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Bloody Fangs and Witch Orcs

Tags: Bagurat,  Formin,  Graim,  Ormesir

Short Summary: Orc interrogation round two fails to bring any new information. Featuring Elves losing shoes, hogtied prisoners, and temperamental dwarves.
Date (real-life): 2010-10-21
Scene Location: Erebor Caravan, edge of 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.

Rain pours down from the day sky, drenching all around you. The dawn spring air is warm and humid around you. The moon is new.

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:
Dawn on Hevensday, Day 28 of March.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 16:41:53 MDT on Thu Oct 21 2010.

[Formin(#26827)] Dawn and the day is wet. A soaked, drenching sort of wet. Rain pours from the sky, turning the dusty road to a river of mud. Everywhere throughout the dwarven camp are there puddles and growing ponds of murky rainwater and mud squelches underfoot. Despite this, damp tendrils of smoke circle above a dozen campfires as the smells of breakfast begin to drift over the camp.

Clutching a mug of steaming coffee and a few pieces of dried apple, Formin wanders through the camp with his cloak on and the hood drawn up. Rain drips from the top of his hood, falling to catch in the silversmith's glistening beard, which is likewise dripping profusely. He walks with a certain stumping sort of pace, slowly making his way towards a certain wagon with a tent covering it.

Bullets of rain cascade along the sides of that tent, but its patched repairs seem to be serving well enough to keep the inside of the wagon sheltered. Within, the scene is more or less the same as it has been of late: the 'guest' is settled on her stomach while each arm and leg is bound over her back by sturdy lengths of rope. Near the wrist and ankles the darkling skin has quickly grown raw from the rubbing of the cords.

But day is not usually a time of activity for orcs, and Bagurat would appear to be sleeping; snores waft from the wagon to greet Formin.

[Graim(#20753)]         Formin is not the only Dwarf making his way to the wagon, nor the only one there; the ever present guards, two of them with hefty looking axes, stand guard. And making his way there, plate of food in one hand while the other carries a short knife, is the Chief Master Veteran, Graim. Stabbing a sausage from the plate, the Dhurenfal takes a bite of it.

        After chewing and swallowing, and catching sight of Formin, the Chief raises his knife-hand slightly. "Greetings, cousin," rumbles the Dwarf, ignoring the rain falling upon his food. "A fine day, eh?"

[Formin(#26827)] Downing a bite of dried apple with a sip of coffee, Formin approaches the wagon silently - or at least, without speaking, for his boots squelch in the mud. Coming right up to the side of wagon, he looks down over the sideboard at the snoring orc within. An expression halfway between amusement and disgust lingers under his beard, but he only takes another sip of coffee and turns away.

"Master Chief," says Formin, tapping two fingers against his brow in greeting. "Aye, tis a lovely day. I was considering taking a fine spring walk, in fact, save that the air rather reeks with our guest over there."

Another series of snoring comes from Bagurat, and now the pattern has become louder and irregular, ere the orc begins muttering something in her sleep. Whatever she's saying, the words slip forth in a foul language.

[Graim(#20753)]         "A little bit, aye," replies Graim with a nod, taking another bite of sausage before offering a whole one to the silversmith. "Something to liven up your apple there?" He pauses as the muttering comes from the orc, and it is then he turns his attention to it, to see if it will do more than mutter.

[Formin(#26827)] "Ooh, excellent," Formin says, snatching up the sausage without modesty. "These Beornings are so mad about their animals, I'd thought not an ounce of meat was to be found. Unless one is a proficient hunter, which--" he taps his stomach "--this old smith is not." Turning, he follows Graim's gaze back towards the wagon, a look of disgust crossing his face again as he approaches it, listening. Yet he gives Graim a blank look and shrugs at the orc's indecipherable words.

[Graim(#20753)]         "There are still some of our stores left," replies Graim mildly, "though, aye, after those are gone meat shall be hard to come by here. Not that what the Beornings make is not good... but one grows tired of bread, honey, fruit..." The Chief sighs quietly before shaking his head.

        Turning his attention back to the sleeping orc, the Dhurenfal frowns before kicking the wagon. "Oy! Wake up!"

The unintelligible phrases are interrupted by a spluttering cough when the kicking hits the wagon, and the prisoner jerks awake; for a moment Bagurat simply blinks blankly out at the soaked shapes of Graim and Formin. Then she tries to move...but this is instantly defeated by the ropes, and the familiar scowl returns to her face. "What?" the orc asks, tone hinting at annoyance.

[Ormesir(#31473)] Soft, almost inaudible footsteps approach from the west. Through the rain the light footsteps of Ormesir splash, oblivious really to the puddles he would step in. The dawn's light was muted by the heavy rains coming down as the cloaked elf approaches the Dwarf's camp. A few steps out of the camp there was a notably louder SPLASH and a slight cry of dismay. Then he crouches there, messing on the ground with something, visible in the muted light.

[Formin(#26827)] "Ah nothing, just wondering how that beauty sleep of yours is working out," Formin says, beaming at Bagurat and batting his eyelashes as he comes right up to the side of the wagon again. Then he flashes a look of mock sadness. "Alas, tis of no avail." The silversmith's brows rise and he looks briefly away at the sound of a loud splash near the edge of the camp.

[Graim(#20753)]         "I think another introduction to my mace may improve the look," rumbles the Chief, taking a bite of sausage before he chuckles. "But, then, just about anything would." His gaze flicks briefly to Formin. "So, did I hear right the other day? You said /this/ is their captain of captains?"

        He, too, looks over at the sound of the splash, frown flickering beneath his beard. The Dwarves on guard at the edge of the camp, at least those near the source, seem rather... amused, perhaps?

"Hrmph," snorts the shaman in reply. "Good morning to you as well." She peers over at the bits of food both dwarves hold, and Bagurat sniffs and licks her licks her lips. "Don't suppose you'd be generous enough to share, hmm?"

The splash brings a deeper frown, and the witch-orc attempts to crane her neck to see over the wagon's side. "Someone fall in a puddle?" She emits a laugh.

        After some work, Ormesir stands again and slips his now quite wet (inside AND out) shoe back on, before turning to continue quickly to the camp - avoiding the puddles this time. He stops at the guards, bowing politely to them "I am here from the Galad camp, to ensure you did not need anything we could provide and to see how our dwarf friends are doing." he explains to them, face composed and long cloak drawn around both his legs, allowing only the tips of the shoes to be seen, if that.

[Formin(#26827)] "Captain of Captains, pah," Formin snorts. "Sudanir said she was a prominent sort, though I wouldn't say she's the top of the heap. That would be Shrieker, remember?" He gives Graim a pointed look, but is stopped from any further explanation by the arrival of a rather wet elf. "Aha, an elf!" says the silversmith, flourishing a half bow. "You are most kind to check up on us, Master Elf, and may I compliment you on managing somehow to retain such a superb elegance despite being quite wet."

And the next moment, Formin's flourish has been replaced with a bored look of resignation as he looks again to Bagurat. "Share, mm?" Formin says, taking another bite of sausage with a boasting flourish. "Well now, why should we share our dwindling supply of meat with someone who's been -so- terribly rude to us, I wonder? Now, -this- you might like, however." He thrusts a piece of dried apple towards Bagurat.

[Graim(#20753)]         "Ah, yes. The 'Shrieker'," says the Chief, snorting softly. "Prominent, eh? How prominent, I wonder... have to get it correct for the story, you see? Not to mention my report." Then he, too, turns to face the Elf, an eyebrow twitching upwards briefly.

        The guards point the Elf towards Formin and Graim with a muttered 'they are the ones to speak to'. Graim glances back at Bagurat, nodding his head slightly. "The silversmith speak sense. Why should we waste good food on /you/?"

[Ormesir(#31473)] The elf thanked the guards and make his way over to those standing. A blink of elfish eyes at the compliment, and Ormesir offers a smile back and a just as polite bow "Well we are all here together, if we do not work together we would perish much sooner... and uh, thank you. I do try my best. Sentinel Ormesir." he replies. His eyes then glance to the ork and narrow quite dangerously He lets his cloak hang a little looswer now as he joins those standing around the captive, keeping his silence now.

A hissing emerges from Bagurat's throat, and she glares almost accussingly at the silversmith. "Brought along another of the pointed-ears to stick me with arrows? And you call me rude." She looks thoroughly displeased at the sight of Ormesir's tall form.

"Be easier if my hands were useable," the orc comments at the apple-offering, and she sticks her neck out a little more with difficulty, opening her mouth to try and catch the fruit. To Graim's wondering, the shaman adds only, "The Shrieker chose me to lead the armies, if you must know."

[Ormesir(#31473)] "Well typically I do not stick people with arrows. I stick them with spears. " retorts Ormesir, noting the look and returning it as much as an elf could. He shifts his feet a little bit and lifts an eyebrow at the comment of the Shrieker, turning his attention to the Chief.

[Formin(#26827)] "Ah, but this one I did not bring along," Formin replies cheerfully, looking at Ormesir. "But you see, you are quite smelly enough to attract every elf in Mirkwood. Although this fellow is another of these gray-clad elves, which I believe means he comes from afar, which -means-" he pauses for effect "--that are you -especially- smelly." He beams once more at Bagurat.

"Ah, but where are my manners. You are quite right, my literary orc." Yet far from cutting Bagurat's hands free, the silversmith simply tosses the apple slice closer to the shaman's outstretched neck. "Now, before our elf friend here demonstrates his proficiency with spear-sticking, perhaps you would care to better inform us of this Shrieker pal of yours."

[Graim(#20753)]         "Leader of the armies? Under this 'Shrieker'?" Inquires the Chief, eyebrow twitching upwards once more. "Well, it shall make good for the story and report. 'Captured one of the leaders of the orc horde, and turned its mask into this very dagger blade...'" Graim seems absurdly pleased with this notion.

        "Your hands will stayed tied," says he to the orc. "Cannot have you trying to escape, now can we? It would ruin everything. Although, if I kill you in the attempt, I /would/ get the orc-bone for the hilt..."

[Ormesir(#31473)] A guffaw actually escapes the not-as-composed-as-he'd-hoped elf at the comments of the ork's smell, and Ormesir actually had to cover his mouth to muffle the rest as his eyes danced in rapid amusement . He turns away a moment, then turns back with a little more of a proper, serious expression for an interrogation.

The smell comments and the Elf's laugh win a fresh glower from Bagurat, who sniffs pridefully before directing her attention to the apple piece. It plops on the wooden floor of the wagon, but within reach of her tongue and teeth. The prisoner must be quite hungry, for there is hardly any sign of chewing before she swallows it.

"No," the witch-orc answers stubbornly to Formin. "I don't think I'll tell you more about him. Typically not pleasant to talk about." When the Chief speaks however, her gaze flickers sharply to him and Bagurat growls, "You've done what to my mask? And I've told you before...I prefer orc-bone where it belongs. Inside me, and it isn't going anywhere."

[Ormesir(#31473)] With a smile creeping back to his face, Ormesir rests his hands on his horn, the other hanging by his side in the shadows of his cloak as he merely watches and listens, looking then to the dwarves "What mask is this, or do I want to see it?"

[Formin(#26827)] Formin glances sidelong at Ormesir, as if mildly approving of the elf's momentary breakdown of elven propriety and satisfied to find himself the source. Indeed, he even glances at Graim with a quirky, look-what-I-made-the-elf-do sort of grin. But Bagurat is not long ignored, for, as seems to be his habit, Formin's persona changes quite swiftly again. The grin vanishes, replaced once more a bored look of resignation.

Flopping back his sodden hood and shaking some of the excess rainwater from his person, the silversmith sighs. "Well, that -is- a shame. You were being so helpful before, I was even considering naming my next pony after you. The ugly one, mind. But alas, some things do not last." He turns to Graim and offers the Chief Master Veteran his mug of coffee. "If you could hold this, Chief. Seems your prisoner needs some softening up. In preparation for Laird Grimbeorn, of course. I wouldn't want to deprive the Laird of his own softening of the prisoner, but poor fellow does have rather a lot else to do, even if his claws will do far more than my fists or boot." All of this is said matter-of-factly to Graim, though one gains the impression that the intended listener is in fact the shaman.

[Graim(#20753)]         "This one," says the Chief, pulling the crude, steel bird-mask from his belt. "Took it after I tied up the prisoner there." His glance flicks to Bagurat. "As soon as we return to the Mountain, and I have my orc-bone, I shall commission a master weaponsmith to turn it into a dagger. A much better use for orc-bone and orc-steel."

        His attention shifts to Formin, and Graim nods. "Of course," rumbles the Dhurenfal as he tucks the mask under his belt and gently takes the coffee mug. "Do not get too carried away; I am sure the Laird would like to have a little fun first. Out of temper, he is."

[Ormesir(#31473)] Examining the mask, Ormesir's weight shifts a little bit uneasily at the change in Formin. His mouth turns down, although the young elf holds his tongue for now. He does though, glance to Graim with a raised eyebrow.

Bagurat offers her best glaring scowl to Graim's future dagger plans, ere her expression shifts at Formin's words. "His claws?" she repeats, seemingly to realize something. "...not the bear that's been terroizing us up north?" There is almost a note of horror in the voice. "He doesn't use those for interrogations, does he?"

[Formin(#26827)] "Oh have you seen him?" Formin says abruptly, turning to beam at Bagurat as if discovered with delight that they share a common friend. "Why gracious me, I can't say I've seen him interrogate anyone before, but claws, you know - very useful for these sorts of things, don't you think? Mind you, he'll have to be gentler than normal if he wishes to actually get information from you, rather than outright kill you. Cleaves great pathways through your lot's ranks, he does!" He chortles, as if discussing some grand source of entertainment.

[Ormesir(#31473)] He was uncomfortable before, but now Ormesir's eyes widen visible as he turns to just STARE at the dwarves. Westron was not his best language, and what he DID understand was starting to seriously make himself question being alone in the Dwarven camp. He coughs softly and sidesteps up next to Formin as he asks softly "Are you all uh, serious?"

[Graim(#20753)]         "A nasty temper the Laird has, orc," rumbles Graim, a grim smile flicking beneath his beard. "Be so quiet with him, and he may lose it. You have seen what he does when he is angry... so, perhaps you had best answer our questions, and the Laird may not have to interrogate you. The choice 'tis yours, of course." The Chief shrugs his shoulds, mail ringing quietly. His eyes flick to the Elf, amusement in them, though if it is at Formin's comment or the Elf himself, is not certain.

"So I've seen," says the orc dryly to the silversmith's summary of Grimbeorn's battle prowess. Then there is an odd strangled sound that resembles a nervous laugh at Graim's statements.

A heavy pause as Bagurat's yellow eyes dart over them all -- from dwarf, to dwarf, and then Elf. "I'd rather not feel his claws," she answers at length, "nor play your games right now. It's day, and I should be sleeping still. And I will if you kindly go away."

[Formin(#26827)] Formin pauses, blinking as if surprized, and turns to look up at the shocked Ormesir. He blinks a few more times, then smiles disarmingly. "Master Elf, I am not usually known for my seriousness, but in this, I fear I am. This orc, you see, is rather a leader among her kind, and her kind have been rather terrorizing your cousins in Mirkwood. So, yes, I am serious. I had considered inviting her to share a bottle of wine, but I thought perhaps it would not be near so effective."

"So." Formin looks back to Bagurat, shaking his head sadly. "A shame, a shame. Well, nothing for it then." Shaking rainwater from his beard again, the silversmith begins rolling up his sleeves and mounts the stairs at the rear of the wagon.

[Ormesir(#31473)] "OF course, I understand." notes Ormesir at the reminder, his face set into grim tones. But for what reason, it was hard to tell at the Ork "I doubt ou will be getting much sleep. It is best to cooperate if you savor your painless state." he advises, voice as steady as he could manage.

[Graim(#20753)]         "You can forget about sleep, orc," replies Graim, setting aside his plate of food. "Would you like to borrow my dagger, Formin? A little dull, I fear, but it should be servicable if you have need of it." With one hand now free, the Chief pulls out his service dagger, holding it up to the silversmith.

Finally, Bagurat addresses Ormesir, and her mouth pulls back in a sort of lopsided grin. "Ha, painless? I could use a healer, even now."

The shaman stares hard as the dagger is brought out, and one of her ears twitches at the sounds of Formin's footsteps climbing the back of the wagon. Both otherwise, she stays still.

[Ormesir(#31473)] "Borrow his.... " The elf was starting to go from worried to alarmed now as he turns towars Formin, and then Graim "You CANNOT truly mean that! We are above them are we not, to use such methods?" he asked, his voice somewhat louder now, hand going back to the horn on his hip as though for reassurance.

[Formin(#26827)] "Oh why thank you, Chief," Formin says brightly, pausing to reach down and take the dagger from Graim. Yet when Ormesir raises an objection, Formin frowns, glancing down at Bagurat. "We truly can, Master Elf. Had this filth regaled you with stories of the fate of your fellows at the hands of her ilk, perhaps you might understand. Her horde even now threatens to overwhelm your kind in Mirkwood and you would have us restrain ourselves for what? To feel ourselves above them?" The silversmith snorts. "Only if I believed goblins capable of ought else aside evil."

And without further ado, Formin's boot kicks out to catch Bagurat at the side of the head.

[Graim(#20753)]         "We are not so lofty as some that we are above them," replies Graim dryly to the Elf, an eyebrow twitching upwards. A snort, amused perhaps, comes from the Chief before he looks back to Formin, nodding his head. "Certainly no trouble." His gaze briefly flicks to Bagurat. "And why should I waste my healing supplies upon you, when they can be used to save the life of a valiant Dwarf?"

Ormesir falls silent at Formins' words. He looked torn now between their logic and his own feelings as he turns to stare at the Ork now, and then back once more as he inhales deeper, muttering in Sindarin.

Bagurat gasps in pain as the foot connects with head, irritating the older bruises from the mace. And then, she offers a reward for the kicking: a muttered curse, and a spitting at said boot.

"For once I agree with an Elf," says the witch-orc. "You're the ones being rude. You don't need the knife, surely?" Her gaze steals a look at Graim, and the eyes narrow. "I've brought supplies of my own, or the ones that haven't been crushed or lost yet thanks to your 'hospitality.' I can't reach them myself, of course, but someone else could."

[Formin(#26827)] "Who is Shrieker? What does he look like? What are his plans?" These questions roll from Formin's lips in quick succession, each followed by another kick from his iron-shod boot. Little remains of the silversmith's usual light-hearted jesting. Indeed, Bagurat's resolute silence seems to be frustrating Formin into an actual temper. Is it possible?

[Graim(#20753)]         "Answer the questions, and we shall see about those supplies," says Graim, "'tis a simple thing, no? You give us something, and you get something in return. Give us nothing, and that is all you shall get."

[Ormesir(#31473)] Ormesir glances up at the first questino, and visibly flinches a little. But he merely set his jaw and watched, hand holding the horn tightly as though it anchored him to the here-now. After the first round of kicking he took a look to Graim once more, and then back once more.

More lovely orcish maledictions follow each kick, and Bagurat bites down hard on her tongue. "I told you who he is!" the orc manages to force out. "I don't know what he looks like; he's always robed." She supplies nothing to the Chief or the Elf currently, for she is glaring at the offending boot. When it pulls back once again, she lifts her neck, attempting to clamp her teeth into the material.

[Formin(#26827)] "So he's another witch orc like you?" Formin says, narrowing his eyes at Bagurat. Yet when the shaman sinks her teeth into the leather of his muddy boot, the silversmith grunts. "Oi!" he complains loudly, bringing the hilt of Graim's dagger down to wallop Bagurat's nose.

[Graim(#20753)]         "I shall see to that after we are done, if you'd like," says the Chief to Formin, a brief frown twitching beneath his beard. "It is not nice to bite your hosts, orc. Yet, for what you have given us, I suppose I shall give you some bandages for your wounds."

[Ormesir(#31473)] Ormesir watches the ork bite down and winces at the crack. Perhaps at how much that would hurt. He inhales again and returns to his composed scowl again, glancing to the Chief, and then back once more, relaxing a little bit.

The shaman doesn't respond, with the boot stuck in her mouth; but when the knife-hilt flies out and whams down on her nose, she tries to jerk her head to the side, perhaps pulling the shoe off if it doesn't tear through first.

Finally, she takes her fangs off, and frowns at the black blood that has landed on the wooden floor from the nose. "No," is the only thing Bagurat replies to Formin for the moment, and she gives a snort to Graim. "Your healing won't be much use if I keep receiving more wounds, now will it?"

[Formin(#26827)] "Oh bloody hell!" Formin curses without ceremony as the sole of his worn old boot tears under Bagurat's fangs. "Do you know how ruddy difficult it is to buy leather from the Beornings, when they never slaughter their livestock? Gah!" With a last kick - the heel of his torn boot aimed at the base of the shaman's skull - the silversmith turns away to clamber down from the wagon, muttering about bloody fangs and witch-orcs.

[Ormesir(#31473)] ORmesir lets his breath out slowly and turns to the Chief "I apologise for my... outburst sir." he notes and smiles a little weakly "I am not accustomed yet to Dwarven customs. Perhaps I should return to my own camp."

[Graim(#20753)]         "Well, stop biting feet," replies the Dhurenfal to Bagurat, as if pointing out the obvious. "Now, as to the bandages... master Formin, might I have my dagger back?" An eyebrow is arched briefly before Graim turns his gaze to Ormesir, shrugging a shoulder.

        "Outburst? Oh, yes, that." A hand is waved in a dismissive fashion. "If you feel you must, you may certainly do so."

        "I think I will. I will no doubt visit again at another time." notes Ormesir "IF you should need anything, you are welcome to ask us sir. Have a good day. And you too." he bows also to Formin, having gotten absolutely no names as he turns to walk back, one boot squishing with each step.

The witch-orc flashes a twisted smirk at the silversmith's yelling, but it doesn't last long when his foot sends its departing gift. With a snarl and a thud Bagurat's head thumps onto the wagon-floor, and she lays there unmoving. Not even a glance is offered to the leaving Ormesir.

[Formin(#26827)] "Oh please," Formin grumbles, looking up from his muttering to look at Ormesir. "You hardly meet us at an ideal time to judge our customs, Master Elf. You will think us savages simply because we are presently at war with such. You should come back later, and then I might best you at cards and truly introduce you to dwarven custom." He winks and grins, again quickly changing his mood. Yet then he looks back to Graim.

"Hm? Oh yes! Here you are," he says, handing over the dagger. "And my coffee, if you please."

[Graim(#20753)]         Changing coffee for dagger, the Chief quickly climbs into the wagon and cuts strips from one side of the tent covering, dropping them beside the unmoving orc. "There. Your bandages," rumbles the Dhurenfal before he climbs back out of the wagon and sheathes his dagger.

Bagurat still does not look up, though the pile of fabric can be seen from the corner of her eye. "Wonderfully considerate," she snorts again, tugging uselessly at the ropes on her hands before turning her head to one side and shutting her eyes. Perhaps when the dwarves leave, she'll drop off to sleep again.

Date added: 2010-10-22 02:33:43    Hits: 110
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