Shadows Whisper

Eastern Edge of Mirkwood
The edge of the forest curves to the north east and south west here. The plains to the east are non descript, while the forest rests thick and impassible to the west. The air of autumn is chilly, and there is a small breeze shimmering at the leaves at the edge of the trees. The sun shines fully here, while the entrance to the comforting darkness of the forest to the west is defended by razor sharp thorn bushes which are as densely packed as the leaves on the trees.

The sun shines brightly in the clear blue late afternoon sky, blazing in the open skies in the east away from Mirkwood.

Contents:

Shrag'kai

Shaman's Tent

Uruk Camp
Obvious exits:
SouthWest and NorthEast

Shaman's Tent

This is a rather large tent with heavy looking leather flaps. There is a red glow showing that torches are lit inside, yet the material is of such a make that nothing canbe seen through the soft glow.        

A strange aroma is emited from the spot. It smells like a strange mixture of honey ... and death. Two cloaked guards stand at the front. They wear no sign of rank and wear little more than their black robes. They hold long spears at their side, and their dark eyes seem ever watchful...

[Shrag'kai(#28755)]        

Orange light of the fading sun pours over ther Mordain camp. As night moves ere closer, the stir of Orcish life begins again. Fires begin to spring to life as slaves start their tiresome tasks. Barrels of grog are rolled out of the cooks tent and are tapped almost instantly as lines form to fill their cups... At the western side of camp there is a heavy silence contrasting the stir of the rest. The Shamans tent, with two Latas posted at its head
sits with only the flicker of light from inside to show life.


[Bagaglok(#24847)]
The unsettling sense of quiet is welcomed by the scarlet-garbed form that treads through this rather isolated section of the encampment, and Bagaglok generally ignores the jostling and bickering that flows as the bulk of the Mordain forces greet the oncoming nightfall. The orc's yellow stare is distant, seeing but not seeing as his feet bring him in the direction of that large tent where the apprentices stand guard. He pauses nigh the opening, peering in a little ere turning the glance to the robed uruks. "I have come to see your teacher," comes the simple statement, and he waits a moment.

[Shrag'kai(#28755)]        

There is little pause from the white clad uruk post. The heavy looking flaps are pulled back and entrance is allowed. Almost instantly the smell of herbs escapes from within. Heat seems to radiate from the depths of the misleadingly large tent. Inside, the Goth-Sharkuun can be found sitting with his legs folded next to a short stand covered in red candles. Now lacking his heavy robes, the tattooed flesh is more visible. Words and symbols scroll up each arm and wrap around his chest. There is barely a spot on his visible skin that is not adorned by red ink. His eyes are closed....

"Greetings, young breath."      

His eyes remain shut, but he motions for the Malkog to enter... The room is aglow with candles, the smell of herbs is greater once inside. There is a sweet yet dangerous smell to this concoction that drifts in the air. Something inviting yet dangerous... But that is the life of the Shaman...

 [Bagaglok(#24847)]

Dangerous, certainly...but the invitation is greater. As the tent coverings are cast back more, the flurry of smells streams out to assail the senses, not only effecting the nose, but the mind and spirit as well. An strange feeling of despair it might seem to bring, but it is oddly soothing, mystical in its uncanny inticement. Hesitating no more than the space of a heartbeat, Bagaglok enters.

He draws further in, stopping as he comes closer to the seated elder shaman. He inclines his head, saying likewise, "Greetings..." there is a pause, and the smaller orc sits upon the ground opposite the other. "Apologies, but I do not remember hearing a name or title. What shall I know you by?"

[Shrag'kai(#28755)]
As the younger Shaman enters, Shrag'kai slowly opens his eyes. Listening to greeting, he closes his eyes once more. Then in a fluid motion, he swipes his bare arm over the small table before him and each light goes out to a smoulder. "We are all slaves on our path... As am I... as are you.." He pauses, watching the smoke rise from the wicks. He then turns to watch Bagaglok, "I am Shrag'kai... I follow in the footsteps of the Voice..."       

The Goth-Sharkuun pushes himself to his feet, quite easily for what appears to be a rather aged uruk. "Do you smell the sweetness in the air, young breath?" He walks past the Malkog to the front of the tent where a number of open bottles sit atop a tall box.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]

The second one nods. "You are accomplished in your Path, one whose journey has yielded knowledge and enlightenment that of a Goth's or higher, as I see you to be."

Bagaglok turns his head slightly to watch as Shrag'kai stands and moves behind him. The rest of his body remains motionless, however. "Indeed, I can smell it," he answers, sniffing again at the strange combination of herbs that pervades the air. "Sweet it is, as you say, and yet there is more. It is calming and yet invigorating, welcoming and yet mysterious. It feels as well as smells."

[Shrag'kai(#28755)]
Shrag'kai grabs up a couple of small bottles and waves them before his face, taking in a deep breath. "All of these things yes..." He pauses, before pouring the contents of one bottle into the other. "Two drops into the grog of thy enemy, and he will sleep for three days..." A sly smile creeps over his coal black lips... "Potions are but a tool, just as a weapon is... Both are only useful if the owner has the wisdom to wield them correctly..."       

The elder shaman sets the bottles down and moves to a chest just left of where he was standing. "The other night, the potion the /teguk/ drank was nothing more than troll dung and daisy root pulled from the forest floor mixed with some grog..." He lets out a short laugh... "The tool was very plain, yet I was able to gain power over the Ushataar Krimpatuul forces as well as make their leader eat dung!" He snorts, "So, young breath...
your first lesson is that no matter what you use, rely on your self and not what you can mix
together!"

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
"Potions, yes," says the Malkog, this time shifting a little sideways to get a better view of the front of the tent, "I have seen some of them put to useful purposes. A poison I brewed under the Vorazg's orders, and with its cold embrace bathed on the head of a blade, struck the albai-king."

A smirk comes as the ingredients of Drikh's potion test are revealed. But then Bagaglok nods, pulling his expression into one of seriousness and attentiveness once more. "Rely on the self, and not the mixture," he repeats for memory. "Power over the Ushataar Krimpatuul--what will you do with it, if I may inquire?"

 [Shrag'kai(#28755)]        

The Elder bends down, and begins messing with a lock on the outside of the chest before him... "If this king is not dead.. then the poison only worked to rally their troops and anger their fist to retaliate. A mourning army is an easy target... But no matter.." He shifts his head as the lock pops open. "This camp has lost it's faith. It's leader no longer pursue the true fear of the Eye.. just the whip...." He sighs, as he lifts the lid to the chest, "The Teguk fake, shall be my tool to accomplish... obedience within the camp..." He
pulls a cloth satchel out of the box... its jingles lightly..       

"Malkog, you shall be my ears in the night..." he lowers his voice slightly, "For many will close their mouths to me out of fear..." He stretches out his arms and hands the satchel to Bagaglok, "And in doing so, take on the risk for not all shall want the camp to regain faith in the one true Shadow..."

[Bagaglok(#24847)]Bagaglok now rises to his feet in order to better accept the bag as it is handed to him. "It is true, many do not wish it, and fear it more than they do the One. Then, let us instill in these fools and pretenders the true faith and terror of the Eye, until their hearts burst
from His fire."

He looks curiously down at the satchel now clasping in his hands, the jingling having caught his attention. It is heavier than he expected. Opening it slowly the reason it swiftly explained: there glints the cold metal of ringmail. "Very well," replies the smaller goblin after a length. "As you wish it, I will keep my hearing sharp, and report to you anything of interest that I come upon."

[Shrag'kai(#28755)]
The Elder Shaman nods at the acceptance of his gift. He then brushes past the Malkog before him and moves back to his place of meditation before the small table. "Be sure to cover the rings beneath your robes. The True Shaman shall always appear as but a shadow, and only strike when the time suits his methods..." He then seats himself by the candles, and produces a stick from his belt. Shrag'kai then twists the end between his finders and there is a small flash before it catches flame! He uses the small blue light to travel from wick to wick re-lighting the many candles before him. "Now be gone, young breath... I have much to consider in this dark hour..."

[Bagaglok(#24847)]

In silence, Bagaglok nods, watching as the new flames are set to dance again upon their candle heads. As the Elder shaman has bidden, the orc puts down the bag, taking out the contents that now gleams in the flickering oranges of the small points of fire. The only sounds are the distant clinking of the rings as the Malkog fastens the armor on, carefully checking to make sure it is concealed beneath the heavy red fabric. That done, Bagaglok bows at the waist, and noiselessly as a whisper upon the breeze, he turns and is gone.