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The Trial of Fire

Tags: Bagurat,  Bulburz,  Mara,  Witch-king

Short Summary: As the Mordain and Morian orcs march onwards into the north of Mirkwood, the Witch-king orders a test to be given upon a seemingly worthless orc. To the disappointment of the shaman Bagurat, the orc passes it.
Date (real-life): 2010-09-22
Scene Location: North Mirkwood


The view is blocked in most directions by towering dark trunks, holding heavy and crooked boughs hight above the ground. The gloomy ancient forest seems to draw more and more strenght from you as you travel deeper. Beneath you feets the forestbottom is frozen and around you the mid afternoon winter air is frosty.
The dim light hurt your eyes a little, but you think you can make out a gap between the trees west of you.

The slender rays of daylight finding their way between the boughs, indicate that the sky above is cloudy.

Morian Orc Camp
Orc Raiding Party

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Mid Afternoon on Sunday, Day 1 of January.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 20:09:59 MDT on Wed Sep 22 2010.

O'er the Mirkwood, the Daystar rises to contend with the shadows beneath the eaves, but to little avail; still all under the leafy canopy is darkling and subdued. The orcs of Mordor are at large within this gloom, marching as swiftly as the gnarled ground and tall trees will allow, delving ever deeper into the forest along the route of escape take recently by the Elves.

For once, their chatter is muted, their gazes focused and the lack of rowdiness is notable given the uruk-hai's propensity for the same. But small wonder, perhaps, for among them rides a black horseman, and all those who stray near seem to tremble in spite of themselves.

Onward moves the muster of Sarn Goriwing under their fell master's gaze, and savage intent seems writ upon every foul face as they advance.

And without the normal level of orcish chatter and shouting, the tramp of their iron-shod boots might seem all the more loud in the hushed forest that lurks in every direction. Though she mirrors for the most part the quieter state of the others, one among the horde lets curses and hisses slip forth on occassion; clearly, the marching has begun to irritate a few still sore wounds. But still, Bagurat follows nigh the front of the army, and though she is robed as always, the crow-mask is not upon her face. The shaman's messy white hair and ashy countenance can be seen. The yellow eyes peek glances to the dread figure who rides close by.

Among the marching uruks is a contingent of goblins from the Misty Mountains, those in their distinct garb from the mines of Moria and the tunnels of Goblin-Town. Among these servants are several wicked imps from Thrakburzum and Gundmogobzog. With them, his bent back twisted and deformed is Bulburz. His scimitar is drawn and drags in the mud and snow as he and the other from the Misties stride on...

[Mara(#22296)] In the muster of Sarn Goriwing is a very small orc. 3 feet tall, skinny, clutching his club to him firmly as he marches towards the back corner of lines.

Onward the orc army goes, and though the uruk-hai move with a purpose, the black horseman leaves their midst after a time, driving his mount to the sidelines. There his cowl twitches toward Bagurat, and a low hiss rises above the marching throng as though to alert her. Bulburz too is given a similar signal, and the Nazgul sits in waiting upon his horse as the army trundles on. It will not be long ere the small orc at the rear passes by him.

Bulburz and his compatriots stomp-stomp as they march-march two by two, the frozen arda under their iron clad feet suffering for itby every step.
        "Skai! You maggot mouthed morons, hold the ranks!" barks a larger uruk from the Morian lines.
        "Keep the lines!" Hisses another from the opposite side.
        Within the ranks Bulburz jokes, "THis is my weapon." he swipes his scimitar from left to right. "This is my fun!" He says clutching his groin before disappearing into the sea of orcish faces. And so the formation of uruks issues forth like so much hate upon the land as they go, leaving their tracks like a dark scar behind them in their wake.

The initial reaction to the Wraith-lord's hidden gaze turning briefly toward her is a shivering of Bagurat's small form, along with the twitching of an ear at the hissing. Bulburz is given the same call, and her eyes glance for a quick moment toward him, and she gives a snorting sound as he vanishes from sight. Then, slowing her steps so that the others pass her by, the shaman slips after the horseman. And once she is close enough, she pauses, warily stealing a look upward toward that empty cowl. "Yes, Shrieker?"

[Mara(#22296)] The little orc marches on and is now two rows from the Shrieker. One row. The little orc shakes uncontrollably as the distance closes and a close look might indicate a wet loincloth.

Nodding his cowl to Bagurat, the 'Shrieker' rasps forth a cold command to the witch-orc. "It falls to you to take the reins of the assault against the hated albai. The Morian King is savage, but unschooled in strategy, and I have made my presence known sooner than I wished. The lord of the Beorning rabble has paid the price for my appearance, but even so I wish the Elves to guess little of the true power coming to assail them. I will not be with you as you delve deeper..."

This said, the cowl twitches upward to seemingly regard the incontinent uruk, and a hiss seeps from the hood. "Fetch that orc hither..." he bids the Shaman.

"The mountain-rat," the witch-orc begins, than corrects, "The mountain-King would charge without thought into the thick of the battle, or so I deem. You are not to accompany us?" there is a hiss of disappointment. "A pity...it would freeze and scare them dead. I shall do what I may, to lead the Master's soldiers to victory."

Bagurat's head turns as the Nazgul issues the last command, and she points with a spidery finger to the scrawny orc he has noticed. "You!" The shaman raises her voice to be heard over the din of tramping orc feet. "Come here. Your presence is desired." Her mouth pulls into a disdainful line.

[Mara(#22296)] The little orc shivers harder and move, slowly, feet dragging, towards the witch-orc. He hugs his club even closer, close enough that it is probably bruising his chest.

Watching the scared orc approach, the black horseman seems to loose a rasp of cruel amusement at the sight of the runt before him, and a thin, cold voice greets the wretch. "Puny slave," hisses he. "You have nothing to offer the Eye's glory, save perhaps the meat on your bones."

The cowl turns then toward Bagurat anew, and the Ringwraith asks: "Has your knife any use for this whelp?"

An unpleasant laugh is the first to answer, and Bagurat's hand steals into her robes for a moment ere withdrawing. A long and cruel bone-hilted dagger is clasped between the fingers. "I am certain it can find one." She gives another shudder from the darkness and dread that hangs about the fell mounted figure, but there is now awful excitement mixed into the fear of the motion.

A step is taken, closer to the smaller orc. "Little fool," grins the shaman, "are you faithful to the Great One? Shall we see how good a sacrifice you make for the Eye? While you failed to offer Him use in life, perhaps in death it will prove otherwise."

[Mara(#22296)] As the small orc gets close, the tremblings brings him to his knees and his forehead reaches the ground as he whimpers piteously. The club drops to the ground and in a small, shaky voice, says. "I, I serves the Eye, yes."

Watching from atop his fell steed, the Nazgul dips his cowl in agreement, though for a moment eyes bold enough to search the depths of his hood might espy the crimson gleam of a fiery gaze within. Gloved fingers tighten upon the reins, ere the Wraith-lord says: "Stay your blade a while longer, my Shaman, for it pleases me to improve this whelp of the Master's armies, not slaughter him yet. Perhaps a use would be easier to find, if he knew the gifts of the Dark Lord's favored..."

The knife raises, then hovers, and is lowered again slowly. Bagurat licks her lips and her yellow gaze narrows, but she obeys nonetheless. "Then a blessing perhaps, Shrieker? Something to bestow better resolve and strength upon this worthless creature?"

[Mara(#22296)] The small orc trembles further and whimpers, eyes on the ground in front of him. He concentrates on not drooling.

"Aye," rasps the voice of the Nazgul, pitiless and without mercy for the wretched runt before him, but perhaps some cunning design given voice by his tone. "Let the whelp endure the Trial of Fire. Should his flesh remain unworried, then he will be useful in your ceremonies. Should he turn to ash and char, then the Master will have lost nothing."

This command given the fell Lord of Morgul turns his mount away, and rides at a purposeful trot into the deeper forest.

The weight of fear and malice lessens as the specter departs, though some of that shadow and terror lingers upon the air in his wake. "The Trial of Fire," the witch-orc repeats, low and almost crooning. Her second hand disappeared into her garments to bring forth a black vial. The bottle is uncorked with her teeth, and even as the contents are poured onto the dagger she still holds, the liquid coating would seem to hiss and bubble. "A test," comes the simple explanation, and Bagurat peers down upon the smaller creature. "Hold out your arm."

[Mara(#22296)] The little orc is still trembling, but the pure fear has lessened. He looks very concerned, but holds out his right arm towards the witch-orc.

And with some sort of hideous phrase spoken in the tongue of their Lord, the sacrificial knife plumges, cutting a series of marks and patterns into the revealed orcish flesh. Indeed, how it would burn, judging by the violent splutter and snarling of the potion as it contacts skin. Slowly the shaman works, as if to prolong the experience, and when at last she finishes and steps backward a pace, there can be seen the design of a large Eye carved into the arm.

[Mara(#22296)] The small orc struggles to stay still, writing and gibbering in pain. His other arm comes up so that he can bite down hard enough on his other arm to taste blood and the decorated arm is seared.

Bagurat's eyes narrow, and a shadow of disappointment crosses her expression as nothing more serious than writhing and pain seems to result. "Fine," she hisses lowly, "you've passed it would appear. You've not dropped dead...yet. And now He shall watch you even from your own limb. Serve Him better, lest you earn more disatisfaction."

[Mara(#22296)] "Yes, um, yes your Darkness," the small orc says and starts to crawl away. "I's, I's serves him with my whole, whole.." He struggles with the word. "orcness."

This wins another snorting noise from the witch-orc. "You had better, yes. Or else I will make certain my knife does more than this." With a laugh that sounds more like a purr, Bagurat slips off again without another glance at the pitiful creature, and follows after the marching orcs far ahead.

[Mara(#22296)] The little orc crawls for another couple of minutes and then gets up and runs as fast as his little legs can carry him back towards the marching orcs, leaving his club behind him.

Date added: 2010-09-23 01:23:45    Hits: 65
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