Featuring (all Yfelwydan Orcs): Shakhragh, Bubhosh, Gogger as Ologgo.

A Hill in the Ettendales
This hill is flat-topped, and half-broken walls and tumbled stones suggest that this was once a town or fortress of some size. There are only a few scattered trees here and there. At one corner of the hilltop one tower must have been particularly large, for its foundation is still intact. The blocks of stone that made it up litter that side of the hill, overgrown by grass and weeds.

The ring is all that remains standing, averaging about man-height, some places shorter, others taller. A gap in the foundation is wide enough for a man, or horse, to enter the circle.
Contents:
Bubhosh

-------------------------------Trollshaws Time--------------------------------
Real time is: Thu Apr 18 17:05:00 2002 - Elendor time is
Late Morning on a Rainy Winter Trewsday, January 25, 3026

Note: It is daytime out, so do not leave the cover of the trees!
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Note: we RPed this as though it were night.

~~~

The North of the world is cold and dark, clouds massed overhead and pouring rain by the bucket down onto the earth in the night. The Ettendales, more bereft of activity than usual, is silent for the most part as the rugged hills and valleys are battered by rain and wind.

Well, not quite silent. A hill in the center of the broken landscape is dotted with a few ragged tents and waterlogged fire-pits, infested by Orcs. The Goblins, small, twisted creatures in the night, stay in their tents for the most part; only occasionally does one scurry out of cover into the rain. One or two gnaw on old bones or bits of hide to satisfy to an extent their overwhelming hunger.

Down the hill there comes a clattering sound, then what sounds like good natured swearing. A voice calls up from below shorlty after, cheerily saying, "Eh, you buggers know I'm down here, me and my lads. What in the name of all the shrieking things in the mountains took it into your heads to camp in such a cheery spot?"

A clamour arises in the Orc camp as the voice sounds below. A number of Orcs come out of the cover of their tents, moving hastily to see who or what could be making this noise. A particularly large, hairy brute of an Orc with a bow in hand comes up to the fore and glares down the slope into the darkness. "Oi! Oi, who's there? Speak or be slain, stanger!" He readies his bow.

Bubhosh calls up, showing himself, coming upslope, but not so fast as to be threatening. "Ah now," he says, "slim pickings you get in these parts, to be sure. But you look like you have a few good lads with you. Just you know these lands belong to the Coldfells Hold, they do, the parts that the trolls don't claim."

The Orc on the hill lowers his bow a bit, but not entirely. "Coldfells Hold?" he mutters to himself. Another Orc by his side mutters something to him, and he nods. "Oh, aye. The Coldfells." He disarms himself, placing the arrow back in its quiver and holding the bow in one hand at his side. "Aye, fair enough. Slim pickin's indeed. We've been stuck up 'ere waitin' fer our Boss ter show up agin, an' the game's all but run out. Most of us want ter move on, but a few sheep," he glances over his shoulder on this word, disdainfully eyeing some of the Goblins behind him, "'Ave kept us stuck up on this forsaken hilltop."

Bubhosh laughs coldly at that, and places his mace in its holster, proceeding up the hill. His band, a group of orcs who if not fat look at least somewhat better fed and dressed than those in the camp, now follow behind him, still moving slow enough not to seem a threat.

"So what are yer going to do" he says. "Yer lucky not to have been troll-meat a long time ago, round here. If you're not gonna pay respects to the Boss back in the Coldfells, you better turn round and try to make it southeast to the mountains and hope the elves don't get you."

Bubhosh unwields Mace.

"Elves. Feh." The Orc on the hill spits. "We can take any band of Elves wot crosses our path." A few others nod confidently - overconfidently perhaps - in affirmation. "Garn, why should the Chief of the Coldfells care fer us? 'Tisn't as though we're takin' up much space." He chuckles raucously.

"All yer lout's're takin' up more space than yer deserve," growls a new voice, and a cloaked and hooded Orc with a spear in one hand steps out of the brush of the hill slope. "Rukh, as leather-headed as ever." He chortles to himself. "Lads, rejoice. Yer Boss is back." He grimaces at the Orc on the hill.

Rukh's eyes grow wide. "Shakh! We thought ye were dead!" A few other Orcs growl nervously in agreement.

"No such luck fer you, Rukh. Now, who's this rabble?" Shakhragh glares through the rain at the newly-come Orcs.

Bubhosh examines the newcomer with a cold eye. "Just patrolling the borders, I am. Yer on Coldfells Hold land now. Of course, if you camp here all winter, the trolls will be coming from miles around just to gnaw the lefftover bones, so it's not like I care that much."

Shakhragh folds his arms in his cloak. "Aye, I know where we are. The Coldfells Hold. Used to live there, some five winters ago." He walks up the slope and turns to stare down at the patrol of Goblins headed by Bubhosh. Rukh shies away, leering at Shakhragh as he fades back into the crowd of Orcs. "I'll see to it we won't be on yer land much longer. A confrontation wif yer lads ain't necessary." He scratches his hairy chin in thought, then amends his previous statement. "Aye, in fact I think we'll come back wif ye to the Coldfells ourselves. A convenient hide-away from Elves and Men if ever there was one."

Bubhosh squints, staring up at Shakhragh. "Ach!" he says after a minute. "I thought I knew that voice from somewheres. I was just the apprentice smith when you were there last. I'm the smith now, and there's a new boss. He could use more lads, so if you want to come along, that's fine enough, he won't kill you for showing up on his doorstep. But mind your manners. He's not soft like old Gurukh got the last few years."

Bubhosh's squad now comes up behind him, clustering there. They're close in numbers to Shakh's group, whom they stare at curiously.

"Gurukh! Hah! That fat oaf's the reason I left." He raises a brow and studies the smith below. "Ahh... Bubhosh. Aye, I remember yer. Could teach me own smithy Ologgo a thing or two. Hahah!" A few other Goblins chuckle along with him. "Speakin' of the Smith, where is the lout? I want a few words wif him. Burk!" he cries, and a small, underfed Goblin covered in tatoos clambours out of the crowd. "Burk, go see about findin' Ologgo. Tell 'im I'd like ter talk wif him sometime, got it? Pressin' business." The small Orc nods frantically and runs off to the cluster of tents, tripping over his gangly arms and legs on the way. "Snagas. Heh," chuckles Shakhragh. "Good fer nothing." He turns back to Bubhosh again. "Fine then. Yer can head back ter the hills on yer own if ye like. Me lads'll be along in time; there's work ter do in the camp afore we can get moving."

Bubhosh seems amused. "Well, we need more snagas," he answers, "So don't kill too many on the way. I mean to get out of range of the troll lair up north of ya by daybreak, so I'll be scooting on."

He turns. "Ho! Grakhaz! Burglosh! Get yer butts moving. Don't stand here gawking. You can find out if any of these folks are worth a hill of beans when we've got walls round us. C'mon!"

And with a few rough blows he gets his group sorted out and headed roughly downhill.

Bubhosh heads south down the hill.
Bubhosh has left.

Shakhragh leers at the retreating Orcs, then moves back through the crowd to the tents.