Stew Time?

Western Edge of Mirkwood, Old Forest Road
You stand at the edge of the great forest, once Greenwood the great, now Mirkwood the Fearful. It is more shady to the east, and you think you can make out a road there.The sky is clear.

Contents:

Zax

Shag'gotha-kai

Imladech

Shaman's Tent

Uruk Camp

Obvious exits:
NorthWest, West, South, North, and East

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Early Morning on Mersday, Day 23 of December.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 18:19:15 MDT on Mon Jan 18 2010.


[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Early morning: not a particularly welcoming time of day on orcish standards. Here on the western edge of the great forest the comfortable dim shade of the oppressive canopy does not fully veil the uruk camp that sits beyond the old road the rising sun's light spills a little into the gloom from the west, contrasting with the eastern blackness of this place.

Inside the camp itself, the nightly activity has diminished a little, and some of the orcs have retired into the shade of tents. It seems it is not so much the pesky beams of the sun that cause this lack of movement, but rather the tiredness of having forced the entire camp far westward recently. Outside a small tent, sits the red-garbed form of Bagaglok, legs crossed under him, and an old book held loosly in his claws. His head dips, and the book appears to be on the verge of falling evidently the orc is asleep, or at least more than half-way there.

 [Zax(#15492)]    Indeed the sunrise transcendent time from uruk to uruk-hai for those lucky few. However amongst the unlucky orc commanders to pull day-duty is Tard, Captain incharge of arms training. A single gauntleted claw rises to shield the orc's eyes from the early morning horror, as he scans the camp. A low growl escapes his fanged mouth as he pulls out a fist-sized piece of bread, his gaze being that which stays the eager snaga. "Teguk, where's my patrol?" He howls over his shoulder to one of the few in his wake.

[Shag'gotha-kai(#28755)]         A dark clad figure emerges from the tallest tent in the Shamans encampment. His face is entirely shrouded beneath a thick hood that is drawn tight about his head. A loan hand protrudes from beneath his robes that clasps at the cloth and holds it tight around his neck. It is obvious this Orc does not want his features to be seen... His head twists, a glint of light catches red eyes from the shadowy depths about his face. He moves swiftly towards a near by fire pit that holds little now but a few smoldering ashes.        

From here he reaches out, boney hands with black nails painted red, and appears to warm them over what little heat rises from the ring before him. He rubs his hands together and they pop with a sickly bone-on-bone sound.

[Imladech(#30819)] There is one in the unhappy camp who does not mind the sunshine. Imladech sits apart from the orcish camps in a patch of sunlight but the golden rays do not match his expression. The human is clad in dark colors, a few scrappy bandages cover what wounds he has and his hammer sits near by. A scowl of deep thought and gloom covers his face and his eyes roam over the camp taking little in.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
And finally the ancient book slips and hits the cold earth with a thud. But it is not the collapsed texts that make the shaman jerk awake once more, but rather the sudden shouting that is coming from nearby. Grabbing the book again, Bagaglok shoots a look ahead, frowning. "Is it possible to lessen the disturbance you are making?" the orc inquires loudly to Tard,
gesturing with one finger toward an odd diagram upon a page. "I would prefer to study in relative peace." He remains setted, not having noticed the other cloaked shape that draws near the fire not far away.

[Zax(#15492)]    "Peace ehh, you want peace you go join them nancing pointy-ears." Tard
growls as he regards the shaman with wide-bloodshot-eyes, "Then if desire to read is like your ability to swing a blade, we would all be better wouldn't we." The captain hisses as he leaves a few feet between him and the shaman.

[Imladech(#30819)] Imladech's roving eyes are paused by the sound of raised voices and he watches Bagaglok and Tard idly. However, he seems content merely to watch and makes no move to participate in any of the orcish activities. Instead he fingers a silver necklace which hangs around his shoulders, and watches.

 [Bagaglok(#24847)]

The yellow eyes of the Malkog narrow considerably, and the creature hisses lowly under his breath. "Reading....it is more than you can do, I daresay?" The book is cast aside, and Bagaglok stands, glaring at the Captain rooted in front the clawed hand drifts downward toward the uruk's side, where a dormant scimitar sleeps beneath the heavy scarlet fabric. "Is that a challenge, then? Come closer and say it, skai!" The shaman pointedly ignores the other camp dwellers nearby.

[Zax(#15492)]    Drawing forth an exotic style scimitar, the uruk captain points his falchion at the shaman. "Challenge, no consider it a lesson, shamans are only good for when we're not out, and since we're out we survive by the blade, not some book." Tard growls as the etheral black blade gleams in the pre-dawn.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
"Shiny," notes the other, but his expression remains unreadable aside from a lingering
annoyance. "The albai scum have shiny weapons as well..." a rusty scimitar is drawn forth from under his robe, and likewise does he mirror Tard's stance. "Perhaps you are one of them." Bagaglok grins, showing a line of nasty teeth. "Pointy-ears first," he gestures for the falchion-wielding opponent to strike.

COMBAT - Wielded: Scimitar


[Zax(#15492)]    The orc purrs in delight as he shrieks and uses both hands to slash at the
forearm of the shaman. At the last minute his blade turns leaving the flat end to strike the uruk, with all of it's power. "If you're skills are as rusty as that weapon, I don't know why you're out here. Even one of the pointy-eared runts could kill you."

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
"Runts?" laughs the shaman. "I am the poisoner of the elf-king, and I yet live to tell the tale." The sneer quickly turns into a growl however, as the Captain's weapon lunges outward, and Bagaglok moves to pull his arm back in but not fast enough. The flat of the blade connects, and the snarl becomes more pronounced as the orc grimaces. No reply does he give as he plants one bare foot into the hard ground, lashing his own scimitar forward to slice his foe's lower leg.

[Zax(#15492)]    The blade of the captain comes back as he intercepts the blade drawing sparks between the two. "Will I have to remove a hand for you to get it?" A small band of orcs encircles the two as they clash, the captain not striking as he waits for the shaman's next strike. "Or will I have to carve you into submission?"

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
"Not if I do so first," Bagaglok grunts as his blade is locked, forzen in midflight. Sparks fly, and so too do the shaman's eyes flash with malice. "Well, you will be in need of a cooking pot, in either case." A new glare is cast toward the ring that has begun to encompass them, and pivoting upon his ankle, the Malkog spins the scimitar in a full circle--a deterrence to all who might dare interfer--ere he points the steel edge for Tard's left flank.

[Zax(#15492)]    Keeping far enough away from the two combatants, the orcs chant for the Shaman or the Captain. As the blade comes in, the captain tries to deflect it, however misses drawing an eerie screech from his chainmail(which absorbs most of the attack)."You'll regret that little Shaman." The captain sneers and throws his fist forward, to strike the shaman in the face with the pommel of his weapon.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
A hasty duck allows for the skull helm that tops the shaman's head to receive most of the hard pommel's blow, but the hit nevertheless yields a sharp hiss and a step backward by the smaller creature. Rising his free hand to jam the crude helmet firmly back in its proper place, Bagaglok takes the moment to peer around the scene. "Orc here, orc there," he seems to mutter to himself. "No pots in sight."

But then, the crimson-robed form leaps forward, this time making to stab for the base of his
opponent's neck where the armor is weaker.


[Zax(#15492)]    A sidestep draws a howl from Tard as the stab impales the orcs shoulder. A
shudder coarses through the orcs body before he sneers again and draws his gauntleted fist back before punching towards the shaman's gut. "You'll pay for that, tonight they'll munch on shaman stew."

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
And punch the fist does.

As the strike sails true, a foul curse emerges from gritted teeth, but the sudden forced exhale of breath causes the words to be inaudible. Down falls Bagaglok, scimitar, skeletal hat, and all. For a moment, winded, he can do naught but stare blankly into the dirt but as a fresh glower is directed upwards, so too does he manage to pry the weapon forth, aiming it for the Captain's feet.

[Zax(#15492)]    The swipe comes true, until the Captain lifts his boot and jams his heel into the blade forcing it to the ground. "Perhaps one day, your words will be as sharp as my sword. Then again perhaps one day I'll cut out your tounge and slip it into the stew." Tard growls and swings with pommel of his blade once again, this time connecting to the helmet of the Shaman knocking him unconscious. "Logaz, take him back to the shaman tent, tell them he fell reading his book."

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Are those stars in the daytime? Tiny lights twinkle in a rising sea of darkness following in the wake of the pommel's attack. The morning is engulfed in an uncanny night, seen only in the shaman's eyes. The scimitar-bearing hand trembles for an instant, as if to counter in return, but it is still once more, blade pressed into the mud the diminutive goblin drops fully to the earth below, and knows nothing more.