of
mutilation, he cackles -- his laughter filling up the room and reverberating
off its rocky sides. So harsh does it seem, so cruel and befitting of this
Uruk's warped frame, that it seeps in a sonorous echo that lasts eternally into
the shadowy gloom. "Fool! Flattery is something you will find few of us keen
too. We listen to the snaga whimper it day in and day out. The common rabble.
You're below them, though. Less than a worm in my own sharp eyes, and for what
purpose the Nine have of you I've yet to fathom. Likely you'll feed our hosts,
but perhaps your mind will amuse the wraiths instead, eh? Either way, you
better not get comfy with many of your limbs, eyes, ears, and tongue...they
just might be missing shortly." Smirking then, the Vorazg says no more as he
turns to depart -- walking past the cage and beyond the Teguk and his scimitar
wielding guards -- straight through the door which quickly is opened for him,
and beyond into the darkness.

Again, the massive Olog beast shrugs it's shoulders once, "I kill eagles, I
kill orcs if dey be 'tackin' me, an' you know dat ain't nuff ta beat me. But I
go talk to Wraith like 'e want. Where Nazgul stay?" asks the slow beast,
apparently confident that he'll survive the encounter. Or maybe he has yet to
fathom the fact that when a Nazgul wishes to see someone, it is usually not a
happy encounter. He doesn't drop his axe, however. Then again, he's never seen
without his enormous battle-axe, so that really shouldn't be a surprise.

Tagakmog sigh's as it appears Puck will not go easily but there is a lazzy way
out of this. "Very well remain here until Khamul comes for you. Lads, enoguh of
this Gazat stench for one evening, lets away." He raises his spear commandingly
and leads the unit out leaving the passed out Rakarg With the link uruk
defecating over her. Soon he too hurries ot catch up bringing up the rear of
the score. The door slams and bars shut behind them as at least soem barreir
for Puck to beat throgu hshould he unwisely choose to disobey.

With the danger gone, Gumbart starts to sneer. "Ha! Think you cowed me, slaves?
I am a fool but so are you!" he whispers.