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Dwarven Hospitality

Tags: Bagurat,  Diesa,  Formin,  Graim,  Sudanir

Short Summary: The dwarves, and an elf, attempt to reach an understanding with their new prisoner. Featuring babbling dwarves, elven target practice, tent demolishing, and sour-mooded orcs.
Date (real-life): 2010-10-20
Scene Location: Erebor Caravan, outside Beorning Village

Anduin Road, East of Village
This northern road passes across the Anduin River in the west and into the region known as Rhovanion, one of the wildest and most unsettled regions of Middle Earth. Far off in the distance a green line can be seen, Mirkwood forest looms towards the east, swallowing up the plain fields. The road's edge is paved with smoothed stones. To the west can be seen a fairly large village, abutting the beautiful lady Anduin. In the middle of that section of river can be seen a huge stone. The sunlight is too bright for your sensitive eyes. It is hard to make out much of anything.

The sky is clear. The mid morning spring air is warm and dry around you. The moon is not visible.

Erebor Caravan
Beorning Campsite
Obvious exits:
 West leads to Village Crossroads.
 SouthEast leads to Dirt Road through Open Plains.
 North leads to Open Plains.
 South leads to Meadow of Clover.

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Mid Morning on Sunday, Day 25 of March.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 17:58:07 MDT on Wed Oct 20 2010.

[Graim(#20753)]         'Tis mid-morning over the Beorning village, and in the Dwarven encampment outside its eastern boarders. The Dwarves go about their business as usual, ringing of hammers against anvils, the occasional clash of weapons for training, eating, drinking... typical Dwarven camp life.

        One of the Dwarves is the Chief Master Veteran, Graim the Younger. Currently walking to a heavily guarded wagon, the Chief seems to be in a rather good mood: humming some tune from the Iron Hills, mail ringing quietly, and a curious-looking bird-mask hanging from his belt. Upon reaching the wagon, and nodding to the guards, he speaks. "Well! I trust the prisoner is... hmm... well?" There is dry amusement in the tone, for certain.

[Formin(#26827)] From the east appears a small group on foot, following the dusty road that leads away from Mirkwood. The group is made up of dwarves, yet of that company that left some weeks past to venture deep into Mirkwood, only a paltry eleven remain of the original two dozen. Some of those still limp, but overall the party seems relatively healthy otherwise. Perhaps they have had aid along their journey.

At the fore of the small company marches Formin. His blade and shield are stowed and he walks with the sturdy stick that he has taken to of late, but his step is brisk and strong, not the dogged trod of a weary, defeated dwarf. As the party of dwarves nears the entrenched camp, the silversmith lifts a hand in greeting to his brethren afar.

Warder Diesa is among the paltry eleven that return from Mirkwood in the company of Formin and quite grateful for this fact. His step is not as brisk as that of the silversmith, but then he has a reputation among his brethren for being rather reserved in that way. As they near the camp his eye searches out his direct superior Chief Master Veteran Graim so that he may report in.

Graim receives an elloquent answer in response: an irritated snort. And it is understandable, for the prisoner in question is currently stuck in said wagon with her clawed hands and feet bound in a rather uncomfortable hogtie-fashion. A makeshift tent at least keeps the hated light of the sun from glaring directly downward over the orc. Blinking from the outside light, she lifts a cut and bruised head to offer a scowl through the doorflaps that are propped open. "You've a poor concept of 'well'," Bagurat hisses.

Sticking up like a sore thumb, an elf walks among those few Dwarves who return from Mirkwood, spear in hand and bow slung upon his back, along with arrows. Like a tree among bushes, his stature seems almost laughable. But his gait is even, and he seems healthy, even if his clothing show signs of wear and tear from recent battle. "So you really cannot tell the trees apart, even after all this time?" he asks his traveling companion, his voice sounding clearly surprised.

[Graim(#20753)]         One of the guards is about to speak, but is cut off by the prisoner itself. The guard rolls his eyes, hand resting upon his axe haft; Graim, meanwhile, merely arches an eyebrow at the orc. "If you would like, we could certainly remove that tent that protects you from the light. We could use it for other things, after a good cleaning of course."

        As commotion is made in the camp at the return of the Dwarves, the Chief turns and raises a hand. "Hail, cousins!" The voice carries well over the camp.

[Formin(#26827)] "Oh bah," Formin snorts sidelong to the elf beside him. "What is a tree to a dwarf? Why ought we to take the time to discern one from another? Now, a stone, aye. Show me on stone and show me a thousand others and I shall still tell you that none is like the first." Chuckling to himself, the silversmith picks up his pace as Graim hails them from afar. "Say now, Diesa lad," says Formin, nodding towards Graim. "There's your Chief, off you go then. I know you've been happily waiting for the time when you are no longer bound to follow behind me." He grins.

The Chief's suggestion does not improve Bagurat's expression. "I appreciate the tent where it is," replies the shaman, though she quiets for a second as Graim turns away to hail the approaching group.

"Not more of them," mutters the orc to herself, and she fumbles with her long fingers to try and reach the rope about her ankles; doubtless she has tried this many times before, and it ends the same: the binding is too tight, and Bagurat gives up after a moment while biting on her tongue. A series of orcish cursings come from the wagon.

"Perhaps I should drop stones in the forest, to show you the way. Of course, they all seem somewhat alike to me, but surely the stones would speak to you as the trees speak to me..." Sudanir slows as the Dwarf camp seems to be reached. He stands on the periphery, as if reluctant to go in. "Well, here we are. I will see you soon?" he says, looking down at Formin. But the sound of yrch tongue is...as incongruous in this setting as it is unmistakeable. Sudanir's gaze whips toward the wagon.

Diesa snorts and with deliberate step steers his course so that it passes close by Sudanir on the way toward where Graim awaits. "Master elf," says he, "my eyes are not trained in the lore of trees, but I think surely they must be closer in relation to stone than my cousin suggests. Bark is not soft, and surely trees are also natural objects of artistic craftsmanship?"

[Graim(#20753)]         "I am sure you do," says Graim dryly to the prisoner over his shoulder. "And I am still seeking orc-bone." That said, he turns his attention back to the returning Dwarves; the Elf is quite noticable, and the Chief snorts softly. As Diesa walks towards him, Graim's eyes briefly flick to the Warder, an eyebrow arched slightly, a twitch, as the gaze turns back to the Elf.

[Formin(#26827)] "Aye, I should think--" Formin begins to reply to Sudanir, though as with the elf, the silversmith's gaze is brought quickly around at the sound of that black tongue, somewhere in the camp. "By the Maker," he grunts, even as they near Graim and the covered wagon. "Master Chief! What foul tongue is that I hear? By Durin, I suspected my absence would bring a great tediousness to camp, but to resort to such a black tongue is really beyond boredom, is it not? We are, after all, meant to be civilized!" The last comes with a muffled snort.

Sudanir's attention on the covered wagon is torn away reluctantly, and he looks down at Diesa, noting the dwarf's beard in particular. "Trees are pliable as a building and artistic material, dead and living. Of course, we elves are no stranger to stone. Our very halls are carved from the living rock. But when I see two rocks side by side, I do not see their entire history from the beginning of their existence, as I do two sticks. I see...hard and mild winters, rainy seasons and drought, written in the wood like a song to be sung." Sudanir listens to Master Formin's loud diatribe, watching the interactions of the dwarves, while trying to remain unobtrusive.

"Greedy are the gazat filth," comments the with-orc, switching back to Westron, and her eyes narrow as they flicker to the new trophy on Graim's belt. "I think the mask is enough for you."

Bagurat peers up anew at Formin's loud reprimand, before emitting a mocking laugh, despite her predicament. "Civilized? Ha."

[Graim(#20753)]         A rather satisfied laugh comes from the Chief Master Veteran. "We have a... hmm... guest, cousin," rumbles Graim, gesturing to the tent-covered wagon behind him. "Did a little scouting into yonder wood and got myself a prize. Figured it would be worth to ask a few questions and get some answers out of it. Information is quite important."

"I meant only to demonstrate that not all dwarves are inclined to speak so disdainfully of trees," Diesa murmurs. "I would enjoy learning more about them at a later time; for the present, however, excuse me while I report in." He bows respectfully to the elf and then turns to Graim. "Chief Master Veteran," he salutes formally. The distasteful prisoner is detected out of the corner of the eye but the soldier makes a concerted effort to stay focused on duty.

[Formin(#26827)] "A guest?" Formin inquires, brows lifting as he comes to stand beside Graim, ignoring Sudanir and Diesa alike. The silversmith looks mildly amused as he looks to the Chief, then turns to peer around him and gain a glimpse of the orc imprisoned there. For a second, Formin's eyes narrow and his lips purse as he regards Bagurat, but then his eyes widen and a grin begins to spread across his face. His gaze flicks to Graim as if the Chief Master Veteran should know the source of Formin's sudden joy, but it is to Sudanir that the silversmith then looks, positivey beaming now.

"Master Sudanir," says Formin, lightly elbowing the elf. "Tis our literary orc! The little one with the book, I'd swear it!"

A hiss of recognition followed by a groan from the shaman would seem to prove Formin's assumption as correct. Bagurat's yellowed glare darts to the easily noticed Elf, and then upon the shorter forms of the others. "A book would be considerate, right now," she scowls again. "It quickly gets boring with nothing but your lovely wagon-wood to read all day."

[Graim(#20753)]         Graim turns to Diesa, returning the salute before he gives a slight nod of the head. "Greetings, Warder. I trust injuries have been kept in check this time? I believe the Beornings may be becoming... disenchanted... with my use of their stocks." Despite the words, a note of amusement is in the tone.

        He turns to look at Formin, and then to the orc as Bagurat speaks, a slightly disbeliving look in the eyes. "A /literary/ orc?"

"The one that was reading on the stump?" Sudanir asks, his memory jogged at Formin's words. "Are you sure? They all look alike. Maybe they wear the same clothing as well. Or perhaps this one just has a similar position." Sudanir smiles and greets Graim now, with a bow of the neck. "Master Dwarf." he greets in the custom they seem to use. "I am Sudanir. Shall we...go look at your prize?"

Diesa, who doesn't look all that much worse for the wear compared to the aftermath of his first orcish encounters in Mirkwood, grunts and presses his lips into a thin line. "The Chief Master Veteran is a good teacher and the Warder is a good student." Then he turns his gaze upon the prisoner, stroking his beard unconsciously with tender affection.

[Graim(#20753)]         A brief, barked laugh comes from Graim at Diesa's words before he nods. The Chief turns his gaze to the Elf, and there is a momentary pause before he bows. "Chief Master Veteran Graim the Younger, son of Graim the Elder. By all means, do; feel free to ask it some questions, if you think you can get good information out of it. I imagine disposition of troops and their locations is a good way to start."

        A brief grin flicks beneath the beard. "Well, I shall go see if wounds need tending. If you get anything out of it," with a thumb pointed at Bagurat, "let me know." With that, the Chief heads off to check the others that have returned.

[Formin(#26827)] Formin chuckles at something he finds amusing in Diesa's reply to Graim, but shakes his head and says nothing. To Sudanir, he nods vigorously. "Aye well, listen to her, why don't you! Hah! Twould put coin on it. I met her once - in battle, I mean - and I do fancy that she was as irritable then as she is now. Ah, but, Master Graim," the silversmith adds to the Chief Master Veteran's back, "you have captured a general of the goblins'! Or Captain, or Chief Grunter or what have you. Excellent!"

And then, setting hands to hips, he beams at the orc, a glint in his eye. "Well, my fine literary orc, how is dwarven hospitality treating you?"

"I doubt we need to ask it where the troops are." Sudanir says sardonically to Graim, and givs Formin a conspiratory look, which then continues to Diesa. He shifts the weight on his feet, leaning on the staff now, as if settling down for a long wait. "Though, I /would/ like to know what has been motivating them now, of all times."

The 'prize' isn't a very spectacular sight to view, to be certain, though perhaps slightly comical -- hogtied there in the wagon, with black robes that are covered all about in dried mud. The orc's neck is a nasty sight of black blood and bruises. "Could tend to mine!" Bagurat growls at Graim's departing back, but then her gaze falls on the silversmith.

"Poorly," comes the simple reply to Formin's question, accompanied by fresh snort. To Sudanir, the shaman supplies, "You can keep on wondering, for I'll tell you nothing."

Diesa is typically a dwarf of few words; now is no exception. He has naught to say to the prisoner and naught to comment to either dwarves or elf on the orc's presence in the camp. Yet words are not necessary to gauge his feeling on the matter, for it is with open blood lust that he observes the creature from where he stands a few steps farther out than the others. The compelling (and oh-so-personal) desire to kill the orc wages hotly within, too complex for language to even express if he did choose to speak.

[Formin(#26827)] "Excellent!" says Formin in reply to Bagurat's sour answer. The silversmith comes right up to the side of the wagon, still beaming. Now though, there is a distinct gloat in his eyes. "Now now, that's a very poor attitude, indeed. And we here being so kind as to give you a tent, and even feed you!" He glances at the guards with a raised brow, as if unsure of the accuracy of this last point. One of them gives a half shrug and a nod. "Yes, well, sort of feed you!"

"So come now, why not be a good literary orc and cooperate? I am not so terrible an interrogator, am I? Why, I have not yet even begun to sing! Durin forbid."

Mayhap part of Diesa's murderous intention is writ upon his face; for Bagurat's stare lingers over him for a moment longer than the others, and her eyes turn slightly wary.

"Sing?" Repeats the witch-orc, hastily returning her attention to the silversmith as he steps close. "Nasty prospect to imagine." Her lips pull back in a sneer, though at the mention of food the shaman frowns disdainfully. "I'd rather a bite of dwarf fingers, than more moldy bread." She eyes Formin's hands pointedly.

"You've feasted enough on his kin." Sudanir says with a hard tone, uncompassionate and unyielding. "Foul beast. What was that tome you were reading, in the Forest?" Sudanir leans his spear against the wagon, and takes his bow from his back, stringing it as he waits for a reply.

[Formin(#26827)] "I know - perish the thought, eh?" Formin answers lightly, grinning. Yet next moment, his grin has vanished, replaced by a bored expression of one tasked with a tedious but necessary job. He holds up his fingers, waggling them as if considering the degree of their tastiness. "Yes, that's very nice, but I imagine you've had too many dwarf fingers for the moment. Orc fingers are so much easier to take off, after all. And--" he pulls a face, struck by a sudden thought "--I imagine you can personally attest to their tastiness."

"But in any case," continues the silversmith, waving a hand vaguely, "that is not the point. The point is that we would rather like to hear what you know. Shall I try honesty? Yes, I think I shall. In honesty, you are not going to live very long, my fine literary orc. A sad point of information for you, I don't doubt, but honesty is to be valued, eh? So!" Formin steps back a pace, gesturing at Sudanir and Diesa both. "These two fine companions of mine are rather wanting your death to be a prolonged one, twould be my guess. But judge for yourself. And then perhaps consider whether you are wanting to appease them or not."

Would Diesa like to see the orc's death be prolonged? Oh yes. With great suffering? Oh yes yes. Painted in broad strokes of intense agony? Oh yes yes yessssss! A low growl comes from deep in his throat and then he jerks his hot violent gaze away from the prisoner and inhales slowly. "Master Silversmith," he mutters, "I'm going to see if the Chief Master Veteran needs anything. I'll be back shortly."

"It was a large tome," answers Baguart, now watching the Elf carefully as he readies the bow, "filled with various subjects, if you must know: rituals, healing potion, torture...useful things." She manages a twisted fanged grin.

The expression just as quickly vanishes however, as the orc listens to Formin's speech, and the smirk contorts into a snarl. "Oh?" she inquires, attempting to keep the tone as disinterested as possible; it fails quite considerably. "Are dwarves and Elves so vengeful? A pity..."

[Formin(#26827)] "Very good, very good," Formin says vaguely to Diesa as the Warder departs. The silversmith's eyes remain locked on Bagurat, however. "A pity, is it? For you, yes it most certainly is. Ah but now you have forced me to make abominably cliched remarks, shame on you. Now that puts me mind of one of your own rather cliched remarks, concerning a curse or something of the sort. You'll forgive me for not remembering the exact detailsl very loud in battle and that. But in any case, how, eh, is that curse working out for you, I wonder? Is your, eh, capture and imprisonment a part of it, mm? Splendid job this master of yours is doing in enforcing it. I commend him on making really quite a fine job of it, in fact."

Sudanir's sense of humor seems lost. He strings his bow, a feat that requires the strength and leverage of his entire body. Once finished, he tests it, listening to the satisfying, almost musical *thromb* it makes when plucked. Then he takes an arrow and nocks it to his bow, raising it to point at Bagurat. Completely dispassionate, he sights down his arrow at the orc, strapped down as an easy target.

There is a pause before the shaman speaks again, and it is preceeded by a venemous hissing. "I cursed you all to smoke and ashes," Bagurat growls, baring her hideous teeth again. "What are you implying? That the Eye put me here, fool? I've disappointed Him as of late, but I've offered a prayer, don't you worry. We shall see what He does."

The twanging of the bow earns an instinctual flinch from the witch-orc, though the movement is serverely hindered by the rope. "You'd do that, albai-filth?" she offers to Sudanir, and there is nervousness mixed into the hatred of the voice. "Shoot your 'guest' here and now when I can't defend myself? I thought even your kind had honor, or are you too cowardly to fight me fairly, one on one?"

"You won't die." Sudanir says with chilling calm. "And I need the practice." He looses his arrow, and it strikes the wood of the wagon with a loud *thunk* that makes the entire thing rattle. He missed. Or else, he was not aiming at her. He takes another arrow and nocks it to the bow. "What think you, Master Dwarf? Am I in need of practice?"

[Formin(#26827)] "Hah! By the Maker, would you listen to her, Master Sudanir?" Formin chortles, as if this is all some elaborate joke. "Lecturing us about our honor and our cowardice. How very rich." And just as quickly as before, his mirth vanishes and looks at the she-witch from under his brows. "I imagine you would like that, would you not? In fact, you count upon it, upon our honor translating to mercy. Ah, how very quaint. That you should expect fairness when you would give none yourself."

The silversmith's mirth, even his boredom, is gone now. In fact, he looks unusually serious, frowning. "Do you know, Master Sudanir," says Formin, all levity gone from his voice, "I believe you do."

Bagurat does the only thing she can do in her current bound-up situation as the arrow flies; she ducks. But the dart strikes only wood, and she looks up again, glowering, her yellowed eyes moving from the Elf, to Formin, and back again. "...I've given fairness," the orc argues, frowning as if thinking. "Might not be the same as your standards, but it was fair enough."

Sudanir looses another arrow, aiming this time at the lower leg, in the fleshy part. After it hits, he reaches for another arrow. "You've given fairness?" He asks, nocking his next arrow to the bow, but not drawing. He appears genuinely interested. "I would be interested to hear."

[Formin(#26827)] Formin doesn't flinch as a second arrow is loosed. Just as calmly as before, he continues talking. "Ah, that's good to hear. You'll be returning those dwarves and elves who have disappeared then? In war, death is to be expected, of course, but you've taken more than one of ours alive. Tis good indeed to hear that they have been treated fairly." There is no jest in his tone, despite his words.

Eldarin aim wins a pained snarling and cursing from the shaman, and she gnashes her teeth together. Bagurat manages an answer to Sudanir's curiosity, although the words are rather spat than stated. "One of the lads who was injured in the fighting," she explains. "I sacrificed him to the Great One to end his suffering. Isn't that fair?"

To Formin her head turns once more, and the orc gives to assure him, "They've been treated fairly in our pots, yesss. Quite good they tasted, too."

"So, you sacrificed him to...well...you did that, to be merciful? As opposed to...what? What was done to the rest, that sacrificing one was a kindness?" He draws his bow and looses the arrow, still aiming for the legs.

[Formin(#26827)] Formin stands dispassionately as Sudanir again looses an arrow. The frown that mars his face remains and indeed, deepens as Bagurat's taunting continues, but it seems for once that the silversmith is carefully considering his next words. For now, he says nothing.

"The others who were wounded received healing, of course, but this one -- he was going to die, you see, either way," says Bagurat, her tone suggesting an almost unpleasant amusement. "So why not do it for him, and speed his soul to the Master?"

The next arrow does not stick like the previous one had done, but it earns a new muttered curse when it grazes the same leg.

Again, Sudanir is surprised, and lowers his bow. "They received healing? For what purpose?"

[Formin(#26827)] "Oh what tales, you could tell, I wonder," says Formin, smirking where Sudanir is surprised. "Healing, did they receive? What, to better make them objects of sport, mm? Or as practice for your crooked blades? Or, does this astounding revelation come only to extend the time your head has left to spend with your neck?"

"To be cured," replies the witch-orc, actually giving a low sound that appears to be a laugh at the Elf's question. "So they could fight again. I was refering to the other orcs who were injured. Don't your kind have healers that do the same? But perhaps not. No, not the same...we don't sing and dance." Bagurat makes another snort. "No, we didn't heal the poor little pointed-ears, and dwarves, oh no. I've already told you what we did to them."

She licks her lips, before glancing back over at the silversmith. "I'll keep talking if it means I live longer," says the shaman. "Do I bore you?"

Sudanir shakes his head. "Your Common Tongue could use some practice." he says factually. With that, he turns and walks away, disgusted.

[Formin(#26827)] "Ah now, that just ruins it," Formin mutters as Sudanir turns and departs. "Now I shall have to find something long and sharp to poke you with instead. A short sword simply will not do. Oh, or perhaps something heavy and destructive - Master Farak carries a mace, I believe. Although you are in fact bound, I suppose a short sword would do very nicely." Musing to himself as if Bagurat is not even present, he glances down at his side and fingers the red hilt of his short broadsword thoughtfully.

Then, glancing up, he smiles brightly at the shaman. "Don't suppose you're settled on speaking of your own free will yet? And I do mean speaking -usefully-, such as what has brought such a horde into northern Mirkwood."

Bagurat offers nothing more than a snarl to Sudanir's departing figure, although she looks slightly glad that the bow and discomforting arrows have gone with him. But alas, for it appears the orc is not finished being irksome, for when Formin speaks she turns a stubborn glare his way. Now, suddenly, she is silent.

[Formin(#26827)] "Ah good, glad we have that settled then," says the silversmith, now drawing the short sword at his side and fingering the blade absently. "Well then, I shall begin to guess, shall I? Where to begin? Ah, let's begin with this master of yours. See, I have a certain idea--Oh Durin, I've knicked it--" Formin breaks off for a second, his brow furrowing with displeasure as his fingers find a noticeable knick in the side of his blade. Frowning, he sighs heavily as looks back at Bagurat as if it is her fault.

"Well, where was I? Ah yes, your master. Either he is pretty ineffectual as far as masters go, what with his inability to either burn down Mirkwood or defeat the elves; or he has decided that your lot is rather a bad bet, thus why his curse seems somewhat to be favoring my lot at the moment."

The shaman peers unconcernedly at the knick in the blade; and then Formin's summary brings another nasty frowning glower to her face. "I cursed myself in foolishness, so that explains my current ill luck," growls Bagurat. "But don't worry about His power and intent. You'll be convinced of it soon enough, when the forest perishes in fire, and the wretched Elves are gone."

[Formin(#26827)] "Yes yes yes, all old guff, you know," Formin snorts. "Gracious me, do you know how often we get threats like that? Quite as effective as your many promises of showing me my insides. Now, watch your head now." The silversmith suddenly swings out with his blade, but the sword soars over Bagurat's head instead of at it. With one swing, the makeshift tent above the orc is abruptly demolished, allowing the warm spring sun to fully bear down upon the shaman.

[Graim(#20753)]         Wandering back over to the prison wagon is Graim, no doubt after checking and tending any injuries amongst the returned Dwarves, currently holding up the crow-mask and peering at it. In the other hand is a cloth, wiping something or another from the trophy. "I wonder, master Formin, if I might get your opinion upon something," rumbles the Chief. No concern, for the moment, is payed to the prisoner or the cutting of the tent.

        "Should I put this upon the mantle you think, and regale visitors with the tale or should I keep it to let the beardlings practise their axe work on it?"

The witch-orc brings her head down again as the shortsword whistles above, and she hisses in surprise and irritation as the sunlight is quite abruptly shining down upon her. "Put it back," demands Bagurat, blinking and squinting now.

Graim's approach and inquiry wins yet one more scowl of frsutration, and she answers despite that fact his words were addressed to his kinsman. "Neither. I still want it returned."

[Formin(#26827)] "No," Formin return nasily, imitating a child's poutish response. And, making a face, he turns to Graim, his expression suddenly genial. "Eh, Chief? Oh, neither, I agree there, Chief. A rubbish old piece of junk like that? Please, you show that as a trophy and they'll say a beardling painted it. Add it to the fire, says I."

[Graim(#20753)]         Graim blinks, turning his gaze briefly to Bagurat. "And did I not say you would wait long to get it back?" Asks the Chief in turn, a brief frown as he takes note of the collapsed tent. "Hmph. Needed airing out anyway." His eyes flick back to the silversmith, and he nods thoughtfully after a moment.

        "Perhaps... think the steel might be servicable enough for a dagger blade, or is it beyond redemption?"

While she may not agree with the silversmith's opinion, the orc does not argue this time around; and now that Formin and Graim are occupied with the future of the bird-mask, Bagurat seizes the moment to pull and yank as best she can at the ropes that secure her wrists and ankles all together over her back.

[Formin(#26827)] "Oh yes, I think so. And see now, there would be a good story, at least, and a serviceable weapon to boot." At the sound of Bagurat's struggling behind him, Formin gives a dramatic sigh, as if dealing with an especially tedious task. "May I, Chief?" he says, jerking one shoulder back towards the shaman to indicate her.

[Graim(#20753)]         "Excellent. Now I just need the orc-bone and I can get a smith started upon it." A smile appears under the beard of the Chief before he glances back to Bagurat with a frown. "Hmm. Certainly. Have you learned anything from it yet? I shall be sending a message to the Beorning's Laird to see if he wishes to ask questions."

The sound of struggling continues for a moment ere it stops. With the older wounds from the Chief's mace, and now with the arrow stuck in one leg, it would appear the prisoner is quickly tiring. Bagurat gives up again, falling still. The mention of orc-bone causes her eyes to flicker upward, and she lays there panting a little under the sun.

[Formin(#26827)] "Excellent," Formin repeats, much like Graim. He turns on the spot, briefly fingering his blade thoughtfully for a moment before sheathing it again. "Not much aside from rubbish about curses and the like," he says to Graim as he approaches the wagon again. "Now, my literary orc, the Chief is here now, which means it's about time you begin talking, see." The silversmith mounts the stairs leading into the back of the wagon, now drawing level with Bagurat. "But myself, I'm a patient fellow. I'll offer you one last chance to offer information freely."

[Graim(#20753)]         With that decided, the Chief tucks the mask under his belt, turning his full attention upon Bagurat. "More curses? I said before that if the curses of orcs were worth anything but naught, the Longbeards would be long dead." A brief pause, gaze flicking to Formin for a moment. "No offense, of course, cousin."

        "So. Start giving us the information we need, and things will be perfectly pleasant. Well, mostly."

Being hog-tied and flat on her stomach while facing one direction, Bagurat loses sight of Formin when he climbes up the back of the wagon. When he comes closer and returns into view, she glares at his boots instead of raising her head.

"I've been asked plently of questions already," The orc replies to both dwarves. "What more do you want?" The breathing of her scrawny frame has become noticeably more forced, and there is sweat on her forehead. The sun is not kind.

[Formin(#26827)] "To know why you have come north," Formin says calmly, crossing his arms. "Why now, for what purpose. To know how you managed to unite not only the scum of Mirkwood, but the yrch of the mountains? Well done, by the by, that can't have been simple. To know how you have disappointed your master. To know who your master is. To know why suddenly he is so interested in Rhovanion." Formin pauses, then adds, "To start with."

[Graim(#20753)]         "To say nothing of numbers and battle plans," rumbles Graim mildly. "But let us start with those." His hand falls to his mace, gently drumming his fingers against it for a moment. "So, will you answer freely or shall we have to encourage you?"

There is a pause as Bagurat eyes Graim's mace, and she doesn't seem too thrilled on being introduced to it again after the last meeting. "My master is the Eye, as I've told earlier," answers the shaman flatly. "But I suppose you're refering to our war-leader. The one who drives us on currently, yes? ...as for purpose, surely you've guessed that already? We seek to slay the Elves, and take their halls for our own."

[Formin(#26827)] Formin rolls his eyes as if this is obvious. "Yes, we rather suspected you weren't coming to share a friendly glass of wine and game of cards. Glad we've confirmed that." Growing more serious, he continues. "But why now? What does your master - your war-leader? - hope to gain -now-? Your lot attacked the south of Dale barely a year prior to this trouble. Sudden interest in Rhovanion, eh? Why come north now? Now, at this time?"

[Graim(#20753)]         Graim is silent for the moment, hand still upon the head of his mace; he seems quite content with his role thus far, simply waiting for the orc to speak.

The witch-orc lets out a fresh snarl, clearly annoyed at the strings of inquiries. "Because opportunity presented itself," she says, squinting at the silversmith's feet all the while, and occassionally back to the mace.

"He thought it was a good time to attack, I suppose. The higher-ups don't trust us enough to tell us all. But that's my reckoning...the gaz --" Bagurat corrects, "-- the dwarves were all busy with the outpost. The wargs were a distraction while we headed northward. To weed out the Elves and take their land."

[Formin(#26827)] Formin crouches down, setting his elbows on his knees as he stares hard at Bagurat. "And how did you manage to all come together? Wargs out of the mountains as a distraction while orcs from the forest attack the elves? Bit complex for you, isn't it? Rather a step up from raiding the Old Forest Road or the High Pass."

[Graim(#20753)]         "Quite the step up," rumbles Graim, beard twitching as he frowns. "And the timing of it all. Of course, the wargs might have worked better if they kept attacking and kept us in the outpost and the Beornings occupied. A rather glaring flaw, to leave you flank open in such a manner."

"The 'alliance' was already established before I became involved," explains the orc. "The leader saw to that, somehow. I don't doubt he terrorized them into it." She shivers even with the hot sun overhead, as if reminded of some horrid nameless of fear. To Graim, Bagurat manages the best shrug she can give. "Wargs'll do what they want. When they failed and your kind drove them whining home, he must have given up on them..." Sweat has begun collecting on the wooden floor, and the shaman looks to be on the verge of fainting as her voice trails off.

[Formin(#26827)] "And who is this leader of yours?" Formin grunts, the back of his hand shoving at Bagurat to rouse her back to wakefulness.

"Shrieker," comes the riddled answer, ere Bagurat's head thumps down, and she ceases to respond to Formin's shoving.

[Graim(#20753)]         With a deep frown, the Chief gestures to two nearby guards to get the tent fixed ere turning his attention to Formin. "Shrieker... mean anything to you, cousin?"

[Formin(#26827)] "Shrieker?" Formin repeats, nose wrinkling. "Shrieker? What the hell does that mean?" He shoves a few more times, less and less gently when Bagurat fails to respond. Glaring, he stands again and grabs a hold of the slashed tent, dragging it over Bagurat lik a blanket.

"Not a clue, Chief," says the silversmith, coming down from the wagon. "He who shrieks? Maybe a goblin with a vocal cord problem? Or a female goblin with a voice like Mim at the Longbeard? Twould be a terrible sight to behold, you must admit. Who knows. We'll not likely get anything else out of it for now though." He wipes his brow, glancing up at the sky. "Well, Diesa will make his report, I don't doubt. I'll take my leave, if it's all the same, and continue this later."

[Graim(#20753)]         "Of course," replies Graim, nodding to the silvermsith. "Afterwards, I shall be seeking out the smiths in our camp if you have need of me."


Date added: 2010-10-21 08:23:48    Hits: 59
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