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Poor Notion of Approval

Tags: Bagurat,  Witch-king

Short Summary: Bagurat receives a visitor to her tent, and tries to gain his permission for a request. Angry Nazgul = backfired attempt.
Date (real-life): 2010-10-17
Scene Location: Unholy Tent, Mordain camp, north Mirkwood

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Daytime on Highday, Day 16 of March.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 17:24:01 MDT on Sun Oct 17 2010.

Unholy Tent
The unpleasant scent of death and decay fills this spacious, dark interior. The only illumination is cast by a few candlestands, and the light they give off is pale and unwholesome. Perhaps they are the source of the morbid smell.

The room itself is a scene of orcish disorder: boxes are strewn across the floor of the tent, accompanied by torn or crumbled pieces of parchment. There is a makeshift table set off to the back, and upon it numerous scratched and faded tomes are stacked. Beside one of the books loose papers are scattered, and they are covered in runes, or more rarely, in standard uruk script. The words appear to be written in blood. Off to the side, a small shelf houses a collection of vials and containers filled with unknown contents. While the whole room is dank and darkling, despite the meagre candlelight, one corner in particular seems to collect deeper shadows than the rest.

OOC: You may try inspecting 'vials', 'tomes', 'corner' and 'papers'.


[Bagurat(#24847)]
A clear spring day has come to Mirkwood forest. But little of it can be sensed from within the dim confines of this black tent. There are candles placed here and there, but their illumination is faint and cheerless, and an unpleasant smell seemingly comes from them. The door-flaps are closed, although the gruff shouts and harsh laughter of the surrounding Mordain camp is not held back.

As untidy and dirty as the rest of the room is, there is at least a partially sturdy table constructed off to the side. A rickety-looking stool is propped up beside the table, and upon it sits the dark-garbed form of Bagurat. Her ashen face wears no mask, and it is directed downward toward the multitudes of torn papers that grace the wooden surface of the desk.

[Unholy Tent(#5422)]
Witch-king draws aside the flaps, and enters the tent.

[Unholy Tent(#5422)]
Suddenly all light within is quenched, and the tent is plunged into dreadful shadow.

[Witch-king(#28583)]
It is then that something more unpleasant still seeps into the tent; a dark, forbidding wash of dread and despair, and the candlelight flickers in panic before it is quenched entirely. As the tent is plunged into darkness, a shadowy shape forms in the entrance-way; grown and swollen to a terrible figure that enters unbidden.

Two points of red flame kindle in the blackness; a sinister gaze revealing itself, and a rasping voice demands: "Report."


[Bagurat(#24847)]
The candlelight vanishes, earning at first a frown from the orc. But at the familiar tide of dread and fear -- and the voice of course -- the shaman makes a jerked motion of startlement as though to leap from the seat. But the movement is too much for the precarious stool, and it tips groundward, toppling Bagurat with it.

For a second there is only a confused mess of wooden legs and fabric, ere the witch-orc surfaces once more and scrambles to her feet to face the unbidden arrival. "The Elves tried to stop our advancement again, but we drove them off. The dwarves as well."


[Witch-king(#28583)]
A seething hiss fills the air after her words, and the fierce gaze blazes into new life, though otherwise the Nazgul seems unfazed by the news. "Have you found their halls, yet? How many halt your progress?"

[Bagurat(#24847)] 

Bagurat shakes her head in the dark, answering, "No, I -- we have not. Not yet," she adds with a slightly nervous tone of assurance. "There was a cliff, and some sort of vines blocking the way after the retreating cowards. There is an army of them, at the least, on ahead. We felled a hundred...five hundred? They weren't counted, though the cooks might know how many filled their pots." Her mouth manages to pull back in a nasty grin at this last.


[Witch-king(#28583)]
This at least seems to sate the Morgul Lord, for his eyes simmer and dip as though in a nod. "How many losses have you incurred? How many of my muster remain now to break the Elves once and for all?"


[Bagurat(#24847)]
There is a pause before the next reply comes, and the shaman stares determinedly at the hide of the tent rather than the imposing robed figure against it. "Our losses were worse than theirs," admits Bagurat, unmoving. "I would say...nigh a thousand fell." She swallows and supplies quickly, "But a little more than half the original number remain, ready to do your biding, Shrieker."


[Witch-king(#28583)]
Dark and menacing does the air grow then following this news, and if the figure of the Nazgul towered over the Shaman before, now its foul shape stretches as though to fill the entire tent itself. Sharp fingers of ice and fear stab at Bagurat's flesh, and the fierce eyes in the gloom blaze all the more.

"You lost a thousand swords being held along a cliff...?" rasps the Ringwraith in anger. "What fools have I put in place to carry out my bidding..."


[Bagurat(#24847)]
The witch-orc's breath hisses sharply as the icy assault of shadows fills the interior, and she takes three paces backward, almost tripping over the toppled stool.

"Forgiveness," Bagurat implores, though her yellow eyes still do not dare meet the Wraith-lord's own. "It wasn't my fault, nor could the mountain-king prevent it. The albai rained their wretched arrows on us, while the dwarves crept upon the flank. And the bear..it came with them, and injured the Vorazg."


[Witch-king(#28583)]
Little does the fell aura disperse, the Nazgul following Bagurat as she retreats, and the eyes blaze all the more. "The son of Beorn lives still?" he hisses, and a palpable wash of hatred flows through the roiling shadows. "The Vorazg himself should have fared better, but no matter. I shall take this matter into mine own hands..."


[Bagurat(#24847)]
An unintelligible sound slips from the shaman's throat as the Nazgul shadows her back-stepping, and her gaze darts swiftly over towards the doorway that leads to Out and Away. "Then you will rid us of the bear? You will kill it?"


[Witch-king(#28583)]
There is a snarl now as the Nazgul nods anew, ere his voice raises forcefully: "Hold your place, Shaman! I have not finished with you..."


[Bagurat(#24847)]
Bagurat gives a trembling flinch, though she doesn't move, and her small form seems to grow even more diminutive as she cowers down. The witch-orc's eyes have returned their attention to the Wraith-lord, but they venture no higher than the hem of his robes.

There is long pause, ere she speaks, "There is something I must ask...the mountain-rats...I need your consent."


[Witch-king(#28583)]
"For what?" comes the reply, low and menacing though the Nazgul does not advance further.


[Bagurat(#24847)]
"I have been requested," begins the shaman, clasping and unclasping her clawed fingers together nervously, "to return with them back to their Mines. The wolf-rider: he says there's some ancient riddle I must solve to unearth a lost artifact. I planned to go with them, if I earn approval...?"


[Witch-king(#28583)]
"Earn approval...?" hisses the voice of the Wraith-lord then, and once more his eyes blaze. "After having lost a thousand orcs against the Elves? You have a poor notion of approval, Shaman.."


[Bagurat(#24847)]
The Nazgul's answer doesn't improve the display of finger clasping. "Your permission to depart with them, when they do?" Bagurat tries again, now daring a glance all the way up toward the empty cowl. "I will," the witch-orc stops, seemingly struggling to devise an excuse for favor. Finally she finishes only, "Prove my worth for approval."


[Witch-king(#28583)]
"Prevail over the Eldar, and we shall see what travels you earn, Shaman..."

With that the Nazgul turns, the breadth of his shadow moving toward the tent-flaps.


[Bagurat(#24847)]
The shaman stays frozen, save her paled yellow stare that follows the shadowy specter.

"We will triumph, or may His wrath befall me," reassures Bagurat, but then she seems to regret it; one hand darts upward to clutch at her neck. But the words are out.


[Witch-king(#28583)]
And fortunately for the Shaman, perhaps, so too is the Nazgul. Slipping from the tent, the fell presence departs, leaving the witch-orc to only the unpleasantness of her own making.

 


Date added: 2010-10-17 21:07:20    Hits: 107
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