Elendor - Thursday, January 04, 2001, 8:27 PM

---------------------------------------------

The normal bustle that is typical of the feasting hall is raised to a higher pitch due to the returning orcs from the Dunlanding campaign. Many snaga scurry to and fro trying to keep up with the increased demand. Orcs from the expedition are scattered about and the heavily wounded but still able to imbibe have congregated to a corner and are busily exchanging battle stories.

At the end of the bar in her customary place sits a she urk who, unlike others, has a plate of food and a fresh mug of ale. Sog lingers by her and they seem to chat amiably as Charvok is a favorite of the barkeep. Taking the fresh mug of ale she raises it hungrily to her lips and downs a large portion of the contents unconcerned that streams escape both sides of her mouth. The mug returns to the bar with a heavy -thunk- and she wipes at her face with the back of her arm. "Arrrgh Sog...That swill from the trip was enough to make a rat puke...This really hits the spot.." She blows a kiss to the barkeep who in turn flashes a broken fang grin back.

Goomba enters the Feasting Hall looking around and picking up small scraps of meat and bread from the tables and off the floor and puts them into a bag hanging at his waist.

Narkhash wanders into the feasting hall with a almost absent look about him. If a uruks cruel eyes can wander then the eyes of the smith would be wandering indeed. He takes a deep breath of the smoke and lingering smell of ale in the hall, and shakes his head as if waking at last from a long sleep. Rubbing absently at a crudely stitched gash of his face, most likely made by his own hand, Narkhash heads toward the bar, his eyes still wandering dazed but now seemingly guarded for drunken superiors who would cause him harm. Instead he finds the she orc Charvok and the barkeep Sog who waits on her like a drunken snaga. Sneering at the barkeep he sits a few seats down from Charvok, and arranges the dirt on the bar into the symbol of the flame.

Charvok picks up a piece of charred flesh and holds it before her eyes for a minuet...Admiring the meat as if it were life giving itself. Presently she moves it to her face and presses against her nose and inhales deeply.. Drool begins to form at the side of her mouth, bulges, then begins a slow descent to the countertop.. It stretches smooth until it lands on the counter making a connection directly from her mouth to the bar. Ever so slowly she moves it away and glances at Sog.."Is that Elf crust on top of this you old maggot??" The strand does not break but vibrates as she speaks until it can stand no more and breaks. Half snapping to the bar and the other half back to her mouth. "Aye wench..It tis..Traded a Olog for what he had left. Scrapped the mold off and layered atop the meat...Pretty proud of it if I do say so ..Har." Charvok's head turns slightly and see gets sight of the smith moving to the bar...Lowering her head she hopes to be missed but as he sits close all hope of that is lost..

Narkhash casts a look at Charvok just long enough for her to know that she has been seen, then turns to Sog and calls out for him to bring him a strong ale. He leans forward across the bar in eagerness, and all can see his muscled forearms burned heavily and covered with knife scars and burn wounds both fresh and old. Even into the back of his hands have been cut the crude symbol of the flame and hammer. Taking his ale back from Sog, Narkhash leans back on his stool and takes a deep drink, some of the froth dribbling down his chin and running onto the filth of the floor. At last setting the glass down, he turns to speak to the uruk next to him, his voice loud enough to be heard by any that would wish to listen, "They say a she wants to fight with the dush now. I would hate to be the orc who had his place taken by such low scum as that."

As the snaga around the Feasting Hall grab more of the scraps of food to eat Goomba gives up trying to fill his bag and wanders over to a seat at the bar and orders a mug of ale. Silently lost in his own thoughts he slowly sips his ale.

Charvok nods briefly back at the Cobug smith but keeps her eyes on Sog. Her anger flashes as the words of the smith hit the intended target of her ears. Gnawing on the fleshy bone she attacks it with a bit more vigor. Swallowing hard she speaks to Sog across the bar.."The Zealot says I chosen by the flame and worthy to undergo training in the rituals.." She glances sideways at the smith..."Yeah he said he wanted to speak to the foolish smith to point out the error of his ways.." She chuckles softly.."I think he make the fool eat that hammer he so proud of"

Narkhash spits the ale out in a long brown spout as the words of Charvok reach his ears. Then the ale glass flies across the room and shatters against the wall on the far side, sending snaga ducking the shards. His fists slam down on the bar and he leaps up from his seat with one arm thrown out toward Charvok, "You are unworthy of any teachings! The flame will throw you back and destroy your mind if you tried. The smiths of Moria carry the secret of forging with the flame, so it favors us over any wench or foolish Zealot." Now a silence hangs over the bar as Narkhash rants, his hands closing into fists.

Valqang roars out from the doorway at hearing this conversation....it's not certain whether he's trying to intervene, gain attention, or just be an ass. "Master Smith! I have need of your Flame!!"

Charvok's attention is turned fully to the smith as the words have the intended effect. She looks on in mock indifference. Setting the bone down to the table she picks up her mug deliberately and drinks slowly. Her eyes narrow to slits as her mind races.."I think the smith confuse the secret of the flame's allowing you to work metal and the real work of the flame, which is in attending to its teachings and to the Balrog itself..." She sips again from the mug and the corners of her mouth turn up just slightly into what can only be termed as smug. "I trust the secret of forging is about all you can handle.. As to the Zealot..Ill let him know you think him foolish, fool."

Garjug enters the feasting hall through the stone archway in the north wall.

Garjug has arrived.

Narkhash turns to look at Valqang and snarls, "The true master smith has returned so call me that no more. Speak to him and stay clear of me for now, for this foolish she has spoken foolish words." His eyes then snap back to Charvok and his head cocks and snaps forward in that manner so like the strutting of a rooster as he stalks toward Charvok with his hands raised. "I have said I will not kill you for the time spoke of. Indeed I must tell you of the smiths. Yet I will show you not secrets and I will tell you nothing of the smiths. No foolish she will ever learn these secrets, and if your foolish Zealot does not approve, let him come down here and speak to me himself. Go ahead, call him." His eyes seem to pulse as the challenge is issued.

Valqang growls quietly at Narkhash. More for the fact that he now has to find somebody else, when it took him forever to find Narkhash. But he hobbles his way over to the bar and calls out....."Something red, and thick, and sweet!"

Sog turns to face the bellowing Valqang and grabs a large piece of flesh and glances to make sure it is at least somewhat Red. He makes a hawking sound and brings up from the depths of his chest a green glob of phlegm. Spitting it over the flesh he nods approvingly and tosses it to Valqang. "I always considered myself to be sweet enough..Har har"

The last words of the Smith echo through the chamber as the stench from the newly arrived Zealot begin flowing through the room. The large figure looms in the doorway, and pauses. It can not be known if Garjug heard the blasphemous words, but after the brief pause, he seems to walk directly over towards both Narkhash and Charvok. His dark baleful eyes seem to glare at them both.

Ghlurshrekh enters the feasting hall through the stone archway in the north wall.

Ghlurshrekh has arrived.

Valqang wipes the phlegm from off of the flesh and rubs it in his fingers a long moment staring at it, as if it contained some sort of secret. With a quick flick of his wrist, he flicks the glob onto the bar counter, and then hurls the flesh back at Sog with a snarl!

Illumined by the eerie light of the Drum Room, a lone form is for a moment silhouetted in the doorway; not tall, but massive of shoulder and heavily armored, it slips through the arch and into the hall, cold, yellow-white eyes glinting.

"To Drink! You piece of snaga dung!!" Valqang yells at Sog as he hurls the piece of flesh.

As the foul stench reaches Goomba his nose wrinkles and he yells to Sog, "Hey Sog! Yer ale went bad. This stuff really stinks."

Charvok glares bolts of lightening at the smith and grips the mug tightly. Her heart races and her teeth clench in an effort to keep her heart from exploding upon the smith. "You blasphemer! You blaspheme the Flame maggot Cobug Narkhash.. If the Demon wished you'd be consumed here on the spot for you hatred and disrespect of the powers that rule this empire. Show me what you will or will not.." Her words snap short as she catches a smell...then glimpse of the Zealot. She drops immediately to one knee but keeps her head raised and eyes locked on the smith to avoid getting pounded if possible.

Narkhash's nose wrinkles first at the smell even stronger than the smell of rotting meat and urine in the feasting hall. His eyes rise to look on the shape of Garjug's darkness and his eyes widen. From the reaction of Charvok, something seems to come together in Narkhash's mind, and his face darkens. Some would call the smith brave and others would call him a fool, and brave fools are dead orcs. He steps around Charvok and into the path of the Zealot, his arms crossed across his chest and his eyes blazing. "You would teach this she the secrets of the flame? One of the great orcs like you? You are my better and stronger in the eyes of the flame, yet I will not kneel before one who would teach a she the hidden arts."

Ghlurshrekh steps toward the bar, departing from the shadows for the stark, glaring red light of the vast central fire. Circling that blazing inferno, he halts by the wooden counter, leaning against it, eyes travelling toward Narkhash and Charvok, attracted by their angry countenances and fierce words.

Valqang freezes in mid argument with Sog at the horrible stench that pervades the room. He swivels on his chair and lets one so called eyebrow raise as he watches this scene unfold.....Sog could probably dump that drink on top of him and he wouldn't care....his mind is lost in concentration.

Goomba disgustedly pushes the mug of stinking ale across the bar. Then pulls out his Scimitar and runs his finger slowly along the sharp edge and mumbles to himself, "I wonder if anyone could teach me to use this thing?"

Sog is ladling out more ale into the mugs along the bar as the scene unfolds. he transfixed like that of Valqang is concentrating on the She, the Smith and the pungent Zealot. Absently he dips the ladle into a pale and begins to pour into Valqangs mug but misses...pouring the entire ladle upon the bar. the ale pools briefly then begins to run this way and that seeking the low point of the bar or the ground..

A rare and fearsome smile creases the Zealot's face. The dark fleshy lips parting to display the yellowing and rotted tusk-like teeth. His thick tongue slowly slides over their pointed edges as his eyes roll over to the foolishly brave snaga. "Smith, there are those that are older than you, and those that are wiser. I am both, so I will give you a moment to reconsider your actions. The Fire has chosen many to serve it. Some have been uruk, and some she-uruk, and once an Olog." The last is accompanied by a frightening chuckle of derision. "In fact, one of the great followers of the flame was a she-uruk Witch named Zih. Now, if the flame chooses this one to serve it, then I, the greatest of the followers, will serve the will of the Demon, and teach this one the ways of the flame." Then the Zealot begins again walking towards the duo. "You can now reconsider your actions and your attempts at bravery, or you can yourself become more aquatinted with the fire." With the last, Garjug nods his head towards the massive fire-pit warming this great feasting hall.

Claws nigh half an inch long click upon the bar, tapping idly as Ghlurshrekh hisses, "Service." The claws continue to clack against the wood, then tighten, digging short furrows into the already oft-mangled counter. The Talashakh of the Thrakburzum tilts his head sidewise, watching Narkhash being confronted by Garjug almost placidly.

Charvok remains on bended knee and is astonished at the restraint of this teacher and master of the flame. A dull feeling comes over her as she realizes she has much to learn. The feeling passes quickly as she knows the word of the Zealot to acquaint the smith with the flame are carved in mithrill and she actually has a bit of expectation in watching it happen, though she shows it not.

Goomba slowly shakes his head and returns the Scimitar to it's sheath at his side then as the stench grows stronger he realizes it is not coming from the ale and picks up the mug again then moves down the bar away from the Zealot.

Narkhash looks over Garjug with a sweeping eye, taking in his strength and armor stronger than anything he has made ever. One hand idly goes to his temple and draws a ragged claw along a healing wound, tearing it open again so that black blood trickles down his face. He looks at the blood on his finger for a moment, then shakes his head. "Throw me in the fire if you wish. You are strong with the flame, so I will not strike back at you even if it would do any good. Throw me in the fire and let it burn me, for to be with the flame is holy." Narkhash throws back the ragged sleeve he wears to reveal the horrible burns inflicted by his own hand. "This she is a cowardly fool who insults her betters. I will not step aside."

Ghlurshrekh steps lightly away from the bar, accepting a battered mug filled with watered-down, sour ale from Sog, as the overworked bartended finally comes puffing up to him. Yet now his perusal of Narkhash is slow and deliberate; his eyes flicker to Garjug momentarily.

Garjug steps up to Narkhash until he is toe to toe with the unruly Smith. His fetid breath washing over his rotting teeth reeks even worse than the Zealot's usual odor. Slowly he raises his gauntleted hand across his body, and then with force unexpected from even one as puissant as the Zealot, he backhands the smith with all of his might. The simultaneous roar bellows deep from his lungs. "You are a worthless maggot, smaller than the elf-dung that resides in the soles of my boots! If what you say is true, than you are less of an Uruk than she is! If she has wronged you, then it is your duty to correct her. How else is she to learn?!? Yet you hide behind the feeble 'kindness' of simply speaking down to her. I would have you fight a duel with her to determine if you are truly worth living, but by the time I get finished with you, you will not be in any shape to stand!" The Zealot begins a rant in the ancient tongue, terminating with the brandishing of his fabled saber.

Garjug grasps a most grisly weapon in his tangled dark claws. The blackened blade is freed from the bindings of its scabbard, and the scalp dangling from the pommel seems to wave in the wind. The skin wrappings about the bone handle seem moist and supple.

Rising slowly to her feet. Charvok takes a step away from Garjug and Narkhash. With the challenges flying she utters not a word. Her mind makes a note of the witch Zih and she quickly dismisses it to ask the Zealot latter about this she uruk witch. As she steps back her eyes also spot the Chieftain Ghlurshrekh be she quickly turns her attention back to the center of the conflict. Abruptly she notices a sharp pain in her hand and she remembers that she is still clenching a mug of ale. Taking a quick drink to satiate her bone dry throat she does not notice blood dripping from her hand where her own claws pierced her palm for the force of its grasp.

The blow catches Narkhash hard across the face, breaking open several healing wounds and cutting a jagged new one across the side of his cheek. He stumbles backward and manages only to avoid falling by crashing into the back of the bar. He wipes at his face and smiles a horribly crooked smile with his metal teeth glittering with blood, "You think enough of me to strike me then? Oh if I had my way then she would be on the ground in a bloody pulp that will live only by luck. Yet I was stopped several times by other uruks who seem to have the guts of maggots." He steps forward and spreads his arms open to the Zealot, "Strike me again! If you are as holy as you say they I would feel your blade through my side and rejoice."

Charvok flinches uncontrollably from the gauntleted backhand of Garjug. Her right cheek clashes a painful memory from her not too long ago introduction to the Zealot that left her sprawled on the ground and bleeding from a similar move. The gall of the smith begging to be struck again tug at her scimitar and if she could will it she would run the maggot through .

Ghlurshrekh sidles closer, setting down his mug of ale with great caution, he moves toward Narkhash and the Zealot. "Religious instruction?" he murmurrs. "Is the Cobug here a good pupil, Zealot?"

Garjug continues to advance, his blade held threateningly before him. His nearly gleeful grin displaying his true affinity for bloodshed and violence. His ragged voice begins to speak the rough voice of Morbeth, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" Then switching to common, 'It is now your turn to get your wish and your birthright. To die in battle, and serve the Demon at the same time.' He completely ignores the cautious words of the chief, and heads into battle.

Garjug attacks Narkhash with his Scimitar and badly wounds him!

Valqang yelps as Narkhash crashes into the bar and jumps nimbly out of the way, though that is where his wounded leg fails him and collapses beneath him. He uses a chair to push himself back up and tries to stay well away from the fight.

Ghlurshrekh thrusts forward a clawed hand; his left, for his right dips to his side, bringing the first foot of steel forth from his leathern scabbard. "Hold!"

Ghlurshrekh slides forth his black scimitar from its leather sheath, dropping into stance as he raises it.

The blade of the Zealot slashes across the chest of the smith and he looks down at the gash for a moment as if not believing that such a blow could be made with one stroke of a blade. Yet it only takes a moment for the shock to fade and choking, gurgling sound rise up from the mouth of the smith as he tries not to scream despite the crushing pain. To his knees he falls and looks up at the Zealot with burning eyes and speaks with a mouth now laced heavily with blood from a bitten lip, "I would die and meet the flame if you wish. For the flame is everything, and if it burned me forever then I would die well.."

Glee is the only thing that can describe what Charvok feels as the smith gets pummeled. The only thing better would have been if she had the skills needed to do it herself. An odd quandary suddenly overcomes her and she has an urge to stop the Zealot and take up the assault herself. Indecision saddles her brain for only seconds till the feeling passes..I must be getting soft she thinks to her self and she shoves a snaga off a nearby stool and takes a seat to enjoy the lesson being played out.

Valqang is not stupid enough to jump into the middle of this fight. Besides, what would it gain him.

Garjug continues his advance, until a strong clawed hand clasps his arm. Twirling upon the new threat, he raises his bloodied scimitar and the beginnings of a battle cry rest upon his lips. Once his eyes glance at the chieftain, however, his demeanor changes. A gleam appears in his eyes and his warrior's rage shifts oddly to a raucous bout of laughter! Garjug lowers his blade, and slaps Ghlurshrekh hard on the shoulder as a gesture of friendship. "Ghar! I nearly slashed you as well! You should watch yourself there Chief!" Then chuckling to himself, he slides his scimitar back into it's home and turns his back on the whole affair to belly up to the bar. The final and most humiliating gesture towards the fallen smith, is the fact that Garjug has simply...forgotten him? Garjug then speaks to Sog...

Garjug seems filled with regret that not enough blood was let, but thrusts the blackened and curved blade into the sheath at his side anyway.

Garjug gets Sog's attention and yells, "You ant-spined weakling! The only reason you got this job is 'cause your son is a prostitute to Zijmorghaash!"

The other patrons of the feasting hall eye Garjug with wide eyed surprise and edge away from him...

Sog merely looks at Garjug, but a serving orc runs swiftly from the bar!

Ghlurshrekh smiles slightly, hiding his surprise moderately well. Only the slight hesitation with which he, too, sheathes his sword, the faint widening of his hard eyes, only these betray his startlement.

Ghlurshrekh slides his black scimitar into its dark leather sheath with a rasp.

Still staring at the gash across his chest and the blood trickling from it, Narkhash does not see the blade rise or stop in the air before it can fall and take his head. Yet slowly the realization seems to draw over the smith that although he is in pain almost as fierce as when he was crushed by the hammer of the master slaver, he is not yet staring into the face of the flame. One hand grasping at the gash on his chest, he claws his way to his knees and gurgles after the Zealot. "I came close to seeing the flame for myself, by your blade that sent me there. You are indeed a holy warrior, for the flame wreaths your blade." Some of that wreath of flame may be the blood in the eyes of the smith from the pool where he fell, yet his voice rings with truth.

Charvok marvels at the range the Zealot can shift in merely a heart beat. Nausea begins to rise within her gullet as she knows not how this will play out for her but it does make the Zealot seem more....deadly than previously thought, for his heart is truly of stone. Sucking in a deep breath she decides it best to duck out. As she passes the smith who is proclaiming glory to his wounds she throws what is left of her ale squarely into his face as she passes. "Put a lid on it maggot!" She tosses aside the empty mug and it tumbles harmlessly down to the floor and shatters.

Ghlurshrekh slowly lifts his drink from where he set it down, taking a long sip of the sour liquid.

Valqang slowly removes himself from the wall against which he stood. His eyes narrowing, trying to figure out if there is any advantage to be gained here.

Sog snaps his fingers and three snagas run out into where the conflict has just transpired. One wipes up the spilled blood and tosses the rag to Narkhash incase he needs it as a bandage. One sweeps up the fresh glass fragments and the third replaces the tipped over stools. As is usually the case the Feasting hall merely absorbs the conflicts and moments after they have happened there is little to show of it.

Garjug simply rests his heavy frame against the bar, and awaits his drink. Sog seems to be accustomed to the Zealot's abuse, and he sends his serving boy over to give him a full tankard. Garjug seems ignorant of the goings on around him as he casually pours half of the contents down his throat. Then, almost offhanded, the Zealot speaks to some nameless person over his shoulder, "By the way, let it be known that the she-Uruk now is apprenticing in the ways of the fire under me." Then with just as little aplomb, he again begins drinking his mead.

Narkhash grasps the rag and pressed it against his stomach uncaring of its filth or the bite as the ale soaks into the wound. He only lifts his hand to wipe blood away from his mouth and then scrambles to his feet casting a almost reverent glance at Garjug, then one of almost unbridled hate at Charvok who soaked him in the ale. As he stands, he whispers so that no one but himself can hear, "Let it be known that the she-uruk will soon be dead at the hand of Narkhash, and he shall learn of the flame." His mouth breaks into a cruel smile and his licks at the ale flowing down his face as he stumbles from the feasting all.