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Succour in Sorcery

Tags: Bagurat,  Gunk,  Mar'shuk,  Sachem,  Witch-king

Short Summary: The Witch-king interrogates the orc-leaders about the recent bridge crossing failure. Who's to blame?
Date (real-life): 2010-09-30
Scene Location: Mordain Camp; North Mirkwood

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

Real time is: 17:49:08 MDT on Thu Sep 30 2010.


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 morning winter air is chilly.
The dim light hurt your eyes a little, but you think you can make out a gap between the trees west of you.

Few slender beams of sunshine merrily shines through the canopy, indicating that the sky overhead is clear and blue.

Uruk Camp(#25568en)
Morian Orc Camp
Orc Raiding Party(#18007n)

OOC: Time changed to night

(more) Missed the beginning of the log, but W-K has promoted Mar'shuk to Sergeant, and is displeased with a report he gives.

"Fetch me the Shaman," commands the Nazgul to the new Logaz of Dol Guldur, his hands lowering and the cowl now filled with naught but shadow. "She too will answer for this failure. It seems I must deal with this Elven rabble myself..."

Mar'shuk nods as the Nazgul sends him to find the Shaman.. Bagurat he thinks. "Yes M'lord." he says, bowing his head quickly before turning to amble off into the camp to find the shaman, if she's still alive!

Word around the camp is that a shaman has been summoned by one of the creatures of the One. Being orcs, details are lost or not transmitted at all. Gunk, being a shaman, is compelled to report by his desire to stay alive. Making his way through the throngs of orcs and others uglies, he heads towards the Witch-King, though not in any hurry.

Indeed, the shaman in question is still alive, though fairly wounded once again by the recent battle at the bridge. Outside a large black tent further into the encampment Bagurat sits, robed and masked as always. She seems quite occupied with the removal and the fixing of several fresh scraps of bandage, and the dirty ones are tossed to the side.

While Mar'shuk continues his search for the witch-orc Bagurat, the cowl of the Nazgul turns toward the lazy approach of Gunk. Watching the Morian it seems, the Wraith-lord stands as an obsidian statue against the lesser shadows of the forest, perhaps intrigued by the sight.

Mar'shuk grunts as he finds Bagurat, "The Dark Lord wants to see you..." he murmurs... no, he dosen't mean to imply that the Witch-King is a sith or something. "He not happy." he adds, standing a bit more firmly on both feet, leaning on his axe just a little less this time.

Gunk bows before the Nazgul, his back bowed and neck extended as if pushed and pulled by a firm invisible hand. His body already bent by years of tortured living, the Morian orc's knuckles touch earth. Gunk doesn't dare make eye contact and lifts his head only to look at the Witch-King's feet.


At Mar'shuk's approach, the witch-orc's mask rises quickly, and she gives him an odd look for a moment, before her voice comes forth uncertain and slightly fearful. "The Dark Lord?" Bagurat inquires hesitantly. "Not..Him, surely? The Shrieker you mean?" And she pushes herself painfully to her feet. "I will follow."

And meanwhile, the Witch-king's cowl cants toward Gunk's bowed figure, ere a rasp of satisfaction seeps from its depths. "You are the Shaman of Sachem's forces," observes the lord of Morgul, and a gloved hand raises. "Where is your master? I have heard that he has failed me..."

Mar'shuk nods to Bagurat, saying nothing more as he turns to lead the similarily wounded she-orc back to the Witch-King. After the pair have picked their way to the King, the new Logaz bows his head, taking a step to the side to let the two discuss.. matters.

Gunk quivers from Witch-King's words of failure. For a split second, the orc dares to look up as far as the Nazgul's waistline. "Me not know, M'lord. Me master has not been seen."

Hunched over as he walks, though if he stood up he would be quite tall for an orc, a figure presses through towards Gunk and the Witch-king. He wears a cloak garment that hides most of his skin and leaves his face in shadow.

Likewise, Bagurat says nothing more to her Logaz escort, and like Gunk, she stands there without glancing up at the Wraith-lord's empty cowl; clearly, something unpleasant is about to come, and her lowered yellow eyes are very wary. There is a long pause, and then she ventures, "Shrieker?"

There is a thin, cold rasp from the 'Shrieker's hood then as Gunk replies, and one which does not lessen at the arrival of Bagurat. "My Shaman," says he in the voice of a nest of vipers. "You have a story to tell. Why was the assault against the Elves broken? Who is to blame for this failure? Lies will avail you naught."

Mar'shuk remains quiet as the Nazgul speaks, taking one tiny step backwards to let the Shamans stand alone, or rather, together against the Witch-king.

"There was a river blocking the way forward," answers the witch-orc, swallowing. "And the only way across was by use of a narrow wooden bridge. On the far bank, the albai-filth shot flaming darts upon it, and it fell into ruin. A great bear there was also, and gazat fools." Still Bagurat does not glance up, though at the arrival of the cloaked orc, her eyes flicker momentarily his way.

Gunk sinks even lower, to his knees and then presses his face against the mud, trying to make himself as little as possible as the other shaman is interrogated.

Little would seem to impress the Witch-king in Bagurat's tale, for once more there is a rasp of anger, and now the Wraith-lord grows taller as though buoyed by shadow. Indeed, about the scene the same chill that teased Mur'shak's flesh returns, and the new Logaz may well remember it. Two fires burn like eyes once more within the cowl of the Nazgul, and he hisses a reply:

"My designs were stalled by a mere bridge?" he seethes. "That my Shaman should be unable to deal with such a puzzle is displeasing to me... why was the bridge not held secure against attack?"

Gunk hisses accusingly, barely audible. "Indeed. Indeed, why?"

A bare arm comes out from the cloak and points at Bagurat. "Where was the Holy One to lead? Us mountain rats led the way across the bridge, but our leader, chosen by you, Shrieker, held back. Even then, surrounded by many many orcs, she could not keep away the bear to stop it from wrecking the bridge. Those who made it across were cut off and cut down by the leaf-ears!"

The Mordain shaman trembles in the swift increase of wrathful cold and darkness, and then she is no longer standing, but rather falling to kneel upon the ground. Stuffing her shivering fingers deeper into the fabric of her sleeves, Bagurat makes an odd noise at Gunk and the cloaked orc's rebukes. "There were too many arrows," she manages, "and nothing to stop them from hitting the bridge. And the bear..plowed through the ranks. None could have fought it off."

"The son of Beorn lives?" snarls the Nazgul at this, his eyes blazing down at Bagurat. "Then my blade's work is not ended..." he adds darkly, ere his cowl turns then to regard Sachem and Gunk. "And where were you, King of Moria, when this bear so upset the ranks of Mordor? Did the beast go unchallenged altogether?"

Sachem pulls back his hood to reveal his face. Half is hidden in shadow still from the trees, but the other half is now horribly disfigured from fire and falling, the eye hidden under a mass of puffy red flesh. "Leading the charge against the leaf-ears and building a bridgehead while Holy One was hiding from arrows."

Gunk nods, his forehead now caked with sweaty dirt. "Hai, hai. The Flame, she was with Her Morians. Master was brave!"

As the Morian-king's face is revealed, little reaction can be discerned from Bagurat, though the perceptive enough might notice the gleaming of her eyes anew at his last comment. "I was not hiding from arrows, garn," she mutters, at last risking a higher peek up at the fell robed form towering in front of her. "The dwarves were coming upon our flank, and I sought to stay them. Did they not retreat? The bear was confronted by a warg-rider," there is a pause, ere the witch-orc admits loathly, "one of theirs." Her mask nods at the Morians. "But he was easily beaten aside."

Sachem strangely mimicks the she-orcs voice as he recalls her own words just now, "'There were too many arrows!'"

As the emnity between the two orc leaders escalates, the voice of the Witch-king rings out fierce and terrible, a wash of dread sent crashing against the wits of the gathered uruk-hai, and the fires of his eyes blaze anew. "Silence!" he demands, voice wrought of menace, and his hands raise to crook and claw in the night air.

"Such wretched servants have I chosen to carry out my designs," says the wroth Wraith. "Such withered captains that come to me wearing wounds and bleeding excuses at my feet. This bear has been bested before, and I shall do so again. No longer will I entrust my plans to rabble such as you!"

Bagurat yields a fresh glare from the eyeholes of the crow-mask toward Sachem, but the Morgul-lord's command sends her small shape shivering again, and she says nothing. Instead, the shaman sinks down lower, bowing her head until the metal beak covering her mouth touches the mud. There is another swallowing noise from her throat.

Sachem is already hunched over and his face is too twisted to tell if he's trying to look subservient. "Shrieker will kill the bear?"

Gunk is cowed by the Witch-King's command. On elbows and knees, he starts to crawl back away, inch by inch, leaving the two orc leaders to their fates if he can!

"Aye," comes the reply from the fell master of Morgul, and high into the night do his crooked hands rise now. "I shall come myself, and deal with what forces the cursed Elf-folk have as their ally. Too long have both you and they been untouched by my arts..."

The shadows of the forest without the camp rise up then as the Nazgul seems to grow, roiling and writhing as though bidden by some dark will. The wave of dread passes like a wind through the uruk-hai in attendance, seeking their hearts and whisperign promises of slaughter to their wits. Fierce and awful do the eyes of the cowl burn then as the Wraith-lord speaks on, and fearsome to hear does his voice become.

"Gather, servants of the Dark Lord!" he bids them. "Gather and receive his gifts as you ready for war anew..."

And now the strange spell turns wyrder; a cold fire seeming to burn across the skin of the orc throng, seeking to pierce their wounds and rejoin the mangled flesh. A savage, unnatural warm comes to those who open their hearts to the spell, and limbs that had sagged wearily now flex and move with surer purpose.

[Combat Function Library(#15)] Witch-king tends to the injuries on Gunk.
[Combat Function Library(#15)] Witch-king tends to the injuries on Bagurat.
HEALING: Witch-king attempts to treat your wounds...
[Combat Function Library(#15)] Witch-king tends to the injuries on Sachem.

Sachem stands up taller, looking better, though his face is still a twisted mess of scars. He frowns, the maze of scars writhing: what could pass at pleasure at being whole again is followed immediately by self-loathing at his very being alive and hatred for those who have found some join in their lives.

The new wave of dread makes the witch-orc's breathing go uneven, and yet there is an excitment within it as well as fear. She tests her ankle and previously wounded side, and then slowly raises herself to her feet; this time she is not favoring one leg. "...what should we do about the river, Shrieker?" Bagurat asks, now at the last stealing a daring peek for the Nazgul's cowl.

As the fury of the dark enchantment fades, the shadows recede and the wash of evil sorcery slackens, but still the figure of the Nazgul stands tall and terrible among the bent and crooked figures of the uruk-hai. At length the fires of his eyes simmer, and these he turns to Bagurat ere he answers her question.

"Fell trees by the dozens," he commands, "and lash them fast together. If the Firstborn have removed one bridge, we shall return with three. The hour of their defeat draws nigh.."

The Mordain shaman dips her head again, supplying, "It shall be done, as you order, Forgiving One. The river will not stop us again, and I will pile high the bodies of our slain foes in its depths." Very slowly, cautiously still, Bagurat begins to back away.

As the camp seems to rouse following the sorcery of the Morgul-lord, a rowdiness returns to the uruk-hai, and many of them mill about restlessly, as though eager for battle. The Witch-king himself merely nods his cowl wordlessly to Bagurat, ere he turns to stalk his way back through the throng.

The shadows of the forest reclaim his figure, though for once the strange mood that accompanies him does not fade in kind. Perhaps this time, he is still nearby.


Date added: 2010-10-02 17:22:26    Hits: 56
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