Contact with the Easterlings
Elendor - Tuesday, December 28, 1999, 9:34 PM
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===== Zhamik (kl) ===========================================================
CULTURE: Easterling (Human) LOCATION: The Dale-Lands
TITLE: Dream Weaver
FIRST: Sep 27, 1996 FLAGS: -F-/IC (M)
CONNECT: Online for 3h 7m 45s (IDLE: 17s) DETAILS: #24501 POeA+cfT
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DESCRIPTION:
His face is what draws the eye. The nose is a pulp, a mass with one, maybe two holes for breathing. His right cheekbone has been shattered, pieced together with black thread. A stitched together slit marks where his right eye once was. The left side of his face has been spared by whatever blow destroyed the right, as has the mouth. An angled black eyebrow caps a slanted dark eye. The cheekbone beneath is high and proud. Beneath is a thin-lipped mouth, underscored by a firm squared jaw. His face is olive toned and clean-shaven. Long dark hair has been pulled back in a ponytail, held at the nape of his neck by a leather thong. A metal helmet protects his head, probably not the same helmet that helped save his life when his face was mangled, as it is in good condition. Chain mail lies heavy on his shoulders, atop simple leather tunic and leggings. His left shoulder droops a little under its weight. He is of average height for a man, standing half a head taller than most of his brethren. His arms and legs are well-muscled, his torso broad through the chest. At his side hangs a scimitar, a shield slung over his back. His feet are shod in leather boots, well-worn but well-kept.
===================================================== 18013 OOC Credits =====
===== Garjug (bud) ==========================================================
CULTURE: Morian (Uruk-Hai <Orc>) LOCATION: The Dale-Lands
TITLE: Thrakburzum Muzgak, Zealot
FIRST: Jul 22, 1997 FLAGS: nF-/IC (M)
CONNECT: Online for 3h 55m 54s (IDLE: 0s) DETAILS: #23667 POA+cfT
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DESCRIPTION:
The stench defiles your nostrils before the source is ever seen. The reek of rotted flesh with the vile stench of evil. As the overpowering odor increases, you can make out the silhouette of a hulking, but misshapen figure. The glint of light off of shiny black plates conceal the masses of gnarled flesh underneath. Two smouldering crimson eyes glare at you balefully from the dim light, cutting through the foul air like torches through fog. The rest of his face is concealed behind the skull of some long-dead monstrosity, the skull having been adorned with ebony plates. Bits of rotting hide still hang from the grisly head, giving it a dreadful look of something clinging to it's long forgotten life.
The armor is a chaotic mess of chain links bound to small black plates. The armaments seem to clatter as this grotesque being steps towards you, the heavy bootsteps echoing against the narrow halls. Waves of putrid air seem to fill the air with a dizzying effect. Against the twisted leg rests a long, heavy curved blade. The slight ring of metal on metal can be heard with every step. The blade is of the blackest metal, and the grip seems to be made of some type of hide or...skin. Protruding from the end of the grisly weapon is a long tangle of bloodied hair, presumably removed from some unfortunate victim.
As the gnarled form steps closer, the etchings of many ornate figures and designs adorn the equipment. The overlong arms, bandied legs, and squat torso make a mockery of this warrior's power. Though danger can be sensed in every sinew of this twisted figure's body, the pungent air filled with decay and death seems more likely to overcome its opponents.
===================================================== 44783 OOC Credits =====
Rnagurd grumbles to himself, turning back to the three. "Gar, a troublemaker? Nay. He," here the Logaz swings the body from his shoulder, "he was a troublemaker..." Then he faces the Morians, and barely contains himself from throwing up on the spot, as a scent more putrid than that of the Nazgul drifts to his nose. "Gar..." he whispers softly to himself. "Yes," he searches for the word... "Yes, Muzgak," he manages to say. "I will be honored to dine with you." He then follows the Muzgak to the fire.
Garjug barely contains the wicked smile upon his face as he leads the small group back towards his campfire. Speaking to nobody in particular, but to all others behind, 'You would all be wise to follow and learn from the words of the Fire. This mighty toad has slain the worm he sought, but has yet to be learned in the arts of why he has his strength. If any of you maggots wish to eat, come and follow.' As Garjug walks closer to the camp, all that remains behind is the stench of his passage, and an eerie sound of laughter in the air.
Sass's snuffling takes her closer and closer to the carcass of the recently deceased snaga. Her rump jiggles unalluringly with anticipation as she comes up short against the heels of Gulp, and sits back with a thud. She looks up the height of Gulps back and sneezes a clump of snotty dirt and prickles upon it "Where the snaga? Sass can smell fresh dead. Sass want eat." She glances through the legs of those gathered at the flickering fires and the limp carcass.
Ghlurshrekh hears the voice of the Zealot once more, and curiosity, as well as desire to hear the words of the flame ... He turns to follow, when something sticky and prickly attaches itself to his black cape. For a second, he yelps, leaping back, and shakes the cloak. Globs of mucus are never good apparel for a warrior; at least, that is the Master Jailor's opinion. Ghlurshrekh turns to the fat orc female, as he says, ".. It is over there ... " But he seems a bit offended by the attempted 'sabotage' of his cloak, which is hardly intended to be a weighted garment. Turning, he steps towards the Zealot, again suppressing a cough at the stench ...
Garjug casts a quick glance over his shoulder, and sees the Mordain slinking off into the darkness of the Mordain camp. Emitting a snort, and a quick curse in the dark tongue, he simply shakes his head at the cowardice of those that don't believe in the strength of the Fire. 'All that remain, shall learn of the words of the Fire, for they are the source of strength of will, and the tongue of the mighty.' After a brief pause, he adds a bit more incentive...'And I have half a goat roasting upon my spit.'
Feeling eyes upon him from some distant perch, Garjug pauses and returns the glance of the Easterling briefly before continuing.
Sass clambes to her feet, watching the retreat of the Mordain. Hearing Gulp's cough at his passing, she pats him on the back, avoiding the sticky areas "you got a cold?" Lengths of grass and a couple of rocks lodged up each nostril muffle her speech and aparantly make her oblivious to the stench of the Mordain. Sass' moment of charity has passed as, not even waiting to here Gulp's response, her eyes fasten on the dead snaga and she makes to push her way towards it.
Garjug's keen ears hear the heavy clomping of the approaching Easterlings, and turns slowly in their direction. He pauses again, allowing Ghlurshrekh to catch up with him. His eyes study the new guests, and he wonders their intent. Feeling little fear of the easterlings, he is suprised at the prickling of the hair upon his neck. Trusting his instincts, he looks across the camp, but sees nothing. Knowing that he must look foolish, his instincts have never steered him wrong. Fearing what he might see, he looks up. Only such keen eyes as the -Hai has in the evening gloom can see the foul fowl. Garjug scowls and spits a curse, "<Morbeth> Skai! The bedevilment of the north has arrived! That gives us all the more reason to speed into camp!" realising that none about him understand his warning, he points up into the sky, and speaks in common, 'Speed towards camp, for there is the retched vermin of the northern slopes above us, but he will be unable to attack us in camp. For his cowardice will speed him on his way.' This last is completed at a fast trot towards the camp.
Zhamik glances up as the Uruk-Hai speaks, but his one Human eye can see nothing amiss. Nevertheless, he picks up the pace, his warriors hurrying to keep up with him.
Garjug feels the bristling upon his spine, but knows that looking up into the sky would hardly assist him against those accursed talons. Knowing ones death, does not prevent the death, after all. With a sudden burst of speed, unlikely with the bent and knurled legs that carry such a large frame, the Zealot bolts towards the perimeter of the camp, racing past the perimeter guard who only looks on stupidly. Garjug begins to slow his pace, for he knows that he does not have to outrun the flying maggot, only outrun those that follow him. Regaining some composure, he slows to a quick walk and manages to work his way between a number of larger wagons as he walks towards his fire-pit, idling wondering if the smell of roasting goat is pleasant to the avian.
As the gobbit of torn flesh thuds against a nearby wagon, relief falls upon Garjug, and words of dark-speak tumble from his mouth, as he displays much bravado. Striding confidently towards his fire-pit, he mercilessly shoves both snagas and even Cobug and Tetrak from his path. His approach is only slowed as he spies his campfire, and only once he stands beside it does he look back towards those that follow him.
Sass's lumbering run increases at the blood curdling cry of the eagle and she ducks her head impulsively. Her gait slows a fraction as tilts her face towards the rain of warm blood and she squeals as the carcass hits the wagon in front of her. She glances frantically round and snatches at the bloody carcass with her free hand, never one to pass up a free meal. Inside the safety of the camp, Sass slows and turns to watch how the men fair. She chews a time on the snaga leg and sucks occasionally on the dogog food.
Zhamik finishes brushing himself off. Now at the perimeter of the Morian camp, he bows slightly to the guard. "I am come at the invitation of one of yours," he tells the uruk when challenged. "He has half a goat and stories to tell of the Flame." Behind him, his warriors array themselves, recovered from the near brush with the Spirits of the Wind.
Garjug motions to the guard to let his visitors into his camp, always willing to speak the truth to newcomers. Garjug remains standing until his guests arrive, and then he reaches down and rends a charred hunk of goat from the spit, drool already seeping from his fat lips.
Sass follows behind the Easterlings, taking a seat close to them and watching as the roasted goat is broken and shared amongst the gathered. Favouring her feed raw, she chews and sucks at her morsals, blood and marrow spilling down her chin. Sass watches with interest these strange proceedings.
Garjug smiles softly, undaunted by the blasphemy that the ignorant heathen speaks, for the Demon of Fire accepts all into it's fold. Speaking softly in the gutteral language the Zealot begins, "<Morbeth> This is the language of the Fire." Then changing to common his words begin to flow. 'The Flame is the Demon that feeds the strength of will that resides within everyone. It drives all that believe with intense strength and craftiness. No being is more clever than the Demon, and the fire with which is speaks can never be outmatched. For the Fire consumes all, and only by being one with the Flame can one hope to last through the inferno.' As the Zealot speaks, an errant butterfly begins flittering around overhead. Taking another large bite of the goat, fully displaying his rotting teeth, a putrid wave of stench pollutes the nearby air. With mouth full and food spraying, Garjug continues.
You say in Morbeth, "'only with the strength and power and influence of the Demon of Fire can any hope to survive the upcoming days, for ahead lie the days of reckonning. The days when all wills will be tested, and that all those that fail the final battle, will rot in the fiery embrace of the Demon known as "Balrog" until even those strongest ones fail and become quivering blobs of useless flesh and are consumed.' This last is accompanied by a nod towards Sass. As the lone butterfly eventually lands upon Garjug's leg, his eyes fall upon it, and a simple smile of happiness falls across his face, displaying an unexpected side of the rough Uruk-Hai."
Zhamik pulls his dagger out of his belt and uses it to carve off a chunk of the goat. He flings it back toward his men, then carves off a smaller chunk for himself. He stands to gnaw at the meat, juice dribbling down his chin. Behind him, his men divide the chunk into pieces. They likewise stand, listening. Some shake their heads.
Garjug continues with 'Only with the strength and power and influence of the Demon of Fire can any hope to survive the upcoming days, for ahead lie the days of reckonning. The days when all wills will be tested, and that all those that fail the final battle, will rot in the fiery embrace of the Demon known as "<Morbeth> Balrog" until even those strongest ones fail and become quivering blobs of useless flesh and are consumed.' This last is accompanied by a nod towards Sass. As the lone butterfly eventually lands upon Garjug's leg, his eyes fall upon it, and a simple smile of happiness falls across his face, displaying an unexpected side of the rough Uruk-Hai.
Zhamik listens thoughtfully. His one brow arches a little at the Uruk-Hai's smile. "It is said that the Dark One will come to great power," he replies quietly, after a moment or two of silence. "And that He will reward those who serve Him, even with life everlasting, as He has rewarded the Nine."
Garjug barely seems to hear the Easterling, having most of his attention to the delicate creature upon his thigh. reaching down slowly as to not disturb the butterfly, he moves his fingers in and clasps the body of the colorful Monarch. With smooth and practiced ease, he then plucks both of the wings from the flying vermin and proceeds to watch the mutilated butterfly squirm for a few moments before dropping it into his rotting mouth, enjoying the delicacy. Turning back to the Easterling, he again gives his attention...'Hrmph! Life eternal! As if the slavery that those wyverns have is life everlasting? That is only offered to his preferred slaves, so that they can serve his wishes until the day that the Fire consumes him and all of his doing. You see,' Garjug bends in close, as if sharing a deep secret, 'all life began deep within the mountains. Some of the less desireables were forced out, but even the dwarves, with their maggot infested beards had enough smarts to try and return to the true homeland. Sure, eveyone has their beliefs, but only those with the truth behind them will be victorious, and when all is consumed in flame, you had better take heed. be one with the flame, and you will be saved the agony.'
Garjug sits silently as a gust of air passes through the camp. The rancid air surrounding your host seems to waft away, leaving you in a brief reprieve from its grasp. The Zealot seems to be enjoying this directed conversation. 'It is the most simple answer you have yet asked, and requires a simple answer. The Dark One rules by fear and loathing, and with thought only for his self. The Demon of Fire instead makes each one of it's servants better, and stronger. Smarter and faster, better with blades, and with languages. The Demon "<Morbeth> Balrog" will test each of it's servants, but strives to make them better. Not consume them carelessly like the Dark One. In the End, there will only be the Fire, for the water only moves downhill, and as we start from the mountaintops, all will fall before us!' This last is spoken with a fevor not yet heard from this gnarled warrior-priest.
Zhamik seems totally unconscious of anything other than Garjug's words and the goat in his mouth. Behind him, however, the other Easterling warriors gag a little. Zhamik nods his head a little. "Your words are strange to my ears," he tells the Uruk-Hai. "But your meat is good. I would hear more, but at another time. My men patrol the hillside." He points to the west. "And I go, not only to hear their report, but to see for myself." Here he snorts. "Though with one eye, I see so much. Still...it is ironic. The Dark One is said to be but a single EYE, burning, perhaps with the same fire that fuels your Demon..." This thought entertains him for a moment. Then he continues. "And yet this single EYE sees everything. I emulate Him in having but one eye, and my one eye must see for itself." He laughs shortly. "Reports are just not the same." He bows to the Uruk-Hai. "Many thanks for your company, and for the meat. We will meet again. I am Zhamik, the Ghejuran, if you would seek me out."
Zhamik glances down at the arm, then up at the Garjug's face. "I will remember, Garjug the Zealot. We will speak again," he tells him. He bows, then turns. His warriors let him pass between them, then close ranks behind him as he makes his way back to the Easterling camp. Not long after, a small group of men on horseback make their way to the hillside to the west.
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