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Net conspirators

Tags: Barzhaat,  Bagaglok,  Nob

Short Summary: Orc-truces, and schemes over how to catch an Elf.
Date (real-life): 2010-06-02
Scene Location: Long plain near Fangorn; outside of Mordain camp

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Late Night on Sunday, Day 29 of January.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 14:56:11 MDT on Wed Jun 02 2010.

Night lies heavy and cold over the plains, and the pale hue of the darkling sky threatens snow. It is far from a peaceful scene, for with the sun's disappearance, the Mordain camp has come to life; all round there is the bickering of harsh voices, and the clang of metal. In the distance, the black form of Fangorn is within sight.

There, just beyond the border of the encampment, stands Bagaglok with arms folded across his chest. His yellow eyes are fixed upon that dark mass, and a displeased frown is evident upon his face.


[Barzhaat(#16260)] Not from the south but from the northwest comes the lone figure, making its way cautiously through the whispering grasses. Barzhaat now has rag-bandages on both shoulders, left and right, and her bow is unstrung at her back. Perhaps it has been many days since she last used it. She is gaunt and haggard.

Her right arm, at least, is strong enough to carry something - something that writhes and wriggles. Any able to see past her waist level might identify that wriggling bundle as a half-grown mountain hare in its winter coat, which is spotted here and there with blood. It is bound with a tangle of cords and what appears to be the remnants of a grass net.

At the sight of Bagaglok the Morian scout halts, and once she is within earshot she hisses softly, "Greetings, Master of Brews. I would talk."

At the bodiless voice, the shaman startles, and instinctively his right claw clutches tight about the hilt of a scimitar. With a whirl of crimson cloth he spins around, gaze searching here and there amongst the grasses. His eyes narrow when they at last fall upon the speaker, and the hand drifts a little away from the weapon. "Not faring well, mountain-rat? You look ill," states Bagaglok simply. "Talk, eh? What did I tell you about spying?"

[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat bares her fangs at those first words. "I survive." She takes a step forward, emboldened perhaps by the lack of drawn scimitar. "But I have not yet succeeded in testing those fine arrows of yours. Which is why I would talk: a trade. This," she holds the feebly wriggling hare up a fraction, "in exchange for ... your aid." There is a pause, then she cannot resist adding a boast: "If I were spying you would not see me."

"Hmph," the robed uruk scowls slightly at Barzhaat's boast, but the expression is replaced by one of light amusement at the proffered hare. "You seem to be the one more in need of it.." He casts a swift glance over his shoulder; the border guard on this side of the camp has become too involved with a bout of arguing to have take notice of anything. Gaze returning, he peers straight into the Morian's face, watching carefully. Suspiciously perhaps. "And what aid is this?"

[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat's features tighten warily at that piercing gaze. "When we talked of the tree-humpers, the ... albai," she mouths the Eastern words clumsily, "you spoke of nets. I have not the skill or the materials to make one strong enough." She gives the hare a jerk; the beast stops wriggling, but its body heaves as it pants and there is terror in its eyes. Perhaps it senses that whatever its fate, it will not be a kind one.

"You, on the other hand ..." Her gaze shifts for a moment to the busy Mordain camp. "If, working together, we can bring one down, we both gain. The knowledge that your poison works, and for you a test subject. I ask only a few trophies ... and my life." Here her lips pull back from her fangs in a taut grin. Once bit, twice shy.

The suspicion shifts into a laugh. "Albai-catching it is. It doesn't matter the strength of the net..they will always be wretchedly difficult to catch. And you must be quick. Before we crossed the river, I used a pair of Warg Riders to try and snare one in a net..but that failed." Bagaglok frowns at the irritating memory.

"Trophies and your life, that sounds reasonable enough. Rather the bunny in the cage than yourself?" It is a statement of fact more than a question, and the shaman grins again.

[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat's eyes widen at the mention of Wargs. "Perhaps the trick is to lure one of the cursed tree-humpers to us, rather than bringing the net to them?" she suggests, thoughtfully. At the other question she shrugs - or tries to. The motion sets her gasping, and her unhappy burden is set down a moment so that she can scratch at the wrappings on her left shoulder with the claws of her other hand. "Let us say I prefer not to see the results of experiments too close," she responds at last. "I have no intent of going within arms length of any cages." Or nets?

"But nets are different? Certainly they've served as the precursor to cages." The uncomforting sly smile is still there. Then the Eastern orc cants his head at the Morian's gasping and scratching. "Of course, if you aim on setting this plan in motion, you can't expect to accomplish it in that condition." The Malkog sets himself on the ground, and fetches a small bowl like container and a gnarled root from a hidden pocket. The latter is placed in the former.

As Bagaglok begins to smash the piece of plant, he looks up once more musingly. "Lure them to us. No doubt that would work better. But how, and with what? Offending nature seems a sure way to draw them like bugs to a fire." A snorts a little.

[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat's eyes narrow at that sly smile. "I shall simply have to make sure that I am not standing beneath this one," she retorts. She peers suspiciously at the bowl, and the plant. "What's that?" she demands.

The other topic is given a moment's consideration. "Offending nature. You mean - like hacking down their precious trees? Sounds like fun." A fanged grin. "Though," her gaze strays southwards a moment, "I'd not be so sure about doing it in yon forest. It doesn't like our kind, they say."

"Don't trip, or else you might just find yourself beneath it," supplies the robed goblin, although the warning is tainted with the hint of a new snickering. At the demand, he fiddles inside his garments, but after a moment of this withdraws an empty claw. "Used them all, it appears," Bagaglok mutters, glancing down at one of his sleeves instead. He rips a line of crimson fabric off, and smears the root paste on it, then pushes himself back to his feet. The Fangorn comment is ignored... 

"It's a bandage," the shaman explains, but he does not attempt to move closer yet. "Are you allowing? It's not poison."

[Nob(#16122)] Off in the distance, something barks - a high, sharp sound, repeated a few times. Then it is silent.

[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat peers suspiciously at the bandage. "There's a lot of nasty things in the world that aren't poison," she responds.

The distant bark causes her to tense, and she glances uncomfortably around her, no doubt only too aware that unlike the Mordain she is alone in this place. After a moment she mumbles, "Suppose I'm too useful for you to kill." There is a glint in her smoky eyes. "Fine, do your worst, Master of Brews. One condition - you put some of it on yourself first. A drop will do." Even now she tries to bargain.

The barking turns the shaman's head for a moment, but he does not seem particularly concerned over it -- afterall, there's a whole camp within running distance behind him.

The 'condition' evokes a hesitation. Then, slowly, Bagaglok stoops back down to grab some of the leftover paste from the bowl onto his finger. He waits, standing still and staring down at it. "Still alive," his lip twists in a smirk. "Not burning, not fainting..." Convinced that the display should be sufficient, the Eastern uruk paces forward, lifting the prepared bandage in one hand, while using the left to start removing the old ones tied about Barzhaat's shoulders.

[Barzhaat(#16260)] The display is indeed sufficient. Barzhaat reaches round with her right hand to aid Bagaglok in ripping the old bandage away. The shoulder beneath has been pierced by an arrow-barb - it looks to have been a clean entry, but no doubt the she-orc has scratched it, for the flesh around it is festering.

The Malkog-Mogburzuul wrinkles his nose. "Pleasant sight, to be certain. But this should ward off the wonderful rot you have progressing." Thanks to the night-eyes of goblins, he works carefully and accurately, sliding and wrapping the cloth over the exposed shoulder.

As he nears the end of the task, Bagaglok glances downward where the animal lies on the ground. "Should keep it for yourself. I don't require it.."

HEALING: Barzhaat has no critical wounds and you'd categorize her condition as marginal.

HEALING: You administer some aid to Barzhaat but don't know if it will help...

[Barzhaat(#16260)] Barzhaat stands unmoving under the Mordain's ministrations - if the paste is hurting she gives no sign of it, taut and stiff as a statue. When he is done she murmurs that most rare of words from orcish lips, "Thanks." She glances down at the hare, which has now ceased wriggling although the rise and fall of its ribs can still be seen. "Keep the hare," she says dismissively. "For your work, or for the stewpot, I care not." She turns her head toward the source of the bark, and frowns, "Perhaps I should see if something disturbed that creature." And with that she slips off into the night.

Date added: 2010-06-02 22:42:40    Hits: 34
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