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Hammer beats Bear. Bear beats Raven. Raven beats Hammer.

Tags: yak,  mat

Short Summary: In which Bal'Dyak escapes Agaracuk through trial by fire.
Date (real-life): 2011-06-17
Scene Location: Gathering Cave beneath Isengard
Date (in-game): 3053-03-13
Time of Day: Cave Time
Weather: Foul

12:48 AM
Logfile from Elendor.

Caves of Isengard: Gathering Area

The Gathering Area is an enormous cavern, among the series of interlinking caves beneath Isengard this must be one of the biggest. It spans across for a huge distance in every direction, leading to other caves. The cavern is made entirely of black stone, the ceiling rises to an impossible height here, so high that it blends completely with the darkness and vanishes from view.

There are always a great number of Uruk's and Uruk-hai milling about the Gathering Area, unless their numbers are scarce during wartime. Bustling crowds shove and push at each other as they all try and go their own way, however, the majority of the crowd is always headed towards the huge cast iron door of the White Wolf Inn. There are uruk 'vendors' eveywhere, wandering about the hall trying to peddle and sell their wares: weapons, armour, grog, or any number of things.

In the center of the Gathering Area is a statue, twice the height and breadth of an Uruk-hai is a bright white five fingered hand grasping upwards towards the ceiling, there is a small metal spiked fence surrounding it in order to protect it from damage.

Along the black stone walls of the Gathering Area are a number of lit torches at roughly five meter intervals, however, even these provide little light for the area, the great cavern is dim and murky; not a drop of sunlight gets into the massive cave system. Near the center of the cave, by the statue of the hand of Saruman, is a hastily made wooden sign, arrows jutting out of it with poorly written words painted on indicate directions to each of the other caves.

Beyond the normal, necessary carnage of the caverns beneath Angrenost, there occasionally rises a clamor that perks up even the most jaded, stilted Uruk-Hai, and forces them to move away from their firepits and ragged flagons of whaat they allow to pass for ale. This is one of those times.

To a spectator just entering the grand central cavern of the Undercity of Isengard, this would be a macabre scene, indeed. Dead lay strewn about the west wall of the caverns haphazzardly -- swords in their hands, screams still on their lips. Standing over one such corpse, wiping the blood off of his crude, thick blade, stands a gangly uruk, ubiquitous scars covering his squinting face and his chalky arms. "Not even any gristle to 'em," he mutters softly over the crackling of the nearby fires.

A black bloody rag - freshly wet - over his leg as he sits sharpening each biting tooth of his long-blade, Bal'Dyak spits on the stone and continues his work. Sitting fire-side closest to the death pile, squat upon a wide up-turned log, he holds his blade to the fire light - inspecting his progress. No company in the circle - aside from abandonded grog-skins and trinkets left by the dead.
    "Course not, no meat on weaklings. Uppity stink got what was comin," answers the bristling muscled soldier. He stands then, shoving his blade beneath his belt - no scabbard, hanging by the hilt. He approaches and adds, "Thought they'd get Sharky's reward." Again he spits.

"Sharky," says Agaracuk. "Aye, Sharky." He wipes his blade off dismissively against what rags serve him for pants, staining them a black crimson. "But this had nothing to do with any of that. These here wanted death from the Hammer Clan. And I, well, me and me boys here (he gestures to a few of the more well-armed dead orcs), gave it to 'em. It's just a shame that so many of the ^%@#% were worth a ^%!@ in a fight.

For a shame the twisted beast Aguracuk looks wistful. "We smiths lost a good bit of talent today, only for some pissant with a lousy mouth."

"You, though." He pauses. "When the fighting started, you just sat like a stone. It's pretty easy to be the last one alive in a room, I suppose.""

"Twice tonight," comes Bal'Dyak's response, yellow eyes narrowed, fangs showing as he continues, "that I'm still kickin and spittin. And sharpenin up me blade." He folds his bulky almost black arms across his chest, regarding this Hammer with his posture matched to the other - rigid, unswerving at the bite of the insult.

    "I keep me nose outs this jabber," he adds, measured pace to his words, "and I get more good meat that way, landside." Turning then from Aguracuk he kicks one of the dead - loosening a bow from its grasp. Snatching it up he quips with a snarl, "Broke the last across the purty face of a dead-man's wife." Running a finger across its string, licking his lips he adds, "Tasted that meat two ways."

"Ha, ha!" crows Agaracuk, watching Bal'Dyak punt the still-warm corpse, his scowl flipping into a lopsided grin. "A man after me own heart." He hacks deep in his throat and spits on a corpse of one of his "mates" indifferently.

He bends to pick up a choice dagger off of a bloody corpse. "He won't need it anyway, as I see." He looks over, slant eyes and flat nose curling toward Bal'Dyak with a measured precision.

"Who ye be, in any case? And what company are ya with?" He seems amicable enough, sharp teeth and all."

"They givin away the toys like gruel," answers Bal'Dyak oddly, sidestepping the query, "Any grunt what survives the first test, right off they slappin a bow or blade in its hand." Taking a knee before the death-pile, he takes a full quiver of fat black feathered barbs from the same body. "Looksy, didn't even get off a shot before that axe sent his eyes crossed," he laughs, heartily - letting the corpse fall back down, blade and axe-handle protruding from its cloven skull.

    Slinging the bow and quiver in parallel over his stout right shoulder as he stands, at last comes the true response, "Bal'Dyak's what they call me. What faction would ya be guessin, mate?"

Testily, "Glad you've had your share of my plunder, my boys'll be here soon. You do no work you eat no supper, boy. You're lucky I'm such so generous."

"I'd guess," Agaracuk slurs, "ya be Bear Clan. Ye got their thickness, do you, and you're dumb as piss to come between me and my kills. Still..."

He looks the other orc over, flaring his nostrils. "...you've got too much sense to be one of 'em. No way a Bear Clan stays out of a fight that thick. It's inner blood. Whatever ya be, take your toys and your gruel and go. I need no cowards pretending to stand near me. There's plenty of shadows coming from that fire yonder."
"Dumb or dumber, yer bum or plunder" rabbles the soldier, "I got plenty meat up in my hole, and anyone goin' in thar won't be comin back out but me." Left fist then grasping the string of trophy teeth about his neck, Bal'Dyak resumes his boast, "When I see a coward I'll send him yer way - bet he'll fit right nice with yer mates."

    With a tip of his grog-skin to the Hammer, he takes a nasty draft, red tinged liquid spilling across his chin as he drinks. "Sharp enough ya are to not put that bear on me - fools and slaves. I'll get my reward, and ain't none steppin in my path. Now don't ya move too quick, in them shadows are my Raven mates - true soldiers of the hand!" and with dismissal Bal'Dyak holds his own white-marked palm high.

Agaracuk looks to his hip -- his hip without a wineskin and growls at the other Uruk-Hai. "Ye're not much for answering questions, Raven, more for slickin' my eardrums with the puss that comes out of hole you call a mouth. Now give me a breath of that grog you got. Fair's fair." He firmly places his hand on his broadsword. He pointedly does not look at Bal'Dyak's shadows and keeps his gaze steadily focused on the Raven. He takes a step to move the other orc between himself and the nearest fire.

Again his gut rumbles with coarse laughter, no step and no trace of hesitance in his stance, flicker of fire carving two crisply-edged shadows on the wall above the dead. He tucks his own drink pouch, near empty now, into the left hip of his belt. Narrow eyes, wrinkle of watchfulness crossing his scarred brow, Bal'Dyak's gaze fixes upon that of Agaracuk. "Whats mine is mine," he answers, quickly - curt and sharp, drool loosened into spittle as he speaks, "but here, CATCH!"

    A quick flip of his foot and into the air another grog-skin appears, lost in the fighting but now arcing through firelight to just above the other's eyes and hovering for but a moment at his chest.

A brisk gust of wind moves throughout the cavern, passed up from some underdepth beneath the bones of the earth, no doubt. This wind seems to hiss like a slow, hushed, lonesome voice, ended after a few seconds. The fires across the rough-hewn room sputter, losing their orange majesty -- replaced with a sputtering, temporary fallibility. Ghosts dance upon the farthest walls, breathing and flickering.

The flask catches for a second in this subterranean squall and falls to the ground, the seal upon the opening breaking open. The sickly liquor of Angrenost spills upon the ground. Compared to the drying black blood on the ground around it, this fluid leaks bright red.

"Well played, I suppose," utters Agaracuk, obviously angry at the mischance that his waylaid his drunkeness. He reaches down and saves what he can and quaffs it quickly. "I've never known a Raven to give up a drink," he says with a toothy grin that does not match his eyes.

Bending down, he takes a crudely forged ring off the finger of a dead orc. He steps over its nearly-severed head in doing so, never taking his eyes off of Bal'Dyak. "What's mine may be yours, you mean. But you'll take no more. See?" He bounces the pommel of his jagged, ill-forged, razor-sharp sword up and down in his hand. "See?"
Agaracuk wields Short Broadsword.

Jests or tests, it was not without sincerity to the victor of this night's cave battle that Bal'Dyak had proffered a drink with all the manners of a troll. His arms come idly once more to his chest, crossed as he measures the focus of another Uruk - and this one now with his blade at the ready. In a quick move of both hands, the left pushes the hilt free past and below his belt as the right catches, swinging it up to chest level and holding it - parrying the air between their blades.

    "I dun tolt ya once I got my share landsides," he speaks, responding to the circling steps of Agaracuk as he moves himself now away from the fire, "and seems to me you've got yer hands full here. Why don't ya make a proper cap'n and get to cleanin?"
COMBAT - Wielded: Longsword

Agaracuk follows the swarthy, thick Uruk-Hai step for step. "The only cleaning I'll be doing is mopping with your guts. And it'll be bloody difficult to get the stains out when I'm finished." He pulls his shield off of his back with a swagger, waggling it in front of Bal'Dyak with a snarl. "You first," he grimaces, licking his teeth. "Or else get the **** back from my trophies. Good meat died here, and not so you could take their gear and trinkets. I've got bloodright. They were mine and mine."

"Ravens can piss off and find their own corpses."

Whether it was the grunt or the growl tucked in with the others words, and Bal'Dyak without response, seething from his mangled teeth outwards to every muscle - heated is his brimming rage. The breath of death mauls the caves and the fires about the great gathering room.

    Coals fall from the nearest pit, and as the Raven rears his sword, 'You First' echoing, charring his thought, his off-hand swings back in balance - and onto a red-hot skewering rod, devoid of any dinner. The searing burn across his palm sends Bal'Dyak reeling and stomping through the hole, burning wood and embers scattering a blaze into the edge of his black tattered over-cloak.

Agaracuk laughs loudly and chases Bal'Dyak across the pit. And does not swing his sword. Yet. He moves closer to the writhing Uruk-Hai and quizzically looks at his pain, bending down some. His laughter keens, growling louder.

 A clump of huddling snaga across the cavern leave quickly, their feet pattering loudly on the stone floor.

"You say you are no coward, yet you do not fight, yet you do nothing but injure yourself. Let me see who you are. Let me see if you are worthy of Sharkuu's gaze"

The Hammer Cult member, smith caste of Isengard, quickly swings his sword out toward Bal'Dyak's face. The look on his face speaks volumes. He smiles while the fire spits sparks.

As Bal'Dyaks cloak continues to burn, the heat searing now past his legs, he dances more fiercely. From his whirring, blurring point of view, Agaracuk stops where he just was - so quickly he moves now, fanning the flames of the fire unwittingly. As he runs spurred with the haste of his near burning flesh he barks repeatedly, "Get out 'ma way, GET OUT mah WAY GETOUTTA MA WAAAAY!"

Agaracuk watches the burning orc run by him with a grin and then indifference, his smile turning to a dutiful grimace eventually. "Fool," he mutters while rummaging through the corpses. He looks up occasionally while looting. "Ah Grompsh, what an axe," he mutters.

Looking back up, Agaracuk checks for foes. The looting continues as he sees none.

Date added: 2011-06-18 04:36:41    Hits: 60
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