Voice From the Shadows
Old Forest Road, Eastern Edge of Mirkwood
This is open woodland. Various large and small oak and beech trees stand well spaced with grass and low brush growing amongst them. The deeply worn track of the old forest road is visible coming out of a sort of tunnel through the denser trees of the forest proper in the west, but it comes to an end here. A river runs more or less north to south only a few hundred yards away in the east, but the ground between here and there is very soft and marshy. Apparently the road has not been maintained for a long time, or some natural catastrophe has destroyed it. A faint trail seems to run north-south, parallel to the edge of the forest.
The sky is clear and speckled with the gleaming stars of the familiar constellations.
Contents:
Black_Fgure
Uruk Camp
Obvious exits:
East, South, and West
[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Nighttime on Monday, Day 2 of January.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.
Real time is: 14:55:02 MDT on Tue Sep 22 2009.
A few faint stars gleam overhead, poking through the dark, murky branches of the open wooded area. The ground is wet and soggy underfoot, and bares the scars and deep markings from the activities of the Uruk camp fires blaze with a sickening light as dark and hunched forms scamper about their flickering edges, the Orcs busy taking care of the evening's tasks. Numerous smaller goblins shuffle about, many of them carrying large piles of torchwood.
Sitting on a hewn stump just outside of one of the roaring bonfires is the chewing silouhette of Bagaglok the Logaz's yellow teeth work away at a piece of meat he holds in his claws, and he pauses for an instant only to bark a garbled threat at a passing Snaga who trips suddenly underneath its heavy load of firewood.
[Black_Fgure(#28583)]
The darkness stirs beyond the reach of the bonfire's light, black shapes moving amid the gloom to suggest cruel fingers. A whisper picks up upon a breath of wind, carried forth to Bagaglok's ears beneath the crackle of the fire.
The Snaga throws an unpleasant look at the larger Orc, but knows well enough not to say anything in retort. With a difficult and awkward twist, it crawls out from beneath the timber and, stooping once more, heaves the stuff up. Bagaglok continues to watch the creature stagger off again, taking another bite unconcernedly.
It is then that something makes his hooked ears twitch slightly, and the Logaz now turns to glance behind him at the seemingly growing darkness that inches forward toward the camp. The Uruk squints from underneath the crude skull helmet that tops his snarled head, and peers past the outer tents. Though he says naught and makes no apparent movement, there is a visible tug of uncertainness and apprehension that plays about his fanged mouth. Perhaps it is just the firelight deceiving his eyes, afterall...
[Black_Fgure(#28583)]
Perhaps. Or perhaps something moves within the gloom that chooses not to be seen or heard by any other. Once again a whisper seeps from the dark to reach Bagaglok, and now that his ear is cocked he might discern a word or two.
"Come," a voice bids him. "Join me in the shadows."
There is a moment's hesitation as the faint sound drifts upon the stale night air, and Bagaglok remains rooted to the spot, senses straining to discern anything more -- for surely such a voice must have its source?
Slowly, almost reluctantly, the sergeant stands and the chunk of food lies now forgotten on the stump. He tosses a wary glance around the scene, making certain no others notice as he slips off to the meet the mysterious speaker as he was thus bidden. Bagaglok draws no attention as he paces quietly off a gray, clawed hand falls to rest near his scimitar. Yellow eyes scan the blackness, flashing first to the left and then the right, searching.
[Black_Fgure(#28583)]
At length they might find a blacker shape within the shadows, looming tall and fearsome even to the denizens of the night. A menacing figure lurks before Bagaglok, and as he draws nearer two pinpoints of crimson fire blaze into life where the figure's eyes should be.
It takes Bagaglok only an instant before his gaze falls upon the thing before him, and he stops short, eyes widening and breath coming out in quick, wavering bursts. He seems to be on the verge of gasping in surprise, but no sound is he able to make. The claw drops limply from the weapon at his side, and the marshy ground comes upward to meet him as the Orc sinks to his knees in the mud he barely manages to stare up in horror at the fell creature looming in front of him, for words elude his throat for now, stolen by fear of the dread visitor.
[Black_Fgure(#28583)]
A cruel sneer of satisfaction fills the night as the orc sinks to his knees, and the black figure before him would seem to nod within the depths of a cowl. The Nazgul, for surely the figure is indeed among that dread order, steps closer to loom over Bagaglok fully.
"You are fortunate, slave," says the Ringwraith. "It is not often one such as I commands so private an audience. Listen well, fear not for your miserable skin. I have an errand for you."
There is a vicious nod from the prone form of the Logaz, and he is finally able to mutter a rapid, "I listen, my lord," as he rises warily to his feet once more. Still the dark figure stands high over him at this height, and Bagaglok stares rather at the black robes of the wraith's chest, not wishing to peer upon those fires that flicker and burn inside the cowl.
[Black_Fgure(#28583)]
"The Eye's soldiers have lost their way, slave," informs the Nazgul to his audience. "They march and slay but show little purpose. Too long have they wandered without the guidance of the Master's will. That guidance I shall offer anew, through you. Ever have the Shamans of the Eye reminded the faithful of their duties, and forced reverence from their hearts when it was lacking. For such work they were granted gifts beyond the reach of others and eyes to see what only the Master's favoured are given leave to behold."
A hiss breaks the speech, ere the fearsome cowl asks: "Do you desire such gifts?"
As the latter question is yielded forth, the Uruk's gaze flashes upward, ere he swiftly looks away to fix his sight on the same spot as before. He knows well that to be offered such by one of the Nine is not a common occurance, and the darkness seems to add to an invisible mounting pressure that builds inside Bagaglok's breast, a darkness that whispers without words, urging him to utter 'yes'.
With a tremendous effort, though the nervousness has considerably lessened with the turn of the conversation, the Logaz raises his dirty head to look into that darkling hood, not daring to tear his eyes away dispite the crimson orbs that now burn his own. "I...do...desire such, my lord," Bagaglok says, his tone no more than a raspy breath.
[Black_Fgure(#28583)]
A nod suggests satisfaction from the Nazgul, and the twin fires continue to cast their spell upon the gaze of the Uruk. It may seem to him that within their cruel flames a strange sight can be found -- a dance of gruesome images and fearful scenes. Long does the dance seem to last, though in truth small time passes in the gloom of Mirkwood some dark power of the Ringwraith quickening the message writ across his gaze.
And then, it is done, and the fires all but quench, smouldering as though two rubies buried within the cowl. A cold, pale hand raises to rest upon Bagaglok's brow, and a hissing breath spills over the Uruk's rapt features.
"I name you now a Shaman of the Eye, slave. Whatever name you have claimed for yourself in the past, its use is at an end. From now on you shall be named Malkog. Many have shared this name, though you now bear it alone."
Though the fiery orbs cease to pierce as they had mere seconds ago, Bagaglok's twisted countenance stays frozen in place, yellow eyes not blinking as the strange, dreamlike trance holds its power over the Orc. The blurry images that had reeled in his pitiful mind are long to fade, remaining a while longer as ghostly visions ere they vanish completely.
The Uruk does not flinch as the cold hand is reached out and touching him, and he seems almost to be frozen, for nary a muscle twitches nor sound escape his lips -- a silent acceptance as it would be.
[Black_Fgure(#28583)]
The hand withdraws, and in doing so the night air is given leave to creep back to the fore the Nazgul's own black aura receding somewhat as the figure steps back two paces. The rubies glisten as though caught in firelight, and the rasping voice speaks one final time:
"Do not fail me, Malkog. I shall return soon."
Then, the fell spell seems to break as the darkness withdraws a little, and the Uruk nods suddenly, his voice strangely devoid of any known emotion. He releases a long baited exhale of breath as he returns to full awareness.
"Of course, dark one," Bagaglok says, dipping his brow in respect as he speaks, "I will not disappoint."
[Black_Fgure(#28583)]
Once again this seems to satisfy the wraith before him, and the Nazgul nods once more. With nary another word it turns away from the new Malkog, melting into the gloom of the forest with a silent, if sinister grace.
Bagaglok is alone once more.
Several silent minutes pass before the freshly appointed Shaman turns and makes his trudging way back to the camp in the distance. If any of his fellows were to take notice of his return, they might perhaps observe that there is an altered air with which Bagaglok paces himself, though the exact change is difficult to discern. With a distracted look he slumps down upon his stump once more, tired from the thought-instilling gaze of the Nazgul.
A dark hand is stretched out and he takes up the discarded meat to munch on it again, yellow eyes peering into the flickering fire as the night shifts back to its normal state.
