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Logs

Purple Haze

Tags: Bagaglok,  Barzhaat

Short Summary: Bagaglok has been experimenting with potions again ...
Date (real-life): 2010-06-13
Scene Location: Edge of Fangorn
Date (in-game): March 3050
Time of Day: Predawn
Near the edge of the Forest

The forest slowly gives way to the North to a great grasslands, though you can just make out the shadow of another forest, far to the North. There are stumps on the ground here, remnants of when the forest once reached accross most of Middle-earth, yet now all that remains is a great grasslands and a few petrified stumps...

Obvious exits:
 East leads to On the Edge of Fangorn.
 North leads to Long Plain, Near Fangorn.

===== +MTIME =================================================================
IC Time: Before Dawn on Highday, Day 2 of March. The moon is last quarter
Current Balrog Mood: Low Simmer. Tread with caution!
==============================================================================

The pre-dawn sky is paling, and faint splashes of pink and purple skirt the horizon. It is chilly, though winter is passing and the snow has fairly melted. The plains themselves are bare of snow, and it is only the presence of the orc camp that mars its greyed grasses. The tents have been paced well away from the looming black of Fangorn in the West, and even some of the border guards seem none to thrilled at having been assigned to the west edge of the encampment.

Orcs hurry here and there in effort to accomplish whatever tasks they can before the sun fully rises. One tent on the far side has the flaps pinned open, and a purplish smoke wafts out. Not many of the other goblins draw near it.

Moving through the paling grasses - and, like the guards, giving the dark forest as wide a berth as possible - is Barzhaat. The scout has her bow in her hand and her quivers of arrows slung at her back - anyone close enough to see might note that the left, its contents black-fletched, is looking rather emptier than before. Still, the deer-skull slung at her belt and the marten-tails decorating a couple of her braids indicate that some of those missing arrows have found targets.

Her broad nose is uplifted to sniff the air, and at the scent of the purplish smoke her nostrils flare. She swallows, convulsively, and moves purposefully on, her destination that lonely tent.

There are no guards nigh this section, and nothing to stand in the way of approach -- save for that purple smoke. The scent isn't necessarily unpleasant, although rather overpowering with some sort of odd sweetness. But there is something else mixed in it as well. It smells of death, and decay...

Even at the open entrance of the tent itself not much within can be easily discerned; one must come closer, braving the choking vapor that drifts out.

Barzhaat strides on, head held high as though defying any hidden guards to bar her passage. When another waft of the cloying scent drifts her way her lips purse as though she were chewing, and then she mutters sourly, "Stinks worse than those filthy tree-humpers. Like, but not like ..."

And then she's within reach of the tent itself. Drawing a last lungful of clean (well, if such a term can apply to uruk quarters) air, she plunges into the path of the smoke and calls out, "Greetings, Master of Brews. My fingers grow impatient, and the arrows you crafted ache for use."

The smoke veils most of the inside; to the left and right scattered messes of boxes, scrolls, and other items can be seen. As the Morian speaks, a thump is the initial response, followed by the sound of something spilling and a pained hiss. There is a violent billow of smoke before it fades back to the normal murkiess. Tripping over a stray box on the dirt floor, Bagaglok emerges from the direction of the front of the tent, waving a long sleeved arm to whisk away some of the vapor. His other hand's fingers are stuffed into his mouth, and went he withdraws them, they look to be burned. "Mountain-rat," the greeting is slightly irritated. "Well, I'm afraid you shall have to wait longer, for the net is not yet ready."

In the background, a large cage is empty; the boar is gone. A cracked vial sits on a table nearby, the surface of which is now stained the same color as the dissipating smoke.

Barzhaat jumps back cat-like at the thump, picking up her feet as though she expected something unpleasant to come flowing her way. She lifts a tattered sleeve to her face to mask the worst of that billow of smoke, though her yellow eyes are starting to water.

Her own hiss mirrors Bagaglok's. "I grow impatient, Master of Brews. Perhaps I will wait no longer, and take these oh-so-fine arrows elsewhere." Empty threat, and she knows it, by the lowering of her gaze.

A moment later her focus lifts, though, and she demands with an odd hunger, "Or perhaps you will tell me what it is that you consider more important. Some alternative trap for the cursed tree-humpers? The stench is worse than that sickly piss-coloured wood of theirs."

"You will not take them elsewhere." The statement is flat. Is it a guess at the truth, or a vague threat?

The robed orc listens however when Barzhaat speaks again, and he crosses his arms over his chest so that the burned fingers are hidden. "That is why I suggest breathing out your mouth rather than your nose. The smell should lessen after a few days." The Easterner takes a set of steps backward, standing next that the table with the purple spill across its wooden top. "I could demonstrate the purpose, if that would satisfy you. Might convince you it is worth lingering for a while more." A corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk, and he points at the bubbling liquid.

At those initial words Barzhaat's lips draw back from her fangs, the precursor to a snarl. Is it simply the cloying smell that silences her?

Her gaze flicks almost unwillingly to the wood of table (and past those burned fingers without so much as a blink), but at Bagaglok's suggestion Barzhaat takes a step back, out beneath the open flap of the tent. "I have no wish to be one of your experiments, Master of Brews. I prefer to keep a whole skin." Almost, she flees ... yet in the very act of turning, she stops. "Trees." The single word is flat, but the next sentence is not; beneath the simple words an eager hunger rises. "Your brew will eat away yonder trees?"

Bagaglok makes no attempt to prevent any effort at escape. He lets the silence spiral before answering with a broadening grin of nasty fangs. "So it will. As I said before, offending nature is almost guaranteed to lure them from hiding. Or, another possibilty is to change a few ingredients and the potion will become more like a tar. Could be useful to keep the albai from running off or wriggling out of the net." A frown mars his expression, and he throws a peek over his shoulder; the table is emitting strange hissing noises, and a faint grey smoke has now begun to rise above it. No doubt a replacement table will soon be required.

Barzhaat notes that wary glance, and her own follows it. "A potent brew," is her own comment. "When will it stop working? Would it eat cloth? Leather? Skin?" She jerks her clawed arms tight into her sides, lifts her bow-tip well above ground level. "I do hope, Master of Brews, that you won't be needing a new tent." For just an instant her yellow eyes kindle, then that unholy glow fades. "And the tr- albai," her mouth works as she struggles with the foreign-sounding word, "won't wriggle out. My tainted arrows will see to that."

As the boast comes from her mouth, her lips pull back from her fangs in what is almost a smirk. Short-lived, for as the hissing continues she takes another step back. "Next time I am here, I expect that net will be ready. And we shall see what we shall see ..."

"It would appear to eat through most materials, yes," the shaman replies with a nod, returning his attention to the Morian; he does however, take a pace away from the sizzling noises that come from the table. "Wood, as you can clearly see..and I would say yes for skin." He stuffs the injured fingers out of sight once more. "It stops working after a few hours or so -- sooner if a counter potion is poured over it." The Easterner's yellow gaze flickers sideways where a disorganzied shelf sits. "Have that..somewhere..."

"See what we shall see," Bagaglok echoes in agreement, watching Barzhaat's motions to depart. "And catch what we shall catch. Off you go then." A grin forms again, and he waves his undamaged hand dismissively.

Do Barzhaat's swinging braids tremble a little more at the warning? Perhaps.

The Morian lingers no longer within the fug left by the smoke but darts away from the lonely tent and off into the night. As she fades into the background, her progress can be marked by one or two stifled coughs, and then the sound of spitting. Will she return, or will she prefer to keep her own life out of the Shaman's reach? Only time will tell ...



Date added: 2010-06-14 15:49:07    Hits: 85
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