Morian Encampment

Gah! The stench alone could kill a flower sniffin' elf dead in his tracks. Oi! Urine and sweat proliferate in great quantities throughout this campsite, the results of so many unwashed orcish bodies contained upon a small patch of land tends to do that. Not even the tents of the few ranking orcs can shield the poor brutes within from the foul stench. Throw in a couple trolls that pop up occasionally, and you got yourself one stinkin' mass of ugliness!

Contents:

Smith's wagon

Thrakburzum Cook's Tent

Ghashrak

Qara's Head

Troll Hole

You move into the campsite.

Orc Camp

This small camp with several hide tents set up arounda central campfire. A few orcs and wargs mill around between the tents, while others rest near the fire.

A ring of orc sentries are posted around the area.

You get that funny teleport feeling again.

Huh? (Type "help" for help.)

Royal Guards goes home.

Dropped.

Outpost in Repair

Holding the ground at a local hill is an outpost of quarried stone, roughly 50 square meters to the side and with sloping exterior walls. Walls more than half again a man's height run between four towers on the corners that are nearly six meters high. The construction is of the finest dwarvish stonemasonary; the walls look to be two meters thick at the current height, and sit so solid into the ground as to belie a deep foundation. The paving in the central courtyard is heavy cobblestone from the nearby Anduin river. A couple of log sheds, constructed not by dwarves but by Beornings, rest in the courtyard. There is quite a bit of scaffolding and wooden bracing still in place.

The night's gloom has settled over the outpost; torches have been lit, four on the high towers to give a better view of the roads and ways. The Guards up in the towers can't be seen, but their presence can be felt. Few Beornings come here at night, but for those who are caught away from the village after sundown, this place provides a refuge.

A group of religious fanatics feverously fawning over the words of their leader, Garjug the Zealot of Moria. Though fanatical worshippers, they seem more than pleased to draw their weapons in the name of the Flame of the Demon below, and strike any blasphemers from this earth.

[Ghlurshrekh(#29406)] The camp moves, like a giant field of crawling ants, over the captured fort, laboring feverishly as they restore the defenses of the fortress: mortar here, and stone there, and wooden defense and iron wall, this way and that, snaga and Dush warrior and Guard working side by side as they put forth their labors, and muscle their loads of stone and steel away ...

Overseeing them are officers, dour-faced Tetraks, angry, pacing Muzgaks, quiet, and fiery eyed Maluuks; and above them, the leaders of the Thrakburzum...

The under-ruler, Ghlurshrekh, sits upon a high pile of rocks, armored calfs solidly set upon stone, mighty metal boots sitting immobile, long black blade laid across his lap; he runs a whetstone over its polished length, sharpening its razor edge to perfection.

Arghh is seated upon a much smaller pile of rocks, just a few feet to the side of Ghlurshrekh. Clutched tightly in his left hand is the bone protruding from a lump of meat, while the right hand clutches the hilt of his Scimitar. In a gruff voice he spits out, "So, Master, what is it you will do with the... scouts?"

[Blrek(#29672)] Assisting with the wooden defenses is the newest snaga in the camp. He is stacking wooden stakes up and holding them while another snaga ties them off with thick hide straps. Blrek, someone might recall he called himself that. He has abandoned his favorite log, long ago taken by the Foresters and turned into a stake to help in the defense of the fort. Blrek moves onto the next set, slamming the stake down in place and holding it there....

Over the dull roar of the crowd can be heard a pleasing scream, as if the skin was being plied slowly from the back of an elven warrior. The pitch of the scream changes and then after one final choked yelp, the field is quiet again. Perhaps a little bit quieter that it was before the shouts. In the relative quiet can be heard a low rumbling chant in some gutteral language that sends chills up and down even the most stout -Hai.

The chanting seems to be slowly marching towards the keep in the form of seven red-robed devout fanatics of the Zealot Garjug. His towering form can be seen amongst the others, his stench keeping the others at bay. Oddly enough, his scimitar is out and glowing a faint red in the evening's impending darkness. Perhaps it is as he claims, and the fire of the Demon does reside within his mighty blade.

Ghlurshrekh pages: #-1 FUNCTION (GARJUG) NOT FOUND Over the dull roar of the crowd can be heard a pleasing scream, as if the skin was being plied slowly from the back of an elven warrior. The pitch of the scream changes and then after one final choked yelp, the field is quiet again. Perhaps a little bit quieter that it was before the shouts. In the relative quiet can be heard a low rumbling chant in some gutteral language that sends chills up and down even the most stout -Hai.

The chanting seems to be slowly marching towards the keep in the form of seven red-robed devout fanatics of the Zealot Garjug. His towering form can be seen amongst the others, his stench keeping the others at bay. Oddly enough, his scimitar is out and glowing a faint red in the evening's impending darkness. Perhaps it is as he claims, and the fire of the Demon does reside within his mighty blade.

Ghlurshrekh nods noncommitally as Arghh speaks, but his concentration is on the black blade he holds. Yet the terrible scream quickly changes that.. The Latadurub hops down from the rockpile, catching up his scimitar. "Come." he hisses to Arghh, and makes his way towards the seven zealots and their putrid-smelling leader. He gestures with his his black scimitar towards the Zealot, though he is still a good hundred feet or so away, and his hissing, crackling voice calls out to him. "Zealots!"

Grub'dush only barely glances up at the newcomers, as a heaves and pulls a large rock up a ramp toward the top of the wall. Nondescript among the crowd of snagas, he distinguishes himself at most by his skill at glancing surreptitiously around, and doing slightly less work than his fellows while appearing to do more.

Arghh hastily discards the lump of meat, scrambling off the mound of rocks and dirt at a tremendous speed. As he follows closely behind the Under-ruler he hisses, "Why are they here?" A deep scowl upon the Uruk's face as he eyes the stinking Zealots.

Blrek finishes with the row of wooden stakes. He stops working and starts climbing down from the work scaffolds. Once on the ground, he turns to survey his own handiwork, then heads for the water barrels, making sure he doesn't get in the way of any high ranking officer.

The masses of workers seem to part before the scarlet Zealots, but not from respect, but from the odor. The effect, however, is the same as Garjug and his followers make quick travel of the remaining distance to the fort. The wild look in the followers eyes is impossible to miss. Garjug, however, has eyes filled with passionate energy and a wildness that is hardly contained. As he approaches the scimitar can be seen to emit some type of steam into the misty evening. Yes, indeed the blade has been heated.

From respect, the Zealot stops a significant distance from the approaching Latadurb. He does not bow, and does not speak, and the followers stop and kneel as he stops.

Grub'dush leaves the stone he has hauled atop the wall, where another snaga can actually arrange to make it stay put. He turns, going down the ramp, from which he has an excellent view of the Zealot and the Latadurub's presence. He passes near Blrek, though without any sign which would indicate the two know each other particularly well, and in the crowding near the base of the ramp, gets shoved against him as another snaga tries to shoulder his way ahead.

[Ghlurshrekh(#29406)] The Latadurub's amber-yellow eyes glitter, as if some gleam deep within stirs inside them, and he calls out, "Zealot of Moria ... welcome to the camp of the King." The heavyset uruk moves nearer the Zealot, halting some thirty feet away, black cloak trailing along the ground behind him, bound raven hair whipped by the breeze, that carries both the fetid stench of the zealots, and the constant miasma of the orcish camp, towards the under-ruler's nostrils. His narrow nose twists ever so slightly, yet apart from this, he makes no other move.

Garjug doesn't bother responding to the Under-Ruler, but instead allows his eyes to scan over the camp. His wide mouth creases, allowing a broken yellow and rotting tusk to protrude from his scarred lip. The stench of long-dead carrion is all that comes forth. A disturbed horsefly buzzes about the Zealots head and his eyes track it closely. It's final mistake is landing on his arm. With a lightning quick hand the Zealot snatches the insect and pops it into his mouth, gnashing happily.

Returning his attention to the Latadurb before him in his pompous robes. Garjin surveys him closely before emitting a snort of derision. "<Morbeth> If you think that your position pleases the Beast, then you have a lifetime of pain ahead of you to purify yourself." Then his tongue shifts to the tongue of the camp, 'I see that you have everything under control. Is this what the Demon has demanded or is this the will of the King?' The quirky smile indicates that he is fully aware of the juxtaposition in his statement.

Blrek stops and looks at the snaga who bumped into him. All he says is, "You not chief." He starts walking again, headed for the water barrels, obviously, thirst is the only thing on his mind right now. He stops at the barrels and begins drinking, taking massive pulls from the barrel, water spilling out past his mouth, covering his clothes and the ground around him.

[Ghlurshrekh(#29406)] The Latadurub frowns at the Black Speech that the Zealot speaks, but he seems to understand some of it. The right side of his mouth twitches slightly, the corner rising in a slightly irritable excuse for a sneer, which softens to a mere look of displeasure. "There is a difference between the Demon's will and the King's?" he questions, his eyes hardening. "I doubt it.. else why would the Flame allow a King to be, or appoint him as such?" The pale eyes narrow, but the mouth loses its curl, becoming just a hard line, like a sword-slash, in the severe face.

Grub'dush looks at Blrek, seeming puzzled by the comment, but obviously takes it as a bit of an affront. Following Blrek, he too goes for the water barrels, but says nothing at first. After a while, he says something in a soft undertone, with just a touch of amusement in it.

Blrek drops the ladle he was using to spoon water into his gullet, "What!? Course me not chief. You silly snaga, hit on head too many times." He grunts and looks for his log to whack Grub'dush with, then remembers he gave his log away. He frowns and turns towards the cooking fires, moving towards the meat cooking on one of them.

Grub'dush stifles a giggle, and doesn't follow Blrek. Instead he continues drinking his water.

[Gonkich(#29709)] Up to the the barrels of water moves a black skinned uruk. His teeth protruding from his mouth, and his mouth dropped a bit. Salava drips onto his lower lip from the teeth above. Yellowed and crooked they are. He as he walks he grunts, and as he approaches the barrels he says,"Move Snagas!" He then begins to push them out of the way, and grasps a laddle. He dunks it into the water and raises it to his lips. Pouring it inside the black whole.

Garjug smiles at the Latadurb's discomfort, and in his mind knows that in fact, the Latadurb is only the errand boy for the the self-absorbed King. 'Hah!', "<Morbeth> The King doesn't know what he does, and the Fire ignores him!" Then back to the speech that the Under-ruler can understand. 'The Demon allows us all to make our decisions. He gives us his will, and watches as we fail to do his bidding. The only way we can atone ourselves is through the clensing of pain. The King has not had any such clensing in many ages, and it is time that he came to me, and begged for such cleaning.' Turning around to point he continues, 'That scream you heard was one of your poor urchins that was unworthy of the clensing.' With that, he takes his still smoldering blade and lays it across his arm. Instantly the muscles tighten on the well-scarred arm, and a sizzling sound is heard by those nearby. A bit of leather catches fire, but still there is no reaction from the Zealot. Shortly he removes the blade, leaving a bleeding black swatch of skin dangling from his arm. 'The pain is the only cleansing that exists for us.' Then looking at Ghlurshrekh he asks, 'Are you pure enough for your duties?'

Arghh furrows his brow as he stands at Ghlurshrekh's side, purposely keeping his mouth shut as to no attract attention to himself. All the while his vein covered hand grasps tightly, the hilt of his Scimitar.

Ghlurshrekh's mouth twists, and he stifles a smirk. When he speaks, however, it is in calm, and altogether completely self-assured tones. His voice hisses from his toothy mouth: "Yes ... I find my service to the king ... extremely cleansing." The pale eyes glint, hard, like solid stones alight from inner flames; the mouth shuts, and again compresses into a firm line upon the night-dark face.

[Gonkich(#29709)] As Gonkich finishes pouring the water into his mouth, he turns. Seeing the Latadurub speak with the Zealot, he slowly makes his way towards them. Noticing the Dush standing next to him as well. He then adjusts the mail he wears and continues to walk towards the group. His eyes catch rays of the mid morning sun that covers the horizon. He hisses at it,"Damned light." He then walks up to the Latadurub, but noticing his conversation with the Zealot, he says nothing.

The laugh begins from deep within the Zealot's belly, causing the rumbling to travel up through his chest before his mouth spews forth raucous laughter. The laughter seems to overtake the Zealot making him double over as his lungs heave for breath. The laughter causes the large beast's body to convulse and nearly lose footing. Faces turn, and conversations stop as the insane fanatic continues to guffaw before the Under-ruler. Long moments later, Garjug finally gets his body under control again, wiping the moisture from his eyes to clear his vision.

[<#29406>] The Latadurub's firmly set mouth slowly twists up at the corners, revealing his sharp but yellowed fangs, and he ventures, mouth seeming to twist around the guttural, hissing syllables, lack of familiarity clear; one can easily pick up where it is that he hits a word he does not know."<Morbeth> *** ****** will, ** ******* of *** *****, ** ***** .. ********* ** ***** ***, *** *** ********* *******, *** ** ** *** *******, and *** ******* ******* ***** ... ********* a ********* *****."

Garjug's eyes squint at the words, and he turns his ears towards the attempts at the dark speech. His mocking smile trying to make sense of the words, but they are not in the tongue of the Fire, or of the common Uruk. Bowing slightly, Garjug asks the Latadurb to speak again, "The tongue of the Fire is not yet in your mouth, but I sense that you have words to share with me. Perhaps it would be best if you speak in the tongue of the commoner, and I will speak the words of the fire so that you can understand."

"<Uruk> The King's will, in the Flame's service, is often difficult to carry out, its execution painful. Yet it is for Moria's, and the Demon's greater glory; certainly a cleansing thing." Here he stops, and waits for the Zealot's response to his words.

Arghh stands attentively at the Under-ruler's side, casting a curious glance at the Zealot's mouth as he speaks. With a faint grumble the Dush brings his arms to his chest, crossing them as he awaits the outcome of this 'meeting'.

Garjug's eyes seem to reflect an understanding now, and he then speaks the words back, with the gutteral tongue of the Beast, "<Morbeth> The King's will, in the Flame's service, is often difficult to carry out, its execution painful. Yet it is for Moria's, and the Demon's greater glory; certainly a cleansing thing." Smiling to himself, he also states 'Yes, the service of the Fire is a worthy cause, but the words translated through the King will be like water flowing through the elven forest. Nothing is quite as it seems, and things change from one side to the other.'

[<#29406>] "<Uruk> Yes," says Ghlurshrekh, "<Uruk> But the Fire knows all, and the Demon chooses Her own mouthpiece, knowing full well which shall send forth the Will most clearly." The eyes glitter, and the orc's slight smile increases just a bit more.

Garjug's humor seems to have left him, and he turns to depart. Speaking over his shoulder as he begins to walk away, 'Aye, you can continue to live by the words of the King instead of the true words of the Fire if you wish, and you can continue to feel clensed by the muddied waters of the Kings orders. If that is your desire, then you shall have it, until the Demon finds you wanting, and clenses you from this world. I came to you to offer you a visit with the Fire, but if you are pleased cowering in the shadow of the King, than so be it. I will leave you to your indeterminable misery.' With that the rabid followers pursue the Zealot as he makes his way towards the edge of the bustling camp.

[Gonkich(#29709)] As the two stand and talk in the black speach, Gonkich stands in wonder. He does not comprehend the words spoken. And doesnt know if he wants to. Yet he stands there still, awaiting the Latadurub's full attention it seems. But he is not going to muster the thought of disturbing him at this moment.

[Arghh(#24362)] Glancing back and forth between the two, an angry look begins to form on the Dush' face - directed at the Zealot. Slowly the crossed arms slip down to his sides, once hand gently grasping the hilt of his Scimitar. The corner of his lip folds up onto itself, revealing stained teeth.

[<#29406>] "<Uruk> The Demon's Will is ever that which I follow first, Zealot, and foremost." hisses the Latadurub, his eyes glittering coldly. "<Uruk> And I was there, when the Demon Herself declared the king's service pleasing, and declared the service of all Moria's army's pleasing unto Her." The under-ruler's gauntleted hands tighten, curl into fists, but he merely says, "<Uruk> Still, if you find the King's service to the Demon less than meeting what the Demon has revealed to you, am I he with whom you should speak? Would not the King himself be the orc to tell of this? For ever does the King strive to follow the Flame, with all of his will and service."

[Ghlurshrekh(#29406)] The Latadurub watches the uruk-hai walk away, and his hard eyes narrow to slits, as he tries to guess the Zealot's game ... A curse comes unbidden from his lips, and he turns away from the exiting uruk, to Arghh and Gonkich. "Yes? What do you want of me?"