Bargain Upheld
Long Plain
Here there is emptiness: the grand and sweeping loneliness of wide plains, pale beneath the cold stars. North and west the Misty Mountains rise like tusks of stone from the earth south and east the plains roll on.
Contents:
Barzhaat
Morian Orc Camp
Uruk Camp
Obvious exits:
South leads to Long Plain.
North leads to Along the Slopes of the Misty Mountains.
East leads to Long Plain.
[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Nighttime on Mersday, Day 11 of November.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.
Real time is: 16:06:26 MDT on Thu May 06 2010.
[Bagaglok(#24847)]
It is night over the stretching plains that lie south of Lorien, and tiny glittering stars shine cold and forlorn overhead. Over this autumn-pale grassy landscape, two sizeable encampments have been set up -- the orc camps have not ceased in their travels.
Currently, a red form treads the area that separates the Mordain camp from the Morian one, and it is toward the latter settlement that Bagaglok directs his feet. Under an arm is carried a large bag. Something glints in the moonlight from one end.
[Barzhaat(#16260)] On the outskirts of the Morian camp, a distraction. The she-orc Barzhaat has not been seen about camp for some time. Now, though, she is back, limping heavily. Behind her she drags something that is bound round with tight cords of rope, something brown-black and feebly wriggling, something that every now and then emits an eerie squealing whine.
Morian goblins stop to stare one makes a suggestive remark that sets others hooting and cackling, whilst another points to the central fires and snaps out something with the cadence of an order to it. Barzhaat hisses, baring her teeth, and her hand flies to her scimitar as she snarls out angrily, "Not for the likes of you." The bundle, feeling the rope slacken, starts to wriggle harder.
And then someone catches sight of the red-robed Mordain shaman. The jeerers fall abruptly silent - if they bear any ill-will toward the Easterner, none quite dares voice it aloud. There have been strange rumours ...
[Bagaglok(#24847)]
A burst of squealing, orcish laughter, and then silence. Curious...
The Mordor-shaman continues onward as though nothing has changed any stares, ill-intented or nay, are promptly ignored. At the border of the Northern camp he halts, and turns his yellow gaze to where the little scout struggles with the tied up animal. "It squirms like a worm in the dirt," comments Bagaglok, watching now with a sort of amused expression -- but there is also slight surprise. Apparently he had not expected Barzhaat to succeed in catching a boar /alive/. The elongated sack is still held under one arm.
[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat scowls and aims a kick at her burden's head, eliciting a grunting gurgle, and grabs quickly for the rope again. "Has teeth like one - a fire-worm, that is." Her own fangs are bared in remembrance. "It's still alive. You didn't say undamaged." The animal, a half-grown boar youngling from one of this year's litters, has a long gash on its head, and one leg drags at an awkward angle. Clearly Barzhaat is not the only one to have suffered in the taking of the beast.
She glances up at the shaman, yellow eyes flaring. "Our bargain holds?"
[Bagaglok(#24847)]
The Easterner tilts his skull-helmed head, glancing the boar up and down as if inspecting it. But the consideration seems to be feigned, for next he nods. "Indeed, and you'll find I have upheld my end as well," the crimson-robed uruk takes a few paces closer, although he stands a fair distance away from the wriggling animal. The bag he bears is removed from its spot, and held outward the top end gleams of cold blackened sliver, and there are soft clattering sounds of wood on wood.
"Twenty arrows, each possessing a special groove, or shaft in which the poison can be stored. They are not filled yet, but I shall fetch you the vial..." With his free claw, he searches inside his garments.
[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat's eyes gleam greedily, but then she glances warily round, braids swinging as she notes the stares of the other mountain-goblins. "That is well, Master of Brews," she says in a low voice. "But perhaps this is not the place ..."
More loudly, she states, "The arrows are good. A good trade. What shall I do with the tes- the creature?" She gives another cruel yank to the boar's rope, as if to prove it can still twitch.
[Bagaglok(#24847)]
The seeking hand stops, and the shaman withdraws it, empty. He gives a peer to the side, seeming to have forgotten onlooking eyes until now. "Very well," he says, nodding again. "It shall remain where it is for now, and you may find me and claim it when you wish. Unless there is some place we may speak privately?" Judging by his expression, Bagaglok does not appear too fond on this latter idea, but he hides it with another glance to the boar.
"I..cannot haul it to the Mordain camp myself," admits the orc, and he flicks up a section of his sleeve to show the start of a series of bandages -- the movement is carefully made so that only Barzhaat can see what lies beneath. "Surely there are some of your own camp who can bring it behind me? Or I can fetch some 'volunteers' from mine."
[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat's features tighten at the mention of privacy. "Very well," she concedes, clearly no happier than Bagaglok. At the final words, though, she tosses her head, sending her multitude of braids flying. One bears a new decoration, a broken piece of boar's tusk. "Did I not capture the animal and drag it here? /I/ shall bring it." The words are spoken proudly, almost angrily.
She glances round then, and her gaze falls on one of the snaga, a scrawny creature no different from any of its brethren to the outsider's eye. "You! There's boxes to carried yonder. Get to it!" She sends it running with a shove, then turns back to offer explanation, "The supplies."
[Bagaglok(#24847)]
"Aah, yes," offers the Easterner at the she-orc's explanation. "Good, good..." He stands for a moment, watching the scrambling snaga, ere the robed uruk drops his sight back to the wild pig. "Shall we start back, then?" Bagaglok shifts the bundle of hidden arrows back under his arm, using his free claw to point over his shoulder toward the Mordain camp. "Might as well," the shaman gives a slightly mocking grin to the little scout. "It shouldn't take him long to catch us up, not while dragging that thing behind." The boar is indicated with a dip of his head.
"Perhaps afterward, you may join me in my tent. Private enough."
[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat's eyes widen briefly - fear? awe? - but she gives a jerked nod. Bagaglok's grin is taken as a challenge, for the she-orc yanks harshly on the rope, so that the young boar emits a grunting wheeze. The rope-wrapped body is pulled through dust and dirt, over tussocks of withered grass and through ice-rimed hollows. Barzhaat's progress is slow, and from the hissing she makes with every other step her leg is bothering her, but she continues on.
Meanwhile the snaga is scurrying about, enlisting the aid of another of its kind and dodging the buffets and kicks that inevitably come its way.
[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Slowly, if not almost lazily, the robed goblin follows close beside, avoiding the cloud of soil that the hauling of the boar against the ground kicks up. His own much lighter load clinks in the sack beneath his arm. Bagaglok marks the progress of the she-orc with a turn of his gaze, observing. "Slow and steady, as they say," he comments. "Like a small stream carving its bed in the land...requires time, and eventually...it brings a wild pig home." The shaman snorts.
[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat's tortuous motion stops so that she can regard the red-robed Bagaglok, her features blank with incomprehension. "Huh?" is all she manages before jerking her burden on in wordless silence. And then they are at the Mordain camp. "It goes in your tent?" Barzhaat queries softly, sounding almost nervous at the thought of that inner sanctum. The beast has ceased struggling, but when she gives a suspicious tug on the rope its breath comes out in a grunt.
The little snaga and its comrade are by now trotting across the distance between the camps, sack-laden.
[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Bagaglok quirks a brow, lips pulling back a little in another smirk. "Beyond your ken, I suppose. It was a poor attempt at humor," the orc sighs, but comfirms her question with a new gesturing of his hand. "Yes, in the tent. Then I may give you your reward. The supplies," he looks backward to the snaga, "may be left other there." A corner of the encampment is indicated -- there are other barrels and boxes stacked up for transportation.
[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat glances contemptuously at the pair of snaga, and growls in their direction, "You heard. Dump them and get gone before I feel the need to stretch my arms." A fanged grin shows that this threat has been used - and carried through - before.
Without another glance at the miserable creatures, she turns to Bagaglok. "It will be used well. Of that you can be sure." And her yellow eyes flare eagerly as she drags the battered-looking boar inside. Has it occurred to her that Bagaglok might choose to double-cross her? Seemingly not, for as she disappears beneath the tent-flap her fanged mouth curves in anticipation.
[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Indeed, double-crossing is always a lovely option.
However, whether or not the shaman intends this in the end is not discernable, for his expression is kept carefully blank as the Morian steps inside. The departing snaga are left unthanked and unacknowledged quietly, purposefully, Bagaglok follows suit behind Barzhaat. The shadow of a sly fanged smile might perhaps be glimpsed by onlookers, ere it is gone, and he slips into the tent.
