'Polite' Exchange

Foothills of the Misties - Near Caradhras
The sunlight is too bright for your sensitive eyes. It is hard to make out much of anything.

There are no clouds overhead to block out the view to the perfect blue sky, the sunshine is bright and warms the Mountains of Mist. The early morning autumn air is biting and nippy.

Contents:
Antnog
Tiridor
Ormesir
Haldir
Magua
Morian Orc Camp
Uruk Camp
Boundary Stone
Obvious exits:
 East leads to Anduin Vale, North of Lorien.
 West leads to Foothills of the Misties - South of Cloudyhead.
 North leads to Foothills of the Misties.

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Early Morning on Trewsday, Day 27 of September.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 18:42:23 MDT on Wed Apr 21 2010.

[Magua(#32030)] 
The great king of the Misties is secure in his encampment, his dark banner flying over the biggest tent in the camp. Magua is trailed by some loyal bodyguards through the murk of dawn as he nears what is roughly the edge of the Morian camp. Afar is the camp of the Mordain who have crossed the river. The king sniffs the air and his nose wrinkles at the foul smell drifting up from the south.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
From across the way, over the land that separates the two neighboring camps, there marches a small band of Eastern orcs, black banners likewise dancing in the autumn air -- a large section of these bear the emblem of Dol Guldur. In their midst walks the robed shaman Bagaglok, though he is noticably Vorazg-less the Mordain Commander is not present. Steadily, the group draws near to the Morian encampment and its border.

[Tiridor(#30454)] From the south might be the cause of smell to the nose of big uruk, for he is about to have company. However, the elf that approaches is not about to announce his presence. High up in a tree is he perched, and he is not about to hit the ground anytime soon. Wearily is he looking towards what he believes might be the location of the most foul of creatures, lurking around only too close to his homeland - his mission clear: to observe, not to engage. One can be pretty sure he is not about to engage, of course, but his blood boils.

[Magua(#32030)] 
Magua has his battle axe cradled in his arm as if it were a massive sceptre. The orc-king sees the Mordain approaching and waves to his guards to allow them to come near. A little snaga looking to better his position in the hierarchy of pain has scuttled off and soon returns with the great standard of the king, a dark banner with a crazed, poorly drawn design representing the Flame.

[Ormesir(#31473)]
        A few branches below sat a younger, less fancier dressed Elf. He held on tightly to the trunk of the tree as he peered down at the Orks with a look of disgust. A quick glance upwards tells him where the other was, and then back to the creatures once more, his cloak drawn fast around him.

[Antnog(#32047)] Near to the fore of the Mordain battalion skulks the scout and executioner of Dol Guldur: Antnog. His scimitar, naked to the twilight, catches the baleful light of early dawn which casts a grim and scowling shadow over the swart countenance of the Eye-pledged Uruk. But likewise his scowl directed to the alien banner of the Flame, and indeed even to his compatriots, all of which he looks with the snaggle-toothed derision of contempt overboiling like heated pitch. "Blargh," he speaks like a frog croaking and more to himself than to the others, "heads to roll and meat to eat."

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Drawing at length to the Northern camp's edge, the Mordain uruks pass unhindered into the settlement of Morian tents. A few of the group glance about with clear disgust upon their faces -- and it is at the executioner's muttering that Bagaglok turns to spare him a quick stare. "Hold your blade, unless it is unavoidable," the shaman hisses quietly, stepping not too far behind the other. "The mountain rats might be better equipped then us, considering we suffered loss of our own supplies in the crossing with the rafts. Our business is with their king.."

Toward Magua the group comes, slowing. "Hail, Northern Lord," the crimson robed creature bows as he stops in one claw there is clasped a roll of parchment.

[Magua(#32030)] 
Magua smiles wickedly at the show of deference. "You come to deal now that you've thought of my offer? And what is that you bring with you?" He gestures at the parchment. "Leaf-ear garbage." He spits at the mention of the Elves.

[Tiridor(#30454)] Not aware of what is being said among the foul yrch, Tiridor is nontheless intrigued. He has seen such creatures before, more times than he would've wished. But how often do one get a chance to study them this close without interruption?
       
He notices how they are two groups that does not seem to feel much love for each other, and he tries to figure out the current pecking order. What exactly they are doing might be of less interest, as long as they move no closer towards the border. For a second, he feels more like a zoologist studying some exotic animal pack than a soldier guarding his land. But soon he shakes this feeling away and looks straight down the tree to see how the squier is doing. No doubt, he might be a bit more nervous than the warden.

Ormesir is indeed, for more reasons than some may think. He had an arm fully looped around the tree tightly - as though worried about falling as he too, stared at the orks, fixated as he looked each one over, noting their movements and their grunting. His lips pull down into a frown at the unknown tongue.

[Antnog(#32047)] "Aye, pulgorbuurzob," answers the executioner under guise of an amphibian-esque gurgle and the metal-on-metal twang of his scimitar striking his mail to a rhythm of an unsung song. Thereafter, Antnog's black eyes, peering ink from under yellow-brown slants, gaze intently on the King of the Rats while a bright pink tongue juts out to draw along the uneven peaks of his teeth like some slug across a broken path until a sharp inhale sucks the moisture clean off them and the tongue retreats back anew with a smack of the lips. He affords no commentary to either the shaman nor the king, but an itch upon his ear draws the blade's point to the lobe, with a muttering of "always itchy in Elf country".

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
At the label that the paper is given, one side of the Malkog's mouth twitches, but the scowl is held back. "Leaf-ear garbage, certainly not," answers Bagaglok, his yellow eyes flashing momentarily toward Magua's guards ere he swiftly returns his sight back to their leader. The shaman shifts the letter in his hands, revealing the seal of a large red Eye. The parchment he hands to Antnog, nodding his skull-helmed head for the other Pulgorbuurz orc to step forward and offer it to the King. "It is a message from the Vorazg, who gives his regrets that he could not meet you in person," Bagaglok continues to Magua there are the hintings of a grin as he speaks thus. "But you shall find that he yields his consent for your people to accompany us through the foothills."

The Eldar in the trees are left alone, unnoticed by the shaman.

[Magua(#32030)] 
Magua reaches out and takes the parchment, not caring much if it is wrinkled at all by his grasp. He hands it off to one of his underlings without even glancing at it. "Accompany you where? For what purpose?"

[Tiridor(#30454)] Was there a piece of parchment that one of the yrch handed to the other? Can yrch read and write, or have they stolen it from somebody else? TIridor's forhead wrinkles thoughtfully, before he drops down a patch or to and carefully places a hand on the other elf's shoulder. Quite some acrobatics is required for this move, but yet to the agile elf it seems like nothing.
       
Not a word is said, but he points towards the branch he just squatted on, and offers it now to Ormesir. If there's one good branch in a tree, its pleasant rest should be shared. Tiridor does not want any plummeting from trees at this moment. It would be Bad, to say the least. He moves out of the way a bit, as much as the tree trunk permits, to let the other pass.

Ormesir had been so focused on trying to see that paper as well that he nearly started as he felt the hand. He glances up to the branch, puzzled befor realizing the offer. He nodded slowly, as though this were a grave life-and-death decision and starts up. He took his time - for an elf that is, but soon was perched near the trunk once more, a hand firmly on another branch. The view much better the young elf looked back down to the other expectantly.

[<#32047>] The grasping hands of the king, striking out to take the parchment with barely a touch by Antnog, brings a grimace of annoyance to the exceutioner who, in further evidence of this feeling, grunts. Amidst the grunts, a foul speech, the dialect of the Mordain Orcs, is rumbled in a deep croak to the Shaman, " Mountain rats are not affording the proper and right decency to the Eye. Shaman, the blasphemy sickens me. Are we gonna stand for this haughtiness in the face of the Master? I ain't takin' no guilt for bad-faith from these 'goblins'. Aye, they need be taught their prayers, as I reckon it."

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
'Did you not mention we would be in need of guides through the foothills?' Bagaglok's gaze notes the passing aside of the paper, and he frowns slightly, but comments naught on it. 'We wish to go west, and then south, skirting around the albai filth's accursed Wood,' he points a claw backward where the gold haze of Lorien lies. 'Our business is our own, and I do not have leave to reveal it, yet. The Commander reassures while guidance is welcome, it is not wholly needed,' the shaman speaks slowly, as though carefully considering the choice of words. 'However, we are low on supplies, and any your tribe can offer will be greatly accepted. One of your people has already promised me some barrels and skins, in return for something I can give her.'

Bagaglok turns his head to look sidelong at Antnog, answering in like tongue. " Indeed, they regard our Master with deresion. But we require assistance if they will give it, so I think it best not to anger them too greatly for the time being..." When the shaman shifts his attention to Magua again, his previous scowl is more pronounced. He utters again in the twisted Common: 'That letter is not to be cast away or burned without ceremony. It speaks of a matter which was cunsulted with the Eye, and it is a mocking dishonor to see it handled with disregard.'

[Magua(#32030)] 
Magua listens to all this with disinterest, perhaps used to the long, intricate rituals of his own shamans. After the Guldur orc is finished with his long address, the king merely waves a hand at the admonishment. "If we're guiding you through the foothills, we sure aren't accompanying you. You think you can find your way alone? The big birds'll tear you up before you can bat an eye once you get up in the hills if you don't know them like my scouts." His mouth curls into a devious smile at the thought.

[Tiridor(#30454)] The elven warden in the tree winces slightly, his face is turned into an uglier shape, as if he had eaten raw lemon. To hear such foul speech so close to the Golden Woods! The orc responsible should have his stomach opened for this alone! But that is for another time.
        
The excitement have been enough for one time for a fresh recruit, is Tiridor's decision. He has, himself, been in this situation himself as all senior guards of Lorien has. He recognizes and understands the mixed emotions - disgust by the presence of one's most lethal enemy, so close to home, the excitement of being so near violence of death, fear of getting into trouble, anticipation. It is more exhausting than a guard would ever admit to anyone. It's time for the quire to get out of harms way. Tiridor looks up again, takes the others ankle, and points towards the sanctity of home. His look is firm but friendly, there is no doubt that he expects the other elf to do what he asks. He points at the waning moon and holds two fingers close to each other to signal he will soon follow, and then he salutes.

[<#32047>] A glob of saliva dribbles between the eddies formed by teeth set at odds with one another and wets the greasy strands of the Anthog's hanging chin-hair as it bubbles out with a renewed sneer's jostling of his lips. He does not lift a finger to remove the natural 'cream rinse' to his facial hair as he speaks again in the dialect of the Orc folk of the shadowed land, black eyes forever locked on the Morian king, " Lead by rats," he growls, " never pleasin' and certainly not now amongst these infidels. Butcha right: We got no choice. Look at the piss-bucket grin. Maybe one of the Eye's favourite's will show him the peckin' order, once we're back in Guldur. Aye, let's send him an envoy when we're done with him. Learn them some manners, then."

'Tails 'n snails, itching mad!' the executioner adds in the common speech as he claws against his neck. 'I hate these Elf lands. I swear they're breathin' down our necks...'

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
The robed goblin's carefully guarded expression is unable from quelling a shadow of obvious irritation, displayed in a brief half-snarl. " Tear us to pieces, garn! I wouldn't complaint if we got the chance to do thus to these mountain rats." Bagaglok nods then to the executioner. " I should very much be glad if one of the Shriekers taught them a lesson for the Great One..freeze them dead." A few of the other Mordain orcs shuffle their feet in like annoyance, and several claws may itch for sheathed weapons, though they draw them not.

'How can you guide us, if you will not accompany us?' the shaman falls back into Westron, speaking once more to the Morian king. 'You cannot do only one. Leave us to deal with the winged demons if your people would rather hide in their holes. We shall seek our own way.'

[Magua(#32030)] 
Magua shrugs. "We lead you, not you lead us. We will show you the way, but we will go no farther than the great field beyond the leaf-ears' forest. The great black forest of the killer-trees is evil beyond words!"

Tiridor wishes he could understand the words of foul beasts, to hear what they were speaking off. Appearantly they are making some sort of plans. That might mean they prepare to move. If so, he must know in which direction.

[<#32047>] The incessant itching abates enough for Antnog's hand to be returned only at length and his annoyance, doubled by the heebeejeebees, makes even more filthy sounding the belchings and grunts of the Mordain speech, " Cowardice and heresy. Shriekers indeed need to see to it that they learn them values proper. But I ain't gonna git gutted either. Do we suffer them so we can get back? I gots us a plan for a wee bit of a revenge, mindcha. We'll talk about that once we've settled with this business with this 'king'."

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Bagaglok nods. 'That is fine, for then we are out of the foothills and shall find our own way easily.' At the mention of what lies beyond, the orc blinks, staring oddly for an instant. 'Forest of the killer-trees?' he repeats, and curiously there may be discerned a twinge of embarrassment and fear in his tone perhaps the comment has brought up an old memory that would be better left forgotten. 'Surely you jest?' Still the shaman looks uncomfortable, and instinctively he glances off to the south, though the ominous Fangorn is obscurred from view by distance and the position of Lorien.

He recovers enough, however to nod toward his fellow Pulgor kinsman, and Bagaglok yields a small unpleasant grin. " Revenge? I shall gladly hear your schemes afterward, indeed."

[Magua(#32030)] 
Magua makes some kind of orkish sign with his hand and says only, "The Flame protects us through his holy fires from the evil of the forest. Can your Eye match that?" The king steps back apparently the interview is concluded for now.

Tiridor relaxes a bit. Obviously, no movement will be made in the next few minutes. And pretty soon, he should have his guard change. 'It'll take hours to get the strench out of the uniform even at this distance.' he thinks to himself.

[<#32047>] " Suffice it to say, shaman," notes Antnog with a final, derisive sneer to the king of the mountain orcs, " that they ain't gonna be too haughty about no Flame being better than the dark lord come soon. That's if he keeps his head."

" But what -was- that about evil trees? The rats ain't squirrels? 'Fraid-o-the-woods? Think dogwood can bark?" Clearly, the executioner is oblivious to the underpinnings of fear in the voice of the shaman and himself finds it more of a lark, as guessed by the bung-bung-bung of throaty chuckles.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
The shaman openly scowls this time, displaying a multitude of nasty teeth. 'He has brought us thus far across the river already,' says Bagaglok, even as Magua steps back. 'And I don't think my success at poisoning the leaf-ear king was possible without His will and protection...perhaps our camp simply requires a restrengthening of the Faith.' He eyes the rest of the group sternly one of the others swallows nervously -- no doubt not wishing to become a 'restrengthening' sacrifice.

The robed orc does not respond at once to Antnog, and the uncomfortable look returns. " It...I will speak with you later," is all he utters.