Scene: High Pass

Players: Gildor, Dirty Elf!
Staazgru, Morian Shaman
Pox, Morian Orc
Somlin, Stubby Dwarf!
Thulion, Filthy Ranger!
Cecilia, Tree-Loving Woman!
Jarvus, Traveling Miner
Leon, Traveling Miner
Mogishi, Morian Messenger
Mobeorn, Bear Creature

         While the first of April brings with it a warm breeze in the lowlands, up here in the mountains it is still quite nippy. The wind whips and wails, especially in this place: the path through the High Pass narrows here into a winding trail. Steep cliffs are on either side.

Far to the West and far below the trail, a train of lights can be seen flickering. Then voices drift up to the pass:
         "To silver ore we come to dig,
And with axe and shovel we'll make it big,
'Ere fortune follow us to light of day,
Return to Bree to have our way!"
         There is cheering.
         At their lead is Jarvus, a middle aged man with greying hair. "OK, boys," he says, "It's getting dark and we'll make camp soon. Let's just get up between these cliffs before we stop. This wind can be somethin' nasty!"

         To the east, further up in the pass, Staazghru peers from behind his cover. The goblins of the misty mountains have long expected Jarvus and his company. Barring the way east, they have built trenches and spikes across the winding train. To either side, the cliffs are filled with orcs bearing scimitars. Bow-uruks are perched overhead.
         He peers into the darkness, smiling something wicked.

On Jarvus' heels comes Leon, a lank and swarthy man with the heavy trousers and coat of a workman. "Silver! Silver!" he calls out in a singsong tone, nearly laughing despite the bitter weather. "There won't be a drop of drink or a young lady without a dance when we get back with full coffers, my good friend Jarvus!" He nearly skips with glee on the rough terrain.

Mogishi lurks even further behind cover than most of the prepared ambush. The orcs are tucked away safely, but Mogishi the messenger likes to be just a bit safer than most. He peers in the direction of the men, but looks less poised to strike than the rest of his party.

One of these orcs is a jittery little rat named, Pox, a nameless, faceless creature assigned to the front line for trodding on the Gothshaka's coat. It was a silly mistake, but he will pay for it many times over. As the spring wind begins to circle through the defenders, he is unable to stifle a cough.

         "I smells them, I smells them," he says to anyone who will listen, wrinkling his nose. "Filthy and rotten, says I!"

Well behind the train, to the side of the trail, a tall yet stealthy figure follows with long stride and near silent footsteps. Cloaked in brownish grey, hardly to be marked in the twilight, it passes from cover to cover, lest one of the company should look behind.

"Shut up!" comes a sudden deep growl ahead of the miners. A low form is approaching.

         Jarvus takes a drink from his flask as the train of worker men makes its way higher, higher, higher into the pass. The terrain becomes more rocky and constricted.

"Right this way, fellows!" goes the call from Leon to the small single-file line of workers behind. "You'll be glad you'd lined yourself up with this crew when we get done with the mining, and do you know why? Because we get ours!" A healthy laugh echoes through the stiflingly narrow pass.

The opposite direction from the humans but coming there way is a figure covered completely in a travel cloak. The humans are not hard to track with all the sounds they are making and he quickens his pace "Fools." a murmur under his breath. Gildor cold gray stare is focused

"I said shut up!" The short, stocky form comes into the torchlight, following the miners, right ahead of Leon. "The dead could hear you, stupid lads!"

Further behind the figure in brownish grey is a huge bear, brown and slim and sleek. Its eyes are brown and seemingly full of intelligence as it tracks the movements of those here--men and orc.

Staazghru looks to Pox. "Ok, lad," says the shaman. "Now's yer time... they are coming. Go down there and draw their attention." He unhoooks his weapon from his belt and claps it against an open palm.
         "Run down the path, be seen.. and these fools will follow a lone snaga with hopes of tales to tell back that the tavern! .. but they will only find death!"

Mogishi ducks down as the approaching figures draw near, particularly as a shorter member of their group reprimands one noisesome traveler. The messenger's survival instinct is well-honed from a lifetime of dodging danger whenever possible, and it may come in handy now!

Pox sniffs and snorts rapidly before offering the Shaman a quick salute. He jumps up and down once or twice, cracks his neck, and slaps his squat little legs to juice his adrenaline.

         Like a flash, the hapless critter streaks down the path on all fours, slavering. He rounds a corner and peels head-on toward the caravan.

         Staazghru's eyes widen as Pox leaps over the picket line and runs down the pathway. He licks his lips. "Atta boy," he says and watches the small orc scurry down the rocky terrain.

At the head of the column of human miners, Jarvus suddenly stops. He narrows his eyes.
         "What's that?" he points, the shadow of his arm flickering in shadow cast by torchlight. In fact, he sees the shape of Pox, but it is so far away now.. so far away.
         A few of the lusty men unsheath their weapons, thinking about stories about orc-slaying to tell their wives!

As the path narrows, the figure in brownish grey presses on towards the rear of the train, his strides swift. Grey eyes glitter beneath the shadow of his hood as he nears the rear of the caravan. "You would to well to heed him, and silence yourselves," comes a man's stern voice to the noisome group as a whole, not loud, but resonant to carry to the front. His gaze flickers to the stocky form, then away up the path ahead. Beneath his cloak, his right hand moves to his left hip, fluttering the travel stained cloth and he makes to move around the miners, hurrying towards the front.

Still the bear follows behind the brown-cloaked man--at least until the man comes up to the rear of the caravan. There the bear pauses, sitting on its haunches and snorting, perhaps waiting to see how these men not from his lands will defend themselves.

"Damn't!" Somlin curses. He brings his hammer around, securing his grip, his white hair nearly glowing in the darkness.

Somlin's old eyes focus on a creature careening toward the humans in the darkeness and starts to run toward it.

"KHAZAD AI-MENU!" the old dwarf bellows as he runs to meet Pox.

Leon, having lowered his tone to avoid the dwarf's wrath, prattles on his a recruited miner: "...so I said to the innkeeper. It certainly could not have been mine. And do you know why? Well, because I..." He sees the orc and draws a crude dagger. "Oh no, certainly he did not dare to just cross our path, did he?" Leon moves toward the orc...but at a pace suspiciously slower than that of the smaller Somlin.

Just as fast as he raced downhill, Pox skids, turns on his heels, and sprints uphill. A string of spittle flecks at the corner of his mouth as he grinds rock and grass beneath his bandaged paws.

         "Comin, boss, comin!" pants the orc as he bee-lines for the picket-line, praying the Gothshaka's lieutenants don't lance him then and there.

         Jarvus, for his part, draws a battered broadsword in his right hand. He lowers the torch in the left. The flickering flames reveal Pox, a scurrying shape, with Somlin and Leon going out to meet them.
         "Be wary!" he says. "Goblins fill these mountains!"
         But the mind of men is always ready for adventure. Always desiring fame! Behind Somlin and Leon, several other miners filter out.
         "Yea.. kill me some orcs!"

While other orcs draw weapons and prepare the assault, Mogishi stays safely crouched and secure. "Good direction, shaman," he mutters. "I'll be sure to keep a good vantage point to report the glorious assault to the mines."

Overlooking the path from the rocks above, a slim, malicious, pale figure watches, its scarred face assembled into the most hideous, huge grin any face can possibly wear. "Kills some orcs?" hisses Lashku to himself. "Hee-hee-hee!" There is something about the way he slips further upslope, eyeing the heavy boulders placed there, that suggests he has no regard for life--on either side.

         Seeing Pox turn around, the rabble miners pick up their pace. Their hearts are glad. "Goblin coward!" they yell. Their weapons and shovels glint in the torchlight.

Somlin's footsteps pound the stone as he runs, but at last he stops his persuit of the scurrying form and stands there, heaving breath.

Somlin raises his hammer and shakes it. "Get back here, ye skinny little beast!"

Leon maintains a steady pursuit, ever careful to stay just a step behind Somlin despite his longer legs. "Fool orc! You stand between Leon and his silver! Mmm Mmm Mmm. A fatal error you have made, my good man!"

Staazghru snarls from in his trench. He stands up and peers forth. From between the rows of pikes driven into the ground, he can see Pox. Further on, the men run, crazy in their lust for fame. He smiles and hisses.
         "Come on back, Pox. Come on back!! You have done well.. lead them to us.. lead them to our boiling pots!"
         He turns behind him. Several dozen higher ranking orcs there ready their weapons. "Ready for some sweetmeat tonight, boys?"
         They laugh and snarl, pressing forward in the trench.

"We sure are!" snarls Mogishi with a tone most fearsome, though he remains far back from the orcs and actually works his way into deeper cover as the others press forward. "I'll mind the back way, boys, to make sure we don't fall to a flanking assault!"

Pox bursts through the picket-line and launches himself into one of the trenches. In a spray of dust and crunchy rock he slams against the far wall only to roll over and limp toward the rest of the orcs huddled at the near lip.

         "Here they come, here they come!" he pants. "Cook em, boil em, broil em!"

         The little orc in bandages continues to jitter, bounces a little, and wrings his palms expectantly. He has no weapon to raise- his companions know well the danger of his fetid claws!

Gildor reaches the scene but alas the humans have taken the bait and rush off. The figured still hooded and cloaked reaches to his side producing a sword and than to his back strapping a shield to his arm. A sigh escapes the tall form and moves forward to keep the path open if he can.

"Flanking assault?" burbles Lashku to himself in a low, crooning voice, slithering uphill like a great pale spider, his spindly limbs writhing as he rises toward the summit. "Now, let's find us a big boulder to prys."

Staazghru snarls and points to the cliffs on either side of the trail. "Don't worry about that, Mogishi," he says. "The only way go to is forward. Forward to victory!"

"Fools!" hisses the brown-grey cloaked man under his breath as some surge after the small orc. His step pauses, though, and tilting his head back to look up, so that his hood falls off his raven hair, keen grey eyes peering up into the twilight. There is a grim set to Thulion's jaw as he presses forward once more, longsword glittering as he draws it forth.

Leon stops in his tracks. "Cook? Boil? One orclet's not going to boil Leon, this much I know." He raises his nose, eyes scanning the area vainly. "Mmmm. This is something gone awry right here." He takes a nervous step backward even as the cloaked man chimes in.

         Though Jarvus hangs back (he didn't get to be gray by rushing in like a fool!) he is powerless to stop the rest of his men. Fueled by the lust for wealth and fame, they follow Pox up into the winding trail: between the cliffs, into the difficult terrain. Mad with the desire for blood they pursue... but then..

What i that?
         A trench?
                 And looming in the dark?
                 Pikes: with heads upon them: those of the original miners!

Staazghru climbs from the trench and stands before the pikes. "Welcome back, men!" he says in his best Westron. "Come back for your silver, have ye???? Kill 'em all, boys!" The shaman rushes forward, motioning for any hidden forces to unleash their attacks!

"We need to get down the mountain---" Somlin growls, and then suddenly the orcs are rushing forth. Old Somlin grits his teeth, bares them, then runs into the rush. Slowly his panted breath grows to a roar. "Baruk Khazad!"

His hammer swings toward the first orc he comes to-- Staazghru, as it happens.

The messenger nods back at the departed Staazghru. "Of course, no need to mind the back door, good warrior. Time to attack." He looks about quickly, then grins as he eyes his own light garb. "Ah, just a bit of strapping to adjust, and I'll be right along. Be sure not to slaughter them all without me!" Mogishi grunts and half-heartedly fumbles with buckles and straps on his person, busying himself while accomplishing nothing in particular...aside from avoiding the fray.

Somlin attacks Staazghru with his War Hammer and lightly wounds him!

         Staazghru the Shaman has not seen combat in some time. But he misses it! Oh yes! He misses it! The orc bares his broken yellow teeth as he partially catches the dwarf's hammer on his mace, it still bruising his shoulder
         "Snaga!!! Forward!!!" he commands as he counterattacks with his mace an a flood of slaves emerge from the trench - even more diminuative than a dwarf tween!

Staazghru attacks Somlin with his Mace and moderately wounds him!

As the goblins pour from their trenches and rat holes like so many maggots, Pox finds himself caught up in the tide. He bounces to and fro, eager to keep up, but lags behind after his recent sprint.

         Seeing the hulking shape of the bear in the distance, however, Pox licks his lips and redoubles his pace.

         "That looks tasty... and its smells mmmmmm, like it would fry just nice!" he cries, pumping his claws and racing for its back.

As the orcs swarm over the mountain, the bear jumps up, no longer content to sit and watch. It tears through the miners here, bounding ahead, running directly for the orc Pox, death in its eyes.

Leon's disposition is quite the opposite of the dwarf and orc who attack each other with such glee. "It looks to be time to amass reinforcements," he grunts. Form ranks, miners!" He drops back into a ragged echelon with the would-be mining men, who are now beginning to look a lot more like farmers and townspeople too far from home than intrepid adventurers.

Grinning, his face twisting into a vicious contortion, a cackling Lashku selects a very large boulder and begins attempting to dislodge it. "Let's see what it takes to bring down the hillside," he purrs. "Wha-ha-ha---love the plan, know the plan, make the plan--is that the wrong order? Make the plan, love the plan, know the plan? Know the plan, make the plan, love the plan? -- Yes, it must be that," he says, smirking, as the huge rock begins to shift ...

Bounding, bounding, bounding, Pox leaps like an insect and ricochets off the ravine wall. He soars a few feet, arms and feet splayed, tined claws barred and dripping with rot and disease. The snaga falls like a cat onto Mobeorn and attempts to sink his nails into its hide and otherwise rend its hairy flesh before it can buck him off.

Pox attacks Mobeorn with his Bare Hands, but he misses by an arm's length.

Somlin grunts and is knocked off-blanace by Staazghru's blow, shouldering another goblin on accident. The orcs flow around him, toward the men, but he does not fall back.

He twists his hammer in his hand, bringing the spike to the fore, and aims this thing for Staazghru's belly as the orc shouts commands.

Somlin attacks Staazghru with his War Hammer, but he misses by a mile.

         As Staazghru and Somlin are locked in epic, bloody, heroic, small-statured conflict (Less is more!), the rash men are caught up in the tide of orc slaves streaming from the trench like an infection.
         One man has two small children at home. He wanted to make money to buy a farm. He dies from a hammer in the throat.
         Another man is the local drunk. He is sliced across the abdomen with a scimitar. He falls and then is trampled. His brains look like grits.
         Another man strikes down four snaga, black blood streaking his face, but then falls under the stabbing daggers of five others!
         "Fall. back.. faaa...ll.. baack!" he screams as he dies.

         Staazghru the Shaman has a wicked loook on his face. "It is useless to resist, Dwarf," he sneers, ducking an attack. "Crawl back to your taverns! Revel in your riches! The age of the orc is coming!" He attacks.

Staazghru attacks Somlin with his Mace and lightly wounds him!

Ah bears. They're big, they're brown, they're nasty. This bear also happens to be slippery, as if it has bathed in a stream and its fur is wet. Or it rolled in a vat of salmon oil. In any case, the orc lands and for a moment rides bareback on the bear, and then the next moment, the bear twists its rump with a great shake and the orc is off. Not only that, but great fists of fury come slamming down toward Pox, trying to throw the orc halfway across the mountain.

Mobeorn attacks Pox with his Beijabar Fists and badly wounds him!

Gildor reaches the attack as a few fall the tall figure takes there places "Get to safety." his voice breaks the silence. The sword in his hand returns the light around as it is swung at the nearest orc and he joins the battle.

It seems the bear did not come alone to this encounter. There's a slim figure concealed back a ways from the immediate fighting, peeking around from behind some rocks. It's a young woman, and she's working to string a long bow as she watches Mobeorn race in to fight.

Thunk! The mace bounces off of Somlin's skull. A human or an elf might have been knocked unconcious, but the dwarf, only briefly goes cross-eyed, which, who knows, may improve his vision. He steps forward, swinging his hammer the other way now in the easy motion of a farmer with a scythe.

Somlin attacks Staazghru with his War Hammer, but he misses by a long shot.

With a shrill cackle, Lashku finally budges the huge boulder upslope. It goes rolling downhill -- smashing other boulders free as it descends!

There is a dull roar as the rock cracks and rolls, four huge chunks thundering downslope, smashing yet more boulders free, bound straight for the melee!

"Love the plan ..."

The poorly-formed ranks of miner conscripts are broken as the formation descends into a flowing mass of humanity mixed with foul beastliness, plus a dash of dwarf and elf. Leon cries out an unintelligble lament as he sees the men he has befriended fall one by one, kicking away a snaga awkwardly. His characteristic mirth gone, he grits his teeth and prepares to dive into the fray.

Then, his muscles lose their tension. The resolve fades from his eyes as his mind recalls a tavern and a serving-woman leagues away from here.

They cannot be saved.

The courageous thing to do would be to fight all odds. To be victorious or die among friends.

But if Leon runs, he will live, perhaps to forgive himself if he flees. Perhaps.

Tears on his dark face, he stumbles back down the path and away from the carnage. As he departs mere paces ahead of the descending boulders, Leon chokes out a warning through his sobs: "I shall return!"

Pox rides on the bear's back for a glorious two or three seconds, but never manages to sink his claws in its hide to gain a decent hold. Up, up, up! Mobeorn launches him into the air with his heavy rump, disorienting the goblin as he spins over once, twice..

PHUMP

         A bear claw connects with the snaga's face, shattering his nose and carving a deep laceration along his scalp that instantly spews thick black blood. Pox earns a new trajectory and is pummeled against the ravine wall and nearly buried in Lashku's rocks. He shakily gets to his feet and staggers blindly across Gildor's path.

One man not at all seeming a farmer in the Ranger who comes now hurries forward. Sword is at the ready in his hand, and he seems intent upon the fight, until some crumbling stones fall from above, skipping down the cliff. His step halts, and he looks up, far above a pale figure, pushing at a boulder. "Ware, above!" he calls, just before the stone crashes down. Thulion plunges up the path; the spot he had been standing in a moment prior now buried in shattered stone.

Cecilia isn't close enough to fire her bow, and wouldn't dare in the darkness anyhow. She rests the now strung weapon against the rock wall and digs into her cloth pack for a torch, then fumbles with some flint to light it, the sparks showing the young woman in brief flashes off where the bear had charged from. She suddenly becomes more clear when the torch flares to life, then grabs her bow with her free hand and begins moving closer.

Staazghru ducks again. He notices the snaga swarm has dealt many casualties to the miners. The begin to run in fear.
         "See how these louts march?" says the evil Shaman. "They come here to line their pockets! Rob the mountains, they do! The ORCS are strong and hardy! ..and they will dominate!" He swings his mace again!

Fleeing, many of the men look up. Rocks!
         Thom Tarboro was a cobbler. He is flattened like the sole of a shoe.
         Udrek Jeffries was a cheff. He is flattened like a pancake.
         'T-bone' Johnson was a blacksmith. He was flattened like a horseshoe.
         The blood flows as Lashku's avalance succeeds!

One orc down; an entire horde to go. The bear doesn't stop to note where and how the orc falls; it's enough the Pox has taken flight and connected with bear claw. And then the bear is off again, racing after some hapless orcs and tearing them limbs off like legs off a spider.

Staazghru attacks Somlin with his Mace and lightly wounds him!

Lashku licks his chops, watching from upslope with darksome glee as his rocks rain down horribly from on high. "Hee-hee-whahaha!" Lashku croons, clapping his hands together and dancing on the slope. "Whahahah! Yarhaha!" he shrills, capering from foot to foot.

Mogishi, still safely tucked away in the trench, stops fiddling with his gear and calls out after the departing Leon. "Run, coward! Retun and we'll give you more of this," he shouts from the safety of his nest a stone's throw from the combat. If the messenger senses any irony in his taunts, he does not show it.

Cecilia lifts the torch up, peering through the dark as she hears the yelling of Lashku up above. The Beorning scowls at the laughing creature and sets the brand down, then backs up a few steps as she pulls an arrow from her quiver, trying to be a less obvious target. The arrow is knocked and drawn back, and she focuses for a long moment before letting the shaft fly towards Lashku.

Cecilia launches an arrow...

Cecilia's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

Stumbling and sliding on loose stones, Leon continues to beat an unomlested retreat west. Weeping loudly, he wipes away tears and snot as he leans on a stone and looks back on last time. "I shall return," he mutters again, to himself. "One day. But not for silver. For vengeance." Looking once more to his dagger as he considers the fight a final time, he lowers his head in shame and continues to shuffle away though the narrow passs.

The tall cloaked and hooded figure moves with grace as his sword sings it's song. "Get back to safety." though they seem not to heed his words. His eyes are ablaze at these foul creatures. Gildor turns quickly as another comes into view and his sword slashes it's way now.

Gildor attacks Pox with his Longsword, but he misses by a mile.

An arrow whizzes past the dancing Lashku's head, and he scratches his neck and grimaces. "Oh, yeah, that might be a problem," he mutters. "Arrows fly up. Rocks fall down," he adds with a chuckle, and begins prying another free. "That's the way the world goes round."

The nose snaps, the lip splits. Somlin's old white beard is stained with a splatter of red. He stumbles back a step, then forces himself forward, his eyes turning red as well.

"These mountains," Somlin's words are wet and rough, "Belong to the dwarves. May your blood wash the sacred halls of Khazad-dum." He presses forward again, hammer flying up to Staazghru's head.

Somlin attacks Staazghru with his War Hammer, but he misses by a handspan.

Pox may be blinded by the black blood streaming across his face, but his senses have been tortured into a fine-tuned machine. He slithers beneath the elf's blade and scuttles on all fours toward his legs..

         ..the Snaga's diseased claws streak for both of Gildor's achille's tendons in an attempt to rend them from his ankles.

Pox attacks Gildor with his Bare Hands, but he misses by an arm's length.

Staazghru smiles as he sidestpes Somlin's hammer and adds his own retort! "You are going to be stranded here alone, dwarf!" he growls. "Alone. Alone in the gold. But we'll warm you up.. oh yes.. Old Drol knows a recipe or two to tender your touch twarven meat.."
         He grunts at the exertion of his attack.

Staazghru attacks Somlin with his Mace and lightly wounds him!

Cecilia isn't discouraged when the arrow misses. The target is far, the shadows are dancing against the rocks.. she can make lots of excuses for her poor aim. She could get closer, but then the healer would be placing herself in more danger. Instead she draws another arrow and pulls the string back, focusing on the dancing, laughing creature, and lets it fly.
Cecilia launches an arrow...

Cecilia's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

"Hee-hwahwha," laughs Lashku, inventing new laugh-syllables on the theory that constant variety makes the bowshots miss him. The arrows whiz past his head as he thrusts the rock free, then charges down the hillside after it, producing a small, wicked hatchet with which he hacks at the very stones of the hillside, apparently finding them offensive.

Mogishi punches the air as he offers commentary from his safe vantage point: "Moria conquers marauding miners! Big news! The High Pass defended from interlopers! Big news! Orcs storm down the mountain to destroy all foes!" The messenger grins with bloodlust, his pleasure unfettered by the fact that he is staying blissfully clear of danger.

Gildor steps to the side of the claw swipe, after his first attack goes astray. The tall figure doesn't wait long in his counter stepping back in and pivoting swiping sideways at the orc again

Gildor attacks Pox with his Longsword and badly wounds him!

         Jarvus sees many of his men die. He frowns. He frowns deeply. The corners of his eyes are tense and drawn. Is it all for money? Yes. He thinks so. For silver. But..
         Something more draws at Jarvus..
         He knew that cobbler. That builder. That pancake maker.
         He has a short broadsword at his side.
         He make not get his silver: but he will get his dignity!
         "Men of Bree!!! To me! To me!" He rushes forth with an aim to give his men a protected retreat. But who will protect this novice? Will his bravery be rewarded with death? Or will an elf or other noble man cover his advance and then retreat?

Gildor's blade streaks across the poor snaga's back and splits it open in a fish-cleaned arc starting at one shoulder and terminating at his lumbar. Shrieking and whimpering, Pox stumbles, but manages to launch himself at the elf once again, claws barred. He tries to sink them into his back.

Pox attacks Gildor with his Bare Hands, but Gildor parries the attack with his Longsword!

Cecilia retreats back as the rocks that Lashku is dislodging begin showering down. She ducks around behind some large boulders, covering her head. The young woman searches for Mobeorn, but he's run off to chase down stragglers and she's on her own.

The old dwarf is knocked over, left to crash into the mountainside. Somlin immediately rolls to his knees and heaves hard breaths while looking up at Staazghru. He grunts as he stands, swiping again his weapon as if to clear the air before him.

Somlin attacks Staazghru with his War Hammer and mildly wounds him!

Staazghru loses track of the dwarf in front of him. Something deep is stirred by Jarvus's words. The float up to him, echoing off the canyon walls.
         Twap!!!
         The shaman is smacked across the temple and falls to the ground, unable to return an attack.

The tall form is stepping barely keeping his feet on the ground for any point of time. The sword swings around at the last moment the flat is trusted blocking the next attack of the orc. This courtesy perhaps if that is what it is ends quickly as Gildor turns quickly slicing at the bend in the orcs arm.

Gildor attacks Pox with his Longsword, but he misses by a mile.

Jarvus's call is answered by one at least, but no Breelander is he. A fell light in his grey eyes as his longsword swings swift and true as the sword of orcs descends, Thulion the Ranger falls back to the man's side. "Make hast down the pass, whence you came! Get to safety!" calls the Dunadan, then turns his sword again upon the foul creetures issuing down the pass.

Mogishi raises an eyebrow and Jarvus rallies the group of men for a last stand, and his partisan commentary is broken for but a moment. He turns the focus of his shouted reports away from the orcs, such is his interest in the still-forming tale of the men's bravery. "Miners form a last defense! Silver calls men to brave death!" After all, a good tale is a good tale!

Somlin, perhaps, hears Jarvus's stirring words, perhaps not. Either way, he takes another step forward and wields his weapon like a croquet mallet, with Staazghru playing the part of a colorful ball.

Somlin attacks Staazghru with his War Hammer and badly wounds him!

Pox stumbles backward as his claws are deflected by the longsword. This time, he takes his time.. he paces, like a crab, hunched and bowed, licking his chops and searching the elf for a vulnerability between the rivulets of blood now caking on his forehead and cheeks.

         FWAH! He lashes at Gildor's belley with his claws just as he slips under the elf's blade once more.

Pox attacks Gildor with his Bare Hands, but he misses by an arm's length.

         Staazghru looks up. He sees Jarvus now. Sees his torch and hears the Bree man's loud and proud words. "Fool!" he snarls and tries to scramble to his..
         BLAM!!!
         Birdies dance about the Shaman's head. What was it?
         Baruk Khazad!
         The Shaman again collapses to the ground. His left eye goes blind.

Lashku goes loping down the slope, cackling madly and hacking at thin air with his axe. Half-naked, armed with but a shield and an axe, Lashku seems the mere pedestal on which sheer insane laughter looms and preens.

Gildor jumps back in time to avoid the wild claws of this orc. The tall figure be he man or elf is yet to be seen as he brings his shield around. He steps back in thrusting with his sword this time. "Fall back." he calls to all but has little reason to believe they'll do it this time.

Somlin hefts his hammer, breathing heavily through his open mouth, his split lip flapping. Overhand, he uses all of his dwarven strength to pound it down on Staazghru!

Gildor attacks Pox with his Longsword, but he misses by a handspan.

Somlin attacks Staazghru with his War Hammer, but he misses by an arm's length.

The rocks cease falling around her, and now the Beorning runs back out, reaching down to snatch up the torch from earlier. She hears them calling a retreat and lifts her own voice. "This way!" The young healer waves the brand to try and get the attention of those that are battling.

Staazghru snarls and rolls to his right. Choomchoomp! He holds out his mace in defense, aiming to catch another blow on the hilt - but that attack doesn't come. Instead, he tries to regain his footing.
         "Take the good advice of your comrades," he says.
         "Go from here - leave the mountains to the orcs!"

As the elf misses again, Pox backs up a few steps. He bobs left, bobs right, spraying blood as he tries to find an opening in Gildor's guard. But there is none!

         Craning his neck as if listening to a far off call, the goblin suddenly skitters off, racing up the slope toward the larger of the mountain caves lining the pass. He limps like a kicked dog.

The cackling of the orc descending upon them from above catches Thulion's ear, and turning, the Dunadan rushes after him, unhappy perhaps about having nearly been crushed by falling boulders. His longsword glitters in his hand, and as he nears, he raises it to strike at the creature.

Echoing Staazghru, the messenger Mogishi resumes his stream of Moriacentric commentary. "Men flee in terror from Moria's warriors! Big news! Mogishi the messenger brings tidings of victory!"

Somlin takes a half-jumping step forward, growling roughly as the head of his hammer flies toward Staazghru, but even as he attacks, he is starting to fall back again.

Somlin attacks Staazghru with his War Hammer and moderately wounds him!

Staazghru turns around and partially blocks Somlin's attack. It contuses the area over his right eye, though, and hit begins to swell. The shaman swings blindly at Somlin.

Staazghru attacks Somlin with his Mace, but Somlin parries the attack with his War Hammer!

Clack! The shaman's weapon crosses the shaft of the dwarf's hammer, but already Somlin is turned away. He lopes downhill with heavy steps.

Somlin dodges aside Staazghru, and manages to escape!

Somlin leaves, heading west.

Staazghru watches as Somlin lopes down the hill. He starts after the dwarf but then halts, raising his mace. "Flee, fool!" he says. Next to him is the corpse of one of the miners. Staazghru steps his left foot on the carcass's face, striking a pose.
         He points with his mace.
         "Forward! Destroy them all!"
        
Mogishi refigures his droning reports once more as the shaman Staazghru continues to battle on with his antagonist, seemingly without end. "Shaman and bearded pug battle on..." Suddenly, the dwarf breaks loose. "Big news! Invaders routed! Morians sweep west to the sea!" He looks in the direction of the advancing force, pondering the danger ahead. "I'd better spread the tidings of our victory..." he mutters unconvincingly to himself before slipping into a side cave.

Cecilia sees the dwarf running her way, but doesn't run towards him. Instead she draws back towards the rocks she had been taking cover behind. "It is safe over here.." She calls, but has a wary look on her face for the khazad the approaches.

Lashku slows to a half as the 'victory' seems to begin to come together--or at least reports of the victory. He lunges quickly away from his foolhardy charge, pursuing Mogishi into the cave with a wild giggle.

"Bloody isn't, lass!" Somlin answers Cecilia, his words wet with blood, his beard darkening with it as well. "Get running!" He reaches out a hand to prod her to turning.

The Ranger breaks off his pursuit of the cackling orc, falling back again as another charge from the foul creatures is begun. He places himself between the Breelanders and the onslaught coming down the pass, sword gleaming as it rises and falls in swift strokes as he tries to keep the retreat clear.

Gildor turns his focus for a moment and the orc gets away "Gah!" the form says. He turns back as the others seem to flee finally. The heru rushes for them "Go i'll cover you." his accented speech is heard as he steps forward to the side of the ranger.

Cecilia shrinks back quickly when the bleeding dwarf reaches towards her, 'No! The others.. ' She looks towards the fighting, searching for signs of the bear. "" The healer calls, uncertain of what to do.

"Go!" Somlin roars, then reaches over to pick up Cecelia by her waist if she won't go by any other way. "Move it!"

As the dwarf moves towards her again to grab, the young healer is driven to move. "Don't touch me! I will go!" She says, horrified, but begins fleeing along the path. She looks back a few times, still searching for Mobeorn, but doesn't stop now.

         So in summary it appears that Pox has lured the men into a trap and they have payed dearly! With Staazghru coming forth to do battle with Somlin, and Mogishi rushing in support, a flood of slaves was able to overcome the miners. Add to that the ambush of Lashku, dealing death from on-high, and the picture of grim.
         But their is hope! Gildor with his flashing blade! Thulion as well! And help from a bear! Even Cecilia shoots arrows, protecting a retreat!

         Staazghru continues to direct the battle, encouraging all forces to stream down the gully in pursuit of the enemy.
         "Leave none alive! Fill our pots to the brim with manflesh!"

Setting: Goblin Town Tavern

Players:
LASHKU, Morian Orc
MOGISHI, Morian Messenger

A soft hiss seems to fill this strange dry cave. For hours now, the figure known as Lashku, a pale, wiry orc with a neverending sneer on his face, has been holding forth to a crowd of fascinated snaga on the subject of metal-urgency.

"And then the Shaman said to me," he says, tapping his nose with a mocking grin that bares far too many delicate sharp teeth, "'Lashku, you clever bastard of a clever litter, your metallic urgency is the only way to discover the true nature of this stone, for your seed is pure and your wisdom is wise.' So, I says to him, 'Shaman, dear, you must give the expert room to work.' And do you know what he says? 'Give the orc room to work.'"

His inflection-rich voice characteristically preceding him, the messenger Mogishi enters the crude tavern of Goblin Town with arms upraised. "Big news in the Misty Mountains! Mines discovered! Metals examined! Treachery abounds!" He pauses, quaffing a roughhewn drinking cup to soothe his overworked throat.

Lashku goes silent, his eyes bright and suddenly keen with suspicion as he looks the messenger over. This, the barefoot voice of authority, seems to strike irritation into the heart of Lashku, whose lips curl into a tortured zigzag. He rises quietly, winking at the snagas. "Let the expert work," he whispers, and moves toward the messenger.

"Can we buys you another? We must be related--both so pallid! Were you called fishbelly-kins as a runt, too? Ah, they don't understand us ..."

Without changing his tone of proclamation, the messenger responds to Lashku. "The Morians provide another sip for the loyal messenger! The bringer of tidings is rewarded for his service." Settling into a more conversational style, the messenger answers the offer. "A bit, good warrior. Enough to see me on a long trot. There are tidings to bear." Mogishi's voice, though guttural and unpleasant, is perhaps a shade more refined than most orcs. If nothing else, his words certainly ring out with more clarity.

"You bound about all day and night?" Lashku says, his eyes suddenly lighting up with malicious interest. "Really? So you must know everyone. Do you ever have nothing to report for the big bosses? You know--spare message time? The kinds of things we don'ts hear every day."

Mogishi raises an eyebrow, his face a mix of suspicion and opportunism. "Now and again a day comes where there are fewer tidings than others, good warrior." He looks Lashku over, eyes searching in vain for a hint of intent behind the Morian's query. "From whence comes your keen interest in message-bearing?"

Lashku grins and turns to Goolum. "Get this silver voice a tin mug," he commands the bartender with a lascivious smirk. "Fill it with something good, I promises I has good copper to pay you."

He turns to Mogishi. "Well, supposin' I wanted to get the word out about some opportunities ..."

Mogishi scratches idly at a boil on his jawline, feigning disinterest. "Now and again, there is time to pass word along," He bites at a nail to slow his response. Not too eager now. Take a moment before getting to the point. Slow. And... Finally, he looks back to Lashku. "Of course, one has to make it worth my time. A messenger has to eat to keep spreading the word." He accepts a cup and has but a sip.

"S'pose we sit down and talk it through?" Lashku presses, grinning. "The messenger works really hard. He never stops running. The snaga lads over there was talking about how your poor feet must hurts. It'll be worth your whiles."

Mogishi looks to the exit, indecision in his eyes. Always on the move. Don't wait long. Don't tarry... But the feet...ah, they're right. Mogishi nods at Lashku as he rests on a rudimentary stool. "A few minutes, Morian...what would the messenger Mogishi call you if he were crying out news of your deeds...or failings?"

"Lashku the metallomancer," Lashku says with a small grin, "who determined that it was tin, base tin, we mined and dug. 'Twas my great fire that called out its true nature from the glistering ore, you know." He seats himself by Mogishi and leans forward, his eyes intent, reflecting Mogishi in their unblinking depths. "I lives to serves the shamans and the bosses--" His grin grows wider and wider, until it threatens to meet at the corners. "More ale? Does your feets hurt? It's so icy up topside ..."

Mogishi eyes his cup greedily, but supresses the urge. "Quite enough, good Lashku." His eyes dart toward the exit again. Time is tidings. Tidings are power. Sitting is for slaves. "So, this business of yours, Lashku..." he presses.

Lashku's grin twitches wider. "Well, it's like this, see," he says quietly, voice sinking low and suggestive. "There's this little expedition I am putting together--an excursion out to Bear country. Buried treasures. I knows where it is, exactly where, but I'm just not strong enough to move the big rocks, you know? An' then there are the bears, you know. I figure if you get enough idiots together, we could shift the big rocks and make off with the treasures. Everyone gets a share, see, but ..." His voice sinks very low. "I've seen you run. You're fast like the wind, and I'm as sneaky as a snake. This is sure-fire treasure. Twenty orcs go out, two orcs come back--you an' me. They take nine tenths of the risk, we get all twenty shares, split two ways. All you's got to do is find eighteen idiots with big arms ... an' then run like the wind when hell breaks loose. You'll be the one as tells the story, and in that story we're heroes."

Mogishi's face is once again a mix of two dispositions. His rheumy eyes alight with greed when he hears of the treasure to come, but they narrow in response to the risk. Bearing messages is a good way to stay to stay away from the dangers above the mountains--who would leave it to get spitted in the forests? He rubs at a scar as he ponders a response. When Mogishi speaks at last, he is noncommittal. "I have a lot of running about to do here, treasure-chaser. I may be able to come along. Then again, maybe not. In the meantime, I'll see about passing word along to a few who might be able to help you." At this, Mogishi grins. Leave a few orcs for dead in the woods? Too many come to mind to select but a score of them. The messenger stands, again anxiously eyeing the door. "Have we an understanding for now, Lashku?"

"Perfectly," Lashku murmurs, his eyes glittering. "'Course, if you're not there, let's call it thirdsies. One-third to you, say, two-thirds to me? Or you can say you were there and tell the tale of my heroism, yes, and we can do halvesies if it's a glorious tale, yes? Yes, we have a crystal comprehension, boss. You should rub ruebane on your feet," he adds. "Good for 'em. Keeps 'em from getting tender."

Mogishi nods, mind more on the proposed division of loot than on foot treatments. "Excellent. Well met, Lashku. We'll talk more of this..." he looks around suspiciously. "...private news...later. For now, I must be bearing tidings. The Misty Mountains grow dull without the word of Mogishi."

At that, the messenger stands and begins to cry out once more in his singsong voice. "Tin and treachery in Moria! Tidings of mining and murder!" Mogishi advances down a winding tunnel, his voice growing quieter as he makes his way to some destination he deems in need of news.

Lashku leans back, steepling fingers like spiderlegs, slowly drumming nails on nails. His grin is diabolical; the beads of sweat that drip down his brow are dark, like beads of black blood. He rises slowly and approaches Goolum. "Give us another drink, love. We're celebrating."

Setting: High Pass

Players:
Staazghru, Morian Shaman
Diz, Morian Scout
Lashku, Morian Orc
Merf, Morian Slave
Bezelgnash, Morian Orc

 The early evening spring air is cool and damp in the High Pass. Dew begins to form on the rocks. Rocks that soon will be crawling with orcs. Some weeks past, the wicked denizens of these mountains had begun to mine for something they thought was precious.
 The picked at stone, carted away dirt, hauled off buried human bodies (that poor, poor man!) and finally have reached their destination:
 Staazghru the Shaman emerges from his shelter, little more than a shallow cave protected by a stretched piece of skin.
 "Did you find it yet?" he growls at one of the slaves. "Yes.. Yesss..."
 A snaga rushes forth and presents him with a piece of rock. It seems to glitter in the early moonlight.

Goblins scrabble to get a better view of the glittering stone. A she-orc, Diz, worms through greasy limbs and manages to get near the front with only a few kicks to the ribs for her trouble. She stretches her neck and tries to get a look with her single yellow eye, hissing through her teeth.

 Staazghru sneers. He clutches the sample of ore close to his chest.. as if it were something.. precious to him.
 "Mine!" he snarls at the others. Then he strambles up a stony spire. He slips once. Falls. Gets back up. Curses the moon.
 Finally he rests the sample on a slab of stone.
 Crack!
 He brings his mace down upon it. Then he looks puzzled. "Hrm..."
 The shaman glances down at the others, Diz and Merf in particular. "Hrm... I need a smith! A smith! I need a bleedin' smith! Are any.. smiths about?"

Sly malicious eyes watch the rock move forward, and a horrible rictus grin spreads Lashku's lips, baring his delicate fangs. "Fool's gold," he hisses in a low voice. "You know what that means, right?" He nudges a snaga next to him. "Huh? You know what that means?"

A soft, suppressed giggle, and Lashku ambles forward through the crowd, moving toward the Shaman.

"Oy!" he calls. "I know a thing or two about minerals."

A nudge on one side. Diz eyes Lashku, who then begins to approach the Shaman. She shouts up helpfully, "Got a smith for you! 'Ere he comes!"

Thump! Merf's elbow goes into Diz's ribs. Immediately she whips about and tries to bite him in the arm with her wicked cracked teeth.

 "A thing or two?" Staazghru says as he snarls down the spire. He pauses and sniffs. "Very well." He tosses the chunk of ore to Lashku. It is now in two, ill-shapen pieces. Each the size of a canteloupe. "How do ye like them minerals? Will the Demon be pleased or have we been acting as a wargling chasing its own tail?"
 He looks at Diz and Merf as if to say, 'if this guy tries any funny stuff, tell the rest of the miners that we'll have a nice stew tonight!'

Lashku gives the two pieces a look, and a simpering smile crosses his face. "It's aaawful glitzy," he says. "But do not be deceived by appearances. It's no ordinary mineral, but there's no way of telling whether it's glittery junk or the real stuff. We must run tests. Build me a fire!"

Diz's teeth meet arm, only it's an arm that is aimed with some force toward her mouth, as a follow up blow from Merf, the orc trying to strike Dif despite the blood flowing down his arm from her teeth. "Git out o' the way I said!" he sneers. "If it's gold, I'm wanting some of it, and you'll not be gettin' my share!:

Staazghru hops down frm his perch. "A fire!" he shouts. "A fire!!! Build this metal-urgentist as bloody fire!"
 With that, the mining camp springs to light. The sun has nearly gone below the horizon and a blood red light floods the High Pass. The shaman wrings his hands together, eager to know the identity of thise treasure they have sought.. and for good or ill: he has a plan.

 Snagas run past Merf and Diz carrying cords of wood. Likely no one will recognize it here, but they are the ruins of the camp constructed by Jarvus and his men.

"We require more wood," Lashku says in a surprisingly deep voice, his malicious eyes glowing. "Also, bring shields, to fan the flames. This fire will have to be hot--very hot--hot enough to melt stone!"

Diz gives a shrill scream, knocked over to the side. She immediately scrambles up and grabs some pieces of wood, running away from Merf and toward the firepit. She dumps these in and rubs the back of her hand over her scarred mouth.

Merf's cackling laugh echos through the pass as Diz screams, and then he, too, lopes over the rocky area, grabbing wood where he can. His shield is slung across is hunched back, and after he dumps the wood into the fire, he unslings the shield and holds it with two hands, upside down, trying to fan the fire. Theoretically.

Staazghru isn't carrying a shielf at the time. But the tries to clap whoever is nearbye on the back, either Merf or the slightly abused Diz. "Yes.. do as the metal-urgentist says! Fan the flames! Fan them!"
 The fire grows. Higher.. higher.. Soon it is a roaring inferno, crackling and hissing and illuminating the hideous faces of the orcs gathered.
 But then, from the west, arrving over the bleak landscape, is the flickering of torches. The shaman squints his eyes but is unable to make out anything yet. Too far away.

"More heat!" Lashku roars with a wild glee. "More fire! More fire! Fan them, fan them! Higher! Get cloths to fan the flames! More air for the fire! It cannot breathe!"

Diz's back feels like bones, as if it's only a ribcage beneath her back. "It'd better be bloody real," she hisses toward Staazghru. She is using a wide piece of bark to help fan the flames, and it's starting to glow red at the far side. Her sallow eyes are dazzled by the bright flames and when she looks away, she blinks hard at distant torch-light.

"Ey! Over there! You see something?"

 Even as the fire gets hotter and higher and even as several slaves part with their cloaks to feed the flame, the torches in the west come closer. Soon it is apparent that there stands a group of ten orcs. Two middle-ranking goblins and eight slaves.
 They stand there, watching, wicked, greedy grins on their faces.
 "We've come to relieve you of your duty, Shaman," they say to Staazghru. "Part with your treasure... the Demon sends his blessing!
 They draw scimitars in a threatening manner. One of the slaves points his weapon at Diz.
 "You'll be first with your throat cut! Stand down!"

A low growl escapes from Merf's throat, and he leaves off fanning flames. "They'll not have it..gold or not, they'll not have it," he says, adding a string of foul curse words after that for emphasis. Shield is now slung properly over his left arm, and scimitar drawn with his right as he takes a step toward Diz. "Leave 'er alone!"

Lashku reterats to the far side of the flames. "Place the rocks in the fire!" he barks in a loud voice. "Do not interrupt the testing!"

For a moment, Merf doesn't back down, keeping his blade pointed at the new orcs threatening Diz. But then the orc is a coward at heart, and when the order comes to keep the fire going, he snarls--first at the new orcs, then at the shaman. And then he goes back to fanning the flames.

 Even as the orcs near Merf, Diz, Lashku, and Staazghru throw the ore in the fire, the group of ten would be usurpers rush them. Their scimitars are raised and hideous shrieks of battle fill the night!
 Staazghru, for his part, draws his weapon and stands before the fire.
 "Show these maggots the meaning of pain!!"

Again Diz gives a shrill screech as a blade is pointed at her throat. She backs away, then darts behind Staazghru, just enough of a shield to draw her own scimitar. A hiss or two, and she is out again, flinging herself at the nearest attacker (or threatening-looking comrade), blade slashing.

Lashku is not, perhaps, as brave as others. But he is more insane.

Quick as a flash, he shoots downward, snatches up a double handful of snow, and hurls it onto the fire. The effect is explosive--like water flung into boiling oil. Sparks shower up out of the huge flame, and smoke belches forth--and Lashku backpedals double-time.
 
Bezelgnash rushes forward. He has with him no scimitar of the caves, but rather a nasty looking pike-axe meant for spearing or hacking whatever comes his way. The orc snarls as he eyes the battle and hangs around the outside, looking for easy prey that stumbles his way.

Diz says, "Immin!"
GAME: Dorai has connected.
Dorai an OOC Sinda Quendi using Smial has connected.

 Boom! As Lashku douses the fire, all is cast into chaos. The smoke, the ringing of blades, the shrieks and yells. It may be that you find yourself splattered with black blood. It might be that you find yourself with a knife in your back! It might be that before you you find the ugly face of goblin.
 Staazghru, a snaga appearing before him growls. He swings his mace and ruinse the face of a slave. "Kill them!" he yells. "Kill them all!"

Bezelgnash gets into a short skirms. He takes a few steps to the left and suddenly there is no ground beneath his iron shod feet! The orc cries out as he falls ten feet and lands hard upon the rocks. CRACK! He clutches with one arm his other, snapped in two!

Diz rolls downward into a ball as the world explodes into steam and sparks. She jabs forwards, outwards, slashes a few shins and scuttles to the side, a skinny little black spider.

 One of the middle-ranking orcs rises before Diz. On his face is broken-toothed grin. Black blood streams from the left side of his mouth. "Ahh... her we go!" he snarls. "Fresh meat!" He raises his weapon and aims a sloppy overhand strike at the smaller orc.

Diz is scarred, ugly, skinny, little. And yet, somehow, alive.

She darts indecently close to her attacker and finally uncurls herself, scimitar sliding into his gut, beneath his ribcage, toward his heart and throat. She is quiet through all of this, only hissing.

Bezelgnash slowly rises to his feet, his wounded arm cradled against his body. He heads up a short incline to where the battle is and tries to get his orientation back after his fall. He wanders forward at the orc just cutted by Diz and slips on the slick stones covered with the creatures blood.

 Diz's opponent, his name is Bogluk, grasps his abdomen. Thick, sticky black blood oozes through his finger. But then it seems he can't breath. The veins in his neck stick out, his eyes go wide, and he falls - dead - towards Bezelgnash. Dead weight is aweful heavy!

 It seems the upstarts have picked a fight they can't handle! Diz, Merf, Lashku, Staazghru, and Bezelgnash, with the help of the others in the mining camp, are able to quickly slay them.
 Wiping blood from his face, the Shaman says. "Let that be a reminder that whatever is born from these mountains belongs to the DEmon!!!"
 By now, the ore has been heated. Staazghru directs Bezelgnash to go retreive it from the fire.
 
Bezelgnash reaches out to stop Bogluk, but the other orc falls right at him and catches up his wounded arm. The jagged end of the bone emerges from his skin and he cries out in great pain, the cry echoing off the cliffs even above the din of the battle! He rolls free and looks at Staazghru. "Cut 'er off first and burn it so it don' bleed!" He snarls in pain and jerks his chin at his now useless arm which is bleeding badly, the bone quite visible where it sticks out of the skin.

Lashku slips back in out of the smoke, spattering his face with some blood from a fallen orc to divert questions as to his prior whereabouts, and moves to the verge of the fire. "Handle with care."

Diz looks down with an expression of disgust at Bezelgnash. "You're for the stew-pots, you are, useless," she tells him, but at the same time she is sticking her scimitar into the fire, heating it.

After a moment, it is glowing dully red. She slaps the flat of it up against Bezelgnash's arm.

Bezelgnash screams and jerks his good arm around to pummel Diz. "I say, cut 'er off furst! The bone's broke! Burnin' it does no good 'cept makin' it hurt worse furst!"

"Gooood! Goooooood!" Staazghru says, cackling. His face is spattered with black blood. "Good orcish medicine!" He looks to Bezelgnash.
 "It will heal in time and you can serve in the Temple... as a testimony to what happens to the weak!"
 Then he looks to Lashku, pulls off his own mail glove, and tosses it to him.
 "Pick it up with this.. we'll have a look see."

Taking Staazghru's mail glove, Lashku wads a cloth around his hand and then pulls the glove on over it. Leaning toward the dying fire, he pokes his hand inside and yanks out one of the chunks of stone. "Hit it with your mace," he says.

Staazghru spins and brings his weapon crashing down on the piece of ore. It explodes in a shower of sparks!
 Then...
  Then..
   As the sparks and smokes clear...
 The ore is dull and lifeless. Little more than tin or some other useless metal. Then Staazghru begins to laugh.

Diz grins widely at the Shaman, her yellow teeth reflecting the firelight dully. This same half-maniacal grin is presented to her 'patient.' She withdraws her scimitar and allows the edge to hover over Bezelgnash's throat for a moment, before swinging the dulled edge at his shoulder to cut off the wounded limb.

She doesn't even look down to see if she strikes true before peering with interest toward the ore.
 
Bezelgnash has a choice: die of infection from a broken bone that may or may never get reset or have the limb hacked off. He looks like he could care less about the ore as he walks over to a great boulder, sets his ruined arm atop it and looks to any of the survivers. "Cut 'er off and you can keep 'er fur yer stoow!"

Merf gets up, face covered from blood from fighting, and he spits out a few teeth. Crawling over to where Diz stands he watches from all fours.

Staazghru walks forward and looks at the ore. He doesn't know much about matters, but a noble metal, it seems, would not look so ugly. "Hrm.." He says. Then he continues.
 "This looks like no treasure to me." Then he pauses. "But the humans do not know that..." He shakes his head. "They were a scruffy, greedy lot. Not friends of Elves or of other higher races.. I think we can soon expect them back.. and in greater numbers."
 He palms his mace. There are bits of skull and hair on it. "So..." he says...
 "We lay a trap!"

Lashku grins at the shaman, nodding eagerly, rubbing his clawed hands together in sinister fashion. "Yes! Yes -- that is the most brilliant plan I've heard all year. Shall we kill them all?"

Her patient entirely forgotten, Diz gives a cackling laugh and drops to a crouch beside Merf. "Let's take 'em down below first!" she says gleefully. "Whip 'em, make 'em beg, then eat 'em!"
 
Bezelgnash pulls out a rusted knife and puts it between his teeth. Then he finds a leftover hatchet from the battle, lifts it high and swings for his arm--

^%^24329@$ expletive>^**^(&^$$$$&^$!!!!!

He passes out.

 Staazghru's earinged ears wobble as he talks. "Yes. Yes. Yes, of course," he says to Lashku. "Would we be orcs of any worth if we showed them mercy!" He kicks the worthless ore into the fire and then takes a few steps away into the darkness.
 He lifts his right leg and then resks it on the broken head of the fallen: a wonderful pose! He stands as straight as he can, cloak fluttering in the night mountain wind.
 He says. "We will kill them all and send their eyes back to fabled Breetown in a burlap bag! .. of course we'll keep the extremities for eatin'!!!"
 With that there is cheering from the orc mining camp.
 "The eyes of men always look to riches! Let their kin know their folly! And weep!!!! If they come after them.. we will take their tongues so they cannot even do that!"

Lashku turns abruptly away from Staazghru and slips toward the sound of THWACK. He leaps for Bezelgnash's arm. "Yummy!"

"Whip 'em first, yes yes..." grovels Merf, spit drooling out the side of his mouth at the very thought of it. "HEY!" he roars, almost getting enough energy to jump to his feet. "He's eating that arm!! Share it!!"
Staazghru says, "Soth, you ignorant slut!"

Diz is grinning up at Staazghru, squirming with glee a bit as he says this, but gradually her smile fades. "But I /likes/ the eyes," she mutters, "They pop in your teeth when you get a good one!"

Staazghru looks from side to side. He sees the shallow caves the orcs have used for shelter. He sees opportunity. He sees ambush. He sees the greed of Men as their downfall! Still with his foot on the smashed face of the fallen, he goes on.
 "The company of men who dared delve in our mountains will no doubt return to claim their prize. I think it is best we give the impression we have left."
 Then he walks to his left and gestures to the shallow caves.
 "We will cover them with thin skins and appoint a small band of slaves to mine this worthless ore... when the humans return, we will wait until they are hard at work during the day.. but at night..."
 He makes the motion of slitting his own throat.
 "Death will come to them. There will be BLOOD!"

"Death! Blood!!" Merf takes up the cry, grinning with three less rotten teeth now. "And food! A full belly too!" he roars, more and more pleased by the notion. "What's an arm when you can have an entire leg o' man!" He staggers over towards Diz. "C'mon Diz, there's blades to be sharpened."

 With Merf's announcement, the fire again seems to leap into the early spring sky! Orcs pour wood and other fuels on it. It grows brighter, more dangerous, more red, and the color of blood washes over the stony landscape.

Setting: Bree, The Prancing Pony

Players:

JARVUS, Traveling Miner (played by Staazghru)
TWEED, Literary Hobbit (played by Pox)
TIDDLYPOM, Hard-Drinking Hobbit (played by Lashku)
LEON, Traveling Miner (played by Mogishi)

         Through the hazy windows of the Prancying Pony, the mid-morning sun streams. Little eddies of light swirl in the smoke, illuminating empty mugs, empty plates, and a very burly, very drunk man slumped in the corner.
         One of the barmaids cleans up the mess.
         Then the door opens. A man with dark hair, graying at the temples enters. He sits down at a bench. Plop.
         He looks tired.
         It's been a hard-night's journey and he is ready for some rest. "Any rooms available?" he asks the lady.

         A lean and dark-skinned traveler enters a few steps behind Jarvus, drawing a few looks from curious patrons. Ah ha ha, what's afoot, fellows?" he calls out gregariously to no one in particular. "Well-heeled miners have arrived with weariness and thirst. What do you say, what do you say, what do you say?" An arrogant, yet friendly gleam shines in this dark traveler's eye as he surveys those present.

Tweed starts suddenly! He nearly spills his inkwell as the travel-worn man slumps into a seat nearby.

         "Oh my! Heavens!" cries the hobbit. He shuffles his papers and licks his finger before wiping furiously at a fresh smudge. A cautious eye darts to Leon.
Jarvus looks up again. "Can you add two mugs of your stoutest lager to that request for a room?" he says.
         The woman looks surprised. "..this early?"
         "This late!! We've been traveling all night, sweetcakes!!" He looks towards the maid's cankles and shudders.
         To his right, Jarvus sees the dark skinned traveler.
         "I say join me.. we need to figure out a plan on what to do with this thing."

He looks at Tweed. His eyes narrowing. "Who are you?" Jarvus grunts.

         Leon, Jarvus' lone companion, nods at Jarvus and has a seat. His eyes fall on Tweed for just a moment. "Don't make me get in that inkwell!" he grunts, though it is left unclear whether the threat is legitimate or but a jest. In any case, Leon's attention moves quickly to the tavern maid. "Mm Mm Mm Mm Mm, what do you say, what do you say, my lady?" he asks playfully. Returning his wandering attention to Jarvus for the time being, he nods. "We need to turn that stone into riches and then meet up with the other miners at the camp. After some drink and...perhaps a bit of company before we move on." His eyes wander once more.

         The little hobbit nearly jumps out of his seat. He's used to seeing all sorts of travelers at the Pony, but they've been few and far between of late, and he's been quite focused on his work.

         "Oh my! Well.. I'm Tweed, sir," he says shakily, offering Jarvus an ink-stained palm. "Pleased to meet you." Tweed's 'pleased to meet you' extends much less pleasure than the statement might typically convey. He coughs daintily into a fist.

         The maid looks at the dark skinned man and narrows her eyes. She is a portly woman, squat, but she is quite buxom and may be to Leon's liking. She disappears into the back in order to fetch the men a few pints of drink.

         Jarvus lowers his voice when he speaks. "Pleased to meat you, too, Master Tweed," he says. He shakes hte hobbit's hand but then frowns as he realizes he can now make a print on the table with ink.
         He wipes it on his trousers.
         "Are you from around these parts? Me an' my crew are lookin for a .. meta.. metal-urgentist. Any of those around town?"

         Leon ignores the hobbit's offered hand, instead reaching out with a rangy arm and clapping Tweed heartily on the back. "Hello there, Tweed, my good man. You've made good friends this day!" He looks around again, now distracted once more from his conversation with Jarvus. "Food and drink for the traveling tycoons!" he calls out once more as he closely eyes the serving woman...and even the sodden hobbit in the corner.

Now squeezed between the two travelers, the hobbit closes his eyes and thinks back to all of those lessons on proper manners, quite determined not to upset anyone's feelings.

         "Yes, ahhh, that's very lovely," manages Tweed after making his new friends. He's nearly flattened into his inkwell as a result of Leon's hearty clap, but somehow steadies it without spilling too much. A dark smudge creases his nose as he adjusts his spectacles and for the first time notices Tiddlypom.

         "Oh, my, oh, my," he gulps. Tweed does his best not to grimace.

         Leon narrows his eyes at Tweed. "Tell me, tell me, tell me, Tweed. What of the lovely woman serving us? I always fancy a woman with a little girth to her ankles like that." He elbows Jarvus playfully.

         Jarvus digs in his weatherworn travelling cloak. He takes out a rotten carrot. A few dented coins. A chunk of ore. 
         He clunks the rock on the table. "We need a metal-urgentist to tell us if this here ore will make us rich!"

As the maid comes back with the mens' drinks, she sees a shaven (or hairless- at any rate!) foot sticking out from the corner.
         "Whooooooooo!!!" he screams as the squat, heavy (but buxom) maid crashes to the ground in a cacophonous clang of broken beer mugs.

         Leon, previously recumbent on a wide bench, is up in a moment as the server falls. Swaggering purposefully, he offers a hand to the fallen woman. "Mm Mm Mm Mm Mm. You ought to be more cautious when you're carrying such precious cargo, my lady." He looks back and winks at Tweed.

         The lady's hand is quite dainty compared to the rest of her. She extends it to Leon and tries to get up. If Leon chooses to help her, her name is Miranda, he will likely feel some of her weight as she struggles to her feet.
         "Well, well.." she says, smiling. "Thank you!" There is a twinkle in her eye and she begins to blush!

Tiddlypom pulls her foot back with a frown, blinking her bleary eyes and shaking her head. "I wasn't in the way," she mutters into her ale. "Wasn't in the way ..." She pauses and takes a step forward. "Hey, you looking for a metal-urgentist?"

Tweed is -very- uncomfortable. This is too much! He pretends to see a friend across the room and tries to slip away quietly just as the barmaid collapses. He screams like a female.

         "Dear! Be careful!" he cries, yet can't help himself from taking a bit too long to avert his eyes from her monstrous cleavage.

Jarvus turns his head. His gaze, once focused on Leon and Miranda, now goes to the baldfooted Hobbit in the corner. "Yes," he says. "Do you know of one?"

         Leon strains to pull the woman up, raising his eyebrow at the surprising effort involved. "Mm Mm Mm. You look like you might know what a traveler should choose to eat around this establishment," he grunts. "Any suggestions, lovely lady?" Again, Leon turns away briefly to wink at Tweed and nod at Jarvus, though he spares a glance at the sodden hobbit as well. A traveler has to keep his eye on all options.

"I've been a metal-urgentist for years," Tiddlypom says with a yawn, squinting at the items laid out on the table as she shuffles over. "Years I tell you. I know all about metal-urgency. What is it you're wanting? And what's in it for Tiddlypom and company?"

Jarvus takes the chunk of ore and hands it to Tiddlypom. "Here," he says. "Old Jed, may he rest in peace, thought it might be silver... or something more precious - though I forget the name."
         The chunk is composed of dark, porous stone. Out from the openings are bright flashes of silvery light.

While the others discuss the skimpy contents from Leon's pants, the hobbit raises his hand for a drink himself. A new barmaid arrives, this one far more pleasant than the first, and gives Tweed one of the Pony's finest. He takes a small sip which is quickly followed by *Hic!*. It's been a long time since he had a brew!

Tiddlypom takes the chunk of ore and bites it between her teeth. "Ouch!" she mutters. "It's hard, isn't it?" She thumps it against the tabletop, squinting, before finally beginning to bang it against her cup.

         Leon's attention is diverted from Miranda for but a moment by the talk of ore investigation. "Show her the rock that's making us rich, Jarvus!" he shouts, just a bit too loudly in such a place where there may be a few folks about who wouldn't be above relieving some folks of wealth when it's convenient.

Now Leon turns his eye back to the barmaid. "You're heard us correctly, my good lady. We're wealthy travelers. Ever enjoyed the company of a rich man from parts south and east?" He raises an eyebrow before winking again at Tweed.

Never underestimate a thirsty hobbit. Tweed has finished his drink and is starting on a second in record fashion.

         "Rich! *HIC*!" he cries, returning and overexaggerating Leon's wink.

         "Oh, I've traveled very little outside of Bree," says Miranda. As she bends over to pick up the broken beer muchs, her back end wiggles like two pigs in a blanket. Then she straighens up. "But I like your swarthy looks, southerner!"

Jarvus continues to look at Tiddly as the female hobbit evaluates the ore. "If it's good stuff.. we'll cut you in on the profits when we begin mining."

         As Leon chats up Miranda, another server arrives with a plate of meat...perhaps a bit faster after hearing tales of ore and wealth. "Mm Mm Mm," grunts Leon as he tears into the meal, eyes still on Miranda. Echoing Jarvus' offer to Tiddlypom, he grins at Miranda. "You might profit at bit as well from our company, lovely lady!" He continues to chew greedily.

It really is a shame.. Tweed has already had too much to drink! A spry little female hobbit rushes into the bar like whirlwind and cuffs him on the ear.

         "I thought I told you not to come here and play with your friends anymore! You can't sit around and drink all day when there's work to be done at home! Now GET!" she screams, kicking him in the rear and pushing him out of the door all at once.

         Leon shoves aside the empty plate, still standing before Miranda. "Swarthy looks! I fancy a woman with a wise mouth like that!" As he watches Tweed shuffle off, Leon rubs at his belly, licking his lips after the hasty feed. "I'm about to burst, I say. After all of this metalorgy business is finished it might be time for a rest...or a drink!" He eyes Miranda. "When are you finished with your labor this day?"

Tiddlypom squints at Jarvus, and a slow, sly smile creeps its way across her face. She bangs the rock against her mug again until it begins to crack. "Let's see 'er," she says. "You must be patient. Let the expert metal-urgentismist work. Where'd you find this, uh, crystallogramic?"

         "Oh, I'm still working from last night," says Miranda. "And a girl gets tired!! .. but perhaps if you will be in town for a time?"
         She whispers and leans forwards. "I will be singing and dancing here tomorrow!"

         "To the east," says Jarvus. "Up in yonder mountains.. "
         His voice is low. "In dangerous lands.. patrolled by orcs." Then his voice is brighter. "Though we had no problems at all! I think those creatures are mostly myth, anyway, and if we've discovered a good lode up their, quite an army of men will be needed to mine it... Measley goblins wouldn't be able to thwart us!"

         "Well, well, well, what do you say, what do you say?" grunts Leon. "I suppose watching you sign and dance might make me sing and dance tomorrow!" Leon shouts at Jarvus. "Hi, Jarvus! How long will we be enriching this town with our companionship?! I suppose we ought to stay a few days and let the fellas in the camp settle in a bit!" Another wink. This time, it is directed at Miranda.

"It's silver!" Tiddlypom exclaims, cracking open the nugget and holding up a sliver of greyish metal. "Pure silver! You've found the motherlode. No, the fatherlode!" She cackles. "Brilliant!"

         Leon's smile fades as he looks from Miranda to Tiddlypom. "Silver! Nothing more. Are you sure of this, little metalaugurer?" Leon shrugs in frustration and scowls at Jarvus, Miranda forgotten for the moment. "Rough country to be meandering, risking Leon's sweet, sweet skin up there for silver!"

         "Brilliant!" Jarvus stammers! He jumps to his feet, saluting the female hobbit. "Thank ye much, Miss Barefoot!" he says. He is full of glee and hops up on the table.
         "Did you hear that, Leon? Tell yer lady we're gonna be rich! The Fatherlode! Brilliant!"

         "Nothin' wrong with silver, Leon!! If there's enough of it! .. buried deep inside," Jarvus says.

         Leon screws up his face as he ponders Jarvus' comparative optimism. "All right, but Leon isn't going back up there into that orc nest without a force. Especially if we're not digging up that treasure Jed spoke of." Realizing he has lost Miranda's attention, he moves quickly. "You haven't seen the last of me, good woman. A silver bracelet I'll get you for those nice thick ankles if you fancy Leon!"

         Fatigue showing on his face, Leon eyes the inkeeper and the ledger of room arrangement records at his side. "It is time for this rich traveler to sort out a room, my lady, but..." Leon adjusts the brooch at the front of his cloak. "...I shall return."

Jarvus hops down from the table and tries to do a jig. "Very well! We'll stay in town for a few days... party on credit you could call it!"
         "If this little hobbit lass is right, we'll soon live on a house on the hill!"
         "If she's wrong... well..." He has a mean face!

         Leon nods at Jarvus. "Indeed. But for now, we rest well and feast on syrup and gravies!" He arches an eyebrow once more at Miranda. "Don't forget...I shall return."

Setting: Misty Mountains, High Pass

Players:
Gothrotool, Morian Shaman
Mogishi, Morian Messenger

Under starlight, a small host of orcs swarms over the stony peaks and crags of the High Pass. Whips crack. Chants and commands echo in the night. A tentative mining operation is underway. No massive tunneling project this; instead, orcs tiptoe cautiously and dig even more cautiously, using ropes and beams to secure every movement. The narrow footing of the High Pass is not conducive to mining, and any error could bring down a fair bit of the mountain, orcs and all.

          Pupils dialted moving from the silky backdrop of night into torchlight, as the self-proclaimed Master Shaman continues forward. His eyes dart back and forth like a rat scurring from a hunter. Stopping in the enterance of the mineshaft, Gothrotool licks his cold chapped black lips. However, there is nothing but the ping of pickaxes digging and spades shoveling.

A smooth voice stands out among the grunts and groans of orcs. The Morian messenger Mogishi speaks calmly, avoiding labor while providing no small amount of advice to those who are working. "Hey fellas, ho, it's around here somewhere. The Balrog seeks it. One bit of that mithril ore and we'll be in the favor of the Flame!"

          "Speak for yourself urchin! I'm already in the favor of the flame. I come to see how close we are to this ore." Gothrotool sneers as his tounge flicks over his lips again, like a serpent striking at dinner. "There is no news yet to be brought, however when we find the ore, /we/, shall take the news to the flame." The shaman's threat seems to be without merit, however in these times, who knows.
Mogishi nods in response to the Shaman. "I know, shaman. I was there when the wondrous Flame put a weal of fire in the head of your chum Staazghru. We serve the Flame wih our labor." A few orcs mutter as Mogishi speaks of "our labor" though despite his lack of contribution, but the messenger does not seem to notice the chatter--or at least not to acknowledge it. Instead, he goes on. "As soon as any ore is found, it will be given to the Temple to verify. Surely we can trust you?" He raises an eyebrow.

         "As much as we can trust yourself." The shaman growls back, frustration evident in his eyes. "I personally have a reward for the orc who brings the ore to the temple." Gothrotool says loudly for the miners to hear and as an incentive to dig faster.

As if in response to the shaman's words, an orc lets out a cry of joy as he raises a grubby paw. "Shiny!" he snarls. "It's the stuff!" Immediately, a minor brawl breaks out.

Mogishi breaks into his usual spray of impromptu news: "Ore found! Moria rules Middle Earth! The Misties bleed great Mithril!"

         Like a pack-wolf, Gothrotool heads forward towards the brawl and growls loudly. "Hand over the ore! Now!" His voice is bitter, however there is no mistaking his commanding tone.

The tangle of orc limbs unwinds, with a few orcs emerging in pretty rough shape. One burly miner holds out a clawed hand grudgingly, revealing a clump of stony dirt interspersed with sparkling grit.

"Oh my! All Morians will be clad in the finest armor in Middle Earth! Moria will march on Gondor itself!"

          "We shall, miner when I leave here, you shall accompany me to the temple." The orc growls and pulls out a strange hollow object filled with the sounds of liquid rushing about. "A miner like you is only allowed the finest tonight, the finest food and drink, in celebration." Gothrotool growls handing over the object filled with liqior.

The miner grins haughtily at those around him, relishing the minor victory as he slugs the liquor. Mogishi smiles as well. "Soon, Morians, all will eat and drink the blood of our foes!"

          The shaman grins and says naught for several moments. "Urchin, tonight we shall pay tribute to the flame with metal and blood. Don't you agree?" Gothrotool slides his hand down to his weapon as his free hand pats the miner who trustingly drank the liquor.

Mogishi nods. "I sure, do, shaman." He looks about warily. "Although I might prefer to do so back in the mines...while some of these good troops hold the pass. After all...um...I must spread the word."

          "You shall spread the word later." The shaman quickly hisses before continuing. "Miners do you all agree that we serve the flame first and foremost?" And as the shaman calls all answer him with resounding affirmation. 

          "Then you shall continue to dig, but you," Gothrotool growls indicating the miner still holding onto the ore, "shall not." His smug look seems to fade as his face begins to lose color.

Mogishi watches the shaman's vision for the coming hours unfold, speechless for once.

          Stalking behind the miner, the blade of the shaman is drawn and just as quickly sheathed. However before the blade is put away it's drawn across the Miner's throat. A strange gurgle surges from the orcs neck and he falls to his knees as black blood seeps from his neck. "Our sacrifice. Let this be a lesson, if you mine the ore, and fight over it, I slay the winner, so don't fight my pretty little orcs." The shaman calls and scoops the ore up in one hand before turning to Mogishi. "You'll say nothing of this....will you?" Gothrotool growls, the same feral look still in his eyes.

Mogishi raises an eyebrow, still searching for words. After a moment, he shouts again. "The ore is bound for Moria! We will soon be armed in fine mithril!" The messenger eyes the dead miner uneasily as he belts bravado.

          "And that is all you will say little creature, or you're tounge will be fed to the wargs by the next day's dawn." A strange hiss is heard, from Gothrotool before he looks away from Mogishi and to the troop of miners. "What are you all staring at, back to work." 

          "If you keep your mouth silent, and we mine a second ore, there will be one for each of us to present to the great flame. Do you want that honor urchin?"

Mogishi shakes his head warily, interrupting his boisterous commentary to answer the Shaman. "I am happy to, uh, spread the news...and, uh...I'd better get to that. It will be a pleasure to talk with you again soon, shaman." The messenger begins to move uneasily away from the shaman. "Yep, news to spread..." he mutters to himself.

          "If I hear any news you've spread is bad news, I'll be coming to visit you my little creature. And then you'll meet my friends," He growls and looks to the news-runner.

Mogishi doesn't bother responding to the shaman, for he is too eager to be clear of him. The messenger trudges on up the narrow pathway, occasionally muttering halfhearted proclamations as he crests the horizon.

          In one hand, the ore, the other, Gothrotool grabs the dead orcs head as bones in his neck subtly snap and he is draged through the mine at the heels of the shaman.

Setting: Moria, Feast Hall

Players:
Durshlak, Morian orc
Balrog, Shadow and Flame
Staazghru, Morian Shaman
Mogishi, Morian Messenger

Night? Day? Who can say what goes on in the world above. Down here, it's time for those who are hungry to fill their bellies, for those who are thirsty to grab a mug of ale, and for those who are lazy or tired to take a load off their feet. In short, it is anytime at all, as long as you are in the feasting hall of Moria.
There is much bustle in the feasting hall. At this point everyone seems to be wanting something. Shouts of "Meat!" and "Ale!" can be heard everywhere, and snaga are scurrying like the pitiful vermin they are to fulfill these requests. An occasional skirmish breaks out in the crowd, but these are uruks, and this is all a part of the meal time ritual. What's dinner if everyone makes it out alive?
A battered uruk sits at the end of a table, alone. His head is resting on the table, with his arms folded beneath him. His deep breathing makes it seem as though he is asleep. His skinniness, along with the ragged condition of his clothing, would lead one to believe that he is amongst the lowest of the low, a snaga. The serving tray sitting next to him removes any doubt. He snores loudly and shifts a little, but soon falls again into his deep slumber.

Into this fray comes the lightly clad messenger Mogishi, moving on the trot. Gliding lithely through the crowd, the lean orc takes a position atop a table--not bothering to avoid the food or drink of those present, and puffs out his chest with self-importance. Then, he brays an announcement with a practiced voice that is as loud as it is authoritative: "News, Morians, from the North! News, Morians, from Goblin Town! News, Morians, from the High Pass!"

The messenger eyes a few Morians who continue their conversations, glaring as if to silence them with his icy gaze. His eye also falls upon the dozing orc at a nearby table, perturbed that slumber might take precendent over his tidings.

Durshlak mutters to himself at this sudden disturbance, and looks around the room. His eyes rest on the messenger, and a clear battle takes place in his mind, wondering if going back to sleep would be in his best interests. He looks down at the table longingly, but decides to listen to the message. He wipes up the pool of spittle he left on the table, grabs his tray again, and looks at Mogishi.

Mogishi grins smugly as the dozing orc awakes and most of the orcs about go silent. Talking is his passion, and to be listened to makes him feel as if he had the power of the king himself. For their part, most the gathered orcs attend to Mogishi grudgingly. The verbose Morian might not be well-armed or gifted with strength, but all present know that his silver tongue can be a deadly weapon. Better to pretend to heed the pompus messenger, many have said, than to worry that Mogishi might be talking smooth venom about you in the ears of a chieftain for king.

"Yes, Morians. News. There is talk that the metal greater than silver has been found. We shall pursue this vein as never before!" He pauses, waiting expectantly for a reaction. It is these reactions, after all, that Mogishi lives for.

The thin uruk grumbles. He scowls at the messenger, clearly hoping to catch his eye. He flings the tray away from him and sends it clattering into the wall. His head nods, and hits the table. He is once again ready for sleep.

Some murmur with interest as Mogishi talks of that precious resource found only in Moria, but much of the excitement is tinged with skepticism. A one-eyed miner stands up, fixing his cyclopean gaze on Mogishi while rubbing at diseased discharge from the empty gap where his other eye once rested, and shouts at Mogishi: "Beggin' yer pardon, warrior of words, but none of that fine stuff has been found in Moria fer years." Others grumble concurring sentiments.

Mogishi looks right back at the sight-impaired miner, grinning at what he sees as a lopsided debate. "It is not in Moria that the greatest metal has been found." Again the messenger pauses, soaking up the resulting murmurs as a cat soaks up sunlight. "Yes, you heard me correct, warriors of the Flame," Mogishi grunts with pride, dragging out the news with pleasure. "For the first time ever, we have found that fine metal elsewhere. In the High Pass!"

As the reaction builds, Mogishi goes quiet and stares at the sleeping orc. His self-important grin slowly turns to a scowl. Someone is not showering Mogisihi with attention. This will not do!

Durshlak continues his steady slumber, despite the cries going on around him. There comes a moment when it looks like he will wake, but he merely scratches his ear, and then goes limp again. The only thing ever interupting his slumber is an occasional snort, which soon resolves to his steady breathing.

 "Mithril?...
  Mithril?...
   What know you of mithril?"
Up from the Guarded Gates of the Throne room comes Staazghru the shaman. It has been many moons since he's been in the company of 'commoners' and the arrogant shaman sniffs. His nose is upturned. He turns around.
 Here. There. Everywhere.
 "Who reports finding Mithril??? Let him show his face lest the Flame burn him! And burn him forever!!! Such foolery!"
 He narrows his eyes and squats to put his filthy breath intot he nostrils of a nearbye snaga. "BEDTIME TALES ARE FOR SNAGA WRETCHES!"
 The slave scampers off and Staazghru laughs.

Durshlak turns to the voice in his ear, and he glares at the one who woke him. "My name is Durhslak, and what's a pile of stuff gonna do for me?" He turns as the shaman enters. He laughs as the snaga runs off, and turns to the uruk closest to him. "And who is it that has disturbed my nap?"

"A pile of...a pile of..." Mogishi is taken aback, half laughing and half snarling. Before he can further address Durshlak, though, his attention shifts to the shaman. The messenger does not blanch at the Shaman's challenge, though others do so and clear a path between the messenger and the temple denizen. Tone still haughty, he turns from the dozy orc and lifts his nose. "Good shaman, Mogishi reports it. Mogishi, messenger of Moria, brings no false news. And that..." he eyes the shaman more closely, committing his face to memory. "...is why Mogishi the messenger's words are trusted in Moria. His words about friends and foes alike, shaman, are trusted by the mighty and the weak."

The messenger searches the shaman's face to check whether his implied threat has been perceived--not all in Moria are very deft at picking up on subtletly, he has learned.
 
 "Skai!" Staazghru narrows his eyes. Teeth pointed. Thin lips curled. He shuffles forward. Sniff sniff!
 "You smell like fish, lad!" he says, "And the 'news' you bring sounds fishier!"
 Shuffle shuffle.
 "Why, this lad has no bleedin' shooooooes! No Shoooooes?!"
 The great orator of a shaman turns to the crowd. "The lad has no shooooes and he reckons himself a messenger?!"
 At least the drunk orcs laugh. One has a double chin and sucks on a flagon of Dragonpiss.

Then Staazghru gets closer to Mogishi. The messenger's eyes are intelligent! Better get help! The shaman motions to Durshlak. "You!" he says. "Sleeping beauty! What do you sense about this messenger? Is his news worthy of consideration?"

The snaga turns to the two confronting now. It's very clear that he does not want to be in the middle of this. He eventually grins at the messenger, seeing his chance to strike back. "No sir, I certainly do not. This fish had the nerve to wake me up, when I was catching a couple of winks after a good day's work. Aye, I'm the closest one in the room to him, and the stench of fish is overpowering." He snarls at the messenger. "I'm going to respond to him the way I did before he saw fit to get involved in my business." With this proclomation, Durshlak's head again hits the table.

Mogishi does not back down as the Shaman works to manipulate the crowd. He shows chagrin as Durshlak opts to nod off once more, but disregards it. That Morian will be dealt with later. For now, more wit is present. Smiling as he recognizes a worthy counterpart in the art of bending and shaping words to one's ends, the messenger nods in acknowlegment of the shaman's abilities before offering a retort.

"Given that it was not found in the temple, I suppose you'd know little of it, good homebound servant of the Flame. While brave Morians were afield in the High Pass, the word came. I..." he pauses, as if even mentioning himself slakes his ravenous ego. "...I am the one who brings the news to Moria. We need miners...unless your skepticism is your way of slowing the flow of riches to King and Flame! I am sure the temple will be able to beg for their share once we make our way back." He pauses, then glances at his feet and remembers the insult regarding his footwear. "As for shows, I see no need to discuss as much with an orc who uses them only to pace back and forth in one cavern." He winks puckishly.

 "Bah! Bah!" says Staazghru. "Fine! Fine, precious! Fine, dirtherder!" He motions to Mogishi. "Come. Come. Come and bring your lump of flashy silvery. Your lump of dirt and of adventure. Let the 'Eyes of the Demon' see it, yes?"
 He holds out his right claw. He nails are thick and yellow. They bend like those of a hawk.
 Drip.

Durshlak's ears perk at the mention of miners. "Ho ho, the tide seems to have changed. I believe they have thrown our little fish onto the land, and he bears news indeed. Miners you say? As in a steady job and a full belly? Sign me up for that! Be there mithril or not, here is the true news!"
He turns as the shaman speaks. He stares at the orc's yellowed hand, and his disgust registers on his face, but is quickly checked. He realizes his change of sides, and suddenly turns his attention from the holy orc.

Mogishi eyes the crowd before responding to Staazghru, always sure to gauge the tenor of the crowd before choosing his next oily words. As the sleepy Morian speaks, his eyes go alight. From foe to friend Durshlak has traveled in the space of a few words-- a not uncommon occurrence with Mogishi. "Indeed, my sleepy soldier! I am not surprised you have your hand out, shaman, as I know that is your typical posture." He pauses, hoping for a laugh from the assembled crowd. "I've been traveling fast, though, and traveling light. Ore and stones would make for slow news indeed. You'll have to get your handout elsewhere. For now, we've got digging to do!"

The messenger hops back atop a table. "We need miners, clever one acccustomed to shoring up lean tunnels and tight passages! Come along and take part in the greatest mining adventure to date, or stay behind..." The messenger casts a glance at the shaman with comical timing. "...and tell tales of dwarven ghosts around teh fire! Adventure and riches, I say!" He hops off of the table and walks for the door, as if the entire throng might rise up to follow him to Goblin Town this very moment.

 The shaman again narrows his eyes. "A nugget would not slow you down!" he says to Mogishi. He tries to grab the barefoot messenger and growls at him. "If you speak folly, the Demon Burn you..."
 He pauses. His breath comes ragged and wavering. "What proff can you give of what you promise?" His voice is low and personal. Perhaps not many others can hear. "I know you are no rube, but give me something to work with and I will mobilize the horde.. something... anything..."
 He looks away.
 "It has been long since he had hope.. apathy has come to the mines."

Mogishi looks down with mild annoyance as the shaman grasps his lean arm. "Mogishi's word is trusted throughout the mountains, shaman. My word about news, friends..." He looks the shaman up and down for emphasis. "...and foes is trusted by many. You can choose to trust the messenger of the Misty Mountains or not, shaman. Others have made the wiser choice, though. Others in powerful places."
 
 "Oh?" answers Staazghru. "Of who do you speak? Who are these mysterious others?"

The sleepy orc finally rouses himself when the messenger starts to leave. He is the first behind him in the procession of snaga who look to make their lives better. An orc in a bloody apron runs out, screaming something about "stealing his help" and "still owe to the kitchen". He grabs Durshlak's shoulder, and his face is crushed from a blow by Durshlak's fist. The snaga all pounce on the man, and no one attempts to help him as he is crushed under the weight of the mob. Durshlak doesn't even turn to see the effects of his blow. As soon as the orc falls, he turns around and continues to follow the "fish".
He only catches a brief snippet of the conversation between the two who are seemingly at odds. The only part that makes any sense to him is the last bit. Apathy coming to the mines. He snorts at the thought. The mines are always apathetic. The only thing there is to comfort the minds of those stuck in this hell is a small bit of ambition. Oh well, the conversation tells him that the two are seemingly in cahoots, and his demeanor relaxes.

Mogishi nods with satisfaction as Durshlak commits to the trip North. "Time is short, shaman. Perhaps you should go back to brood by the fire while we get around to the riches." He looks Durshlak up and down. "You're the first of many to answer the call...and to remember that Moria's messenger brings only good tidings. I'll be sure to remember that when I spread news of Moria." Mogishi's eyes travel again to the shaman. "I'll remember a few things." He moves to wrench his arm free of Staazghru's grasp, raising his voice. "Miners, move north! Riches await us!"

 Staazghru beigns to speak but then a few things stop him. First of all, the poor lout that Durshlak decked. So supple meat! Second of all.
 Is it hot in here?
 An orc female (are there such things?) begins to cackle at the bar.
 Her meat is beginning to bake. "Heeheheheee!!!"
 Then there are drums...
  drums....
   drums, drums, drums in the deep...

Mogishi cowers. "Fool," he hisses under his breath, sweating. "Your doubt and delays will bring the Flame's anger on all of us.

 From the Eeast, the direction of Mordor - the GREAT EYE - comes the Demon ob Moria!
 DOOM BOOM!
 His maw is of fire and his eyes coals of a thousand hearths. In his right hand is a great whip of fleme. His great head goes back and forth. He points a finger.
 "You!!!" he says to Staazghru.
 CRACK!

Balrog attacks Staazghru with his Whip, but he misses by an arm's length.

Staazghru cowers and the whip flies over his head.

Mogishi shivers and falls prone, clutching at his knees. The messenger does not bother to watch the shaman's fate, shielding his eyes instead.

Durshlak watches the execution in unbelief. A small puddle seems to have formed at his feet. He cowers into the corner as far as he can, pushing smaller orcs in front of him in an attempt to shield himself from the beast.
 
 The Balrog watches as his whip cracks over head head of the shaman. If a demon can be said to smile, he does. His whip disappears.
 "You are unwise to goad your comrades, Staazghru, Monster Mouth," a voice says. It is like the hissing of a million fires.
 "Mogishi the Messenger. Rise. I have instructions for you."
 But his whip is not still!!!
 "Wake up, sleepy!"

Balrog attacks Durshlak with his Whip and severely wounds him!

The whip finds Durshlak, despite his attempt to shield himself. When the Balrog's eyes fall on him, Durshlak's "friends" part ways and let the whip snake in amognst themselves. When the whip connects, it leaves a seared mark on Durshlak's head. His body is thrown against the solid stone wall, and he is knocked out cold.

Mogishi reluctantly rises to his feet, but keeps his gaze on the cavern floor. Durshlak's vicious fate goes unnoticed. "Y-y-y-yes, my Master?" he squeaks, his usually masterful voice failing him.

 Staazghru, for his part, remains flat on the ground. He can feel the (now warm) stone against his belly. It feels like it's going to burn him!

The Balrog, though, says to Mogishi as he curls up his whip and points the pommel at the unconscious Durshlak:

 "You.. Herald of the Demon. Gather my forces from the Deep. Let this lout," he points again to Dushlak, "Be proof of my blessing."
 His gaze falls to Staazghru.
 "Let none deny you - even the Witches of Moria."

Mogishi is too fearful to gloat at his minor victory over the doubting shaman. His face shows only terror. "It...it w-w-w-w-will be done, my Master."

Durshlak's vision swims before his eyes. He feels the seared flesh dripping down his head like fire, and moans. He notices that he has been given a wide berth. His vision again fades, and he plunges into darknes.

The Balrog turns. His footsteps are like an earthquake. He disappears into the depths of Moria.

Staazghru raises. He looks around. Gets to his feet. Brushes self off. Coughs.
 "Ok," he says to Mogishi. "Very well then," he says. "It is fortunate my conjuration of the DEmon was successful..."
 
Durshlak again moans, and slowly begins to sit up. He notices the room is somewhat more relaxed. He looks around and all those gathered around are eying him suspiciously. His confused face gives way to sheer joy once he realizes that he is alive, and what he just survived.

Mogishi is rattled, but he regains some semblance of his composure--and self-righteousness--quickly. "Indeed. And the word will spread of the Flame's will...as word will spread of your doubting." He dares a grin, then looks to the wounded form of Durshlak. "Hey, dozer! You will bring a group yourself." then raises his voice. "Let all know that Miners are to head north immediately!" Raising his voice, the messenger shouts a last announcement to the frightened mob. "Gather around Whipface here for a trip north! I will see you there."

Mogishi casts a last glance at Staazghru, then exits.
 
 "Whipface?" Staazghru says. "Yes. Yes, Miner. I like that: WHIPFACE!"
 "Follow Whipface!" he growls. He lifts up his arms in a grand gesture. "Follow Whipface north! To north and riches! To victory! To WAR!"
 Most of the orcs in the Hall seem to yell and stammer with glee.

"Whipface" struggles to his feet as he is suddenly overcome by followers. Many more crowd around him than were even initially following. He feels his head, and notices a deep grove where the whip struck. His nose seems to have been completely seared away, and his deformed lip even more mangled. He looks to those gathered, and yells, "You heard the shaman, NORTH! To battle and glory, and full bellies!" His voice comes out slurred and raspy, his lips having trouble forming the correct words because of their deformity. He begins the march.

Staazghru falls in behind whipface. His eyes are deep in thought. The shaman, smarter than your average orc, has a mind of metal and wheels!

Scene: High Pass, Eastern Trail

Players:
Jarvus, dusty miner (Temp alt played by STAAZGHRU)
Jed, dusty miner (Temp alt played by GOLLUM)
Marvin, dusty miner (Temp alt played by MERKABAH)
Jory, dusty miner (Temp alt played by RANOL)
Hester, dusty miner (Templ alt played by THARI)
Mobeorn, bear-man-creature
Mirodhel, nimble elf

It is dusk in the Misty Mountains and the sun is sinking deeper and deeper into the west. On out outcropping of rock, Jarvus stands and overlooks a group of men. The men, damp with sweat in the cooling mid-November air work with picks and shovels. They have erected a small mining operation.
From his pocket, Jarvus produces a pipe and a leather bag of tobacco. He packs the bowl. There is a flicker of orange in the failing light and then plumes of fragrant smoke begin to rise.
"Ok, fellers!" Jarvus calls out. "We near the end of the day's work!"

As the pipe-smoking Jarvus calls out to the crew, a thinner, older man leans heavily on a crude pick and pushed back a dingy leather hat with a broad brim. Wiping at a sweaty brow despite the cool November air, he looks taxed from labor.
"What do ya reckon, Jed?" grunts a younger worker nearby.
The man with the broad-brimmed hat hacks and coughs, wiping is mouth. "I reckon any day of this may be my last. The way these mountains have been picked through, we'll not see anything so long as we dig here." He coughs again, then looks at Jarvus with perhaps a bit of resentment in his eye. "You'll be puttin' more in the ground than you'll be pulling out of it, I s'pose, 'cause I feel like I'll be returnin' to the dust of the mines 'ere we find anything." He spits a discolored glob onto the ground and wheezes, leaning again on his makeshift mining tool.
The sun sets slowly toward the mountains, and the shadows lengthen.

Marvin drops his pick and stands up, one hand pressed against the small of his back. "Good" he says to nobody in particular, "About frelling time. My back's killing me and all this chipping away at rock isn't getting anywhere."

Jarvus hops down from his perch. A leather whip hangs at his side. It is not often used, but does its job. The black haired man speaks between puffs on his pipe.
"You need to lead these youngins, Jed," he says. His glance strays skyward. The sun is sinking. He looks to Marvin. "You'll all get some good sleep tonight, I reckon.. I think the rain is supposed to knock off...."
While it is true that much of this mountain range has been picked over, literally, very few souls dare to mine here: this is orc territory. But the mind of men always craves the new, the shiny. They are reckless!

Jed nods at Marvin, responding in a cranky tone. "Jarvus likes heading up here with the orcs and the furry fellas so we kin mine for rocks 'n dirt. You'll bury me up here, fellas. Least then you'll know there's somthin' in the ground here!" He laughs, but the sound is sad one: wet and rasping.
Jed eyes Jarvus for a moment, but doesn't bother responding to the younger leader's appeal.

Marvin turns towards Jed, and says "Aye. Give me a mine near a stream so we can make the water do all the hard work any time, instead of this hardscrabble work. We're men, not dwarves!" He pauses for a moment, rubbing his back, and adds "If'n you want to be buried up here, you're digging your own grave first."

As Marvin, Jed, and Jarvus talk, the rest of the men begin to pick up and put away their tools. There are metal shovels, heavy pickaxes, timber, rope, and other things. Most of the men have brought their own water supply.
Into the side of the mountain, the ramblers have delved and have a low-arching mine. So far, as Jed maintains, they have only uncovered rocks and dirt.
"Just trust me," Jarvus says. "Few dare to tread here.. we'll find somethin' that will line our pockets!

Jed laughs bitterly, the sound again a mix of mirth and disease. "You'll line our pockets with our own blood when them orcs come 'in drink our ale. We has some ale, and they has some ale. But they'll still come over here and drink ours!"

Marvin quips, "Have you ever tasted orc ale? It's no wonder they want our beer instead!"

Jarvus sneers and pats the whip at his side. He continues to puff on his pipe. Blue smoke swirls into the mid-November air. Overhead, the sun is half hidden behind a mountain peak. If it wasn't for the dirty, grubby men and their ugly mine, it would be a beautiful scene!
"Listen," the foreman says. "No need to worry about orcs, goblins, witches, trolls, ghosts, ghouls or indigestion!"
He taps out his pipe. The ashes fall on the ground. "Our scouts report there is nothing moving for leagues!"
Many men walk past Jarvus, heading from the shoddy mine to a row of hastily erected tents.

Jed lifts himself off his pick, straightening his spine with what looks to be an epic effort, and raises a finger. "Beer, blood, ponies, weapons. They have things..." he points his finger at an imaginary spot in the air before Marvin. "And we have things..." He points at another spot. "In moments, they swarm from there...over here..." The finger moves. "And then...they gobble and drink up all we have in an orgy of blood!" Jed finishes with a big slurping sound to emphasize, punctuated by another ragged and wet cough.
The old man then looks to Jarvus. "Nothing for leagues, eh? An orc could be just below or above us now." Jed's eyes follow Jarvus' hand to hsi whip. "Whatcher gonna do with that whip, whippersnapper? You get that out on an old man and you'll have to dig the hole to bury me in."

As the men talk, there is low rumble, a tremor that lasts maybe 3 seconds and then it is done.
 
Far up in the pass, an Elf stands amid the rocks watching the Men far below as they work. He stretches out from the rock he is perched upon and holds a hand to his ear to better listen. A voice below makes a comment about scouts and keeping watch. Mirodhel smirks as such talk and then looks around again for possible intruders who would so these men harm.

"I've heard," Marvin says, "that goblins can spring up out of the ground anywhere they want up here. The scouts didn't see anything because the gobbos are moving around beneath us, nt up on the surface. Maybe," he continues with a bleak expression, "we'll dig into one of their tunnels."

Jarvus merely frowns as the men begin to put away their tools. He hears the rumbling but puts it out of his mind. "I assure you, Marvin," he says, "we're far from any orclet tunnels."

From the tent camp, small lanterns blink on one by one. There comes the lonesome sound of a harmonica. If Middle-Earth was not such a dangerous place, one may consider the scene peaceful - even though Jarvus smells like a pig in July!

"AND," Marvin goes on, "do we have any guards in case they pop up? NO. Just our mining tools and that silly whip." He glares in Jarvus' direction. "What good are picks and shovels against swords and battle-axes, I'd like to know."

"I don't know too many what argues a pick-axe to the head," Hester grumbles in her raspy voice. She sits on a rock nearby and, for all of her dismissive speech, looks warily around at the rumbling ground.

Again, there is a low rumble. It lasts perhaps ten seconds this time and seems to come from the very mountains themselves. The harmonica stops and a voice (carrying no small amount of twang!) cries out: "What the 'ell was that?"

He shrugs and goes back to playing his lonely tune.

Jarvus looks at Hester. "Bah," he says and spits on the ground. He busies himself again packing the bowl of his pipe. "Y'all's a bunch of ninnies," he continues, "And if I hear one more..."
Then he hears the low rumble. He shrugs.
"... one more word about orclets or fresh water or whiskey, you'll see what this here whip can do!!"

"What about giants?" Marvin asks with a patently fake innocent tone.

Jory swings his pickaxe, a middle-aged man with a very defined receding hairline and a short, but uneven beard. "Let em go.. more prize fer the rest've us.. " The miner grumbles, spitting at the ground.

Jed grunts toward Jarvus, tensing his old muscles as if spoiling for a fight. "I'll tell, ya, youngster. As much smoke as you're blowing, I'd not be surprised if ya tried to tell us a bunch of elves were lookin' after us up here and keepin' us from danger." He coughs again. "The way this minin' trip's goin', it'd be welcome as the flowers in May if I do pass on up here!"

Mirodhel drops to one knee as the rumbling continues. Despite his superior balance, the Elf doesn't seem inclined to take a chance of being tossed aside by these earthquakes. Frowning slightly, he puts a hand to the rock and listens to what it and its brethren have to say, if anything.

Hester stands at the second rumble, hefting her shovel over a shoulder with another odd look around. "I hears there was giants but..." a glance upward. "I figures if there was giants here, stands to thinking that we'd be able to see 'em, right?"

Jed, the old miner in the broad-brimmed hat snarls again. "Somethin's shakin' all right. Probably from all the wind what's comin' out of old Jarvus' maw!" He laughs, setting loose an avalanche of sickly coughs.

Marvin looks over at Hester, and shrugs. "Depends. Ever climbed a hill or mountain and thought you saw the top and got up there only to find the trail keeps going up? If'n they're playing games high enough above, you wouldn't see them down here."

Jarvus leans forward towards Jed before his bloodshot eyes go to Hester, Marvin, and Jory. "I SAID THAT'S EN--"
 
But then there is a rumble like no other and a horrible sound like granite cracking. First, the left post of the mine splinters and gives way. Then the right post does the same!!!
Crash! Smash!
Rocks and huge piles of dirt begin to slide down on the men. They delved too deeply and too greedily!
The man who was playing the lonely tune on his harmonica. He begins to let out a terrified scream but then his mouth is filled with dirt. He lives no more and his tent is buried.
Just behind the landsline is his broken harmonica.

"A rumblin.. and grumblin.. I be givvin ye something to grumble a-" The older miner, Jory, cuts off as suddenly the mine begins to crumble. He gives a cry of alarm and runs for cover. One doesn't live to the ripe age of forty-three by trying to catch rocks in a landslide. No sir.

Jed continues his coughing as the avalanche is unleashed. Stone and dirt and wood become liquid in a deadly wave. The old man moves not, either petrified by surprise and fear or too cynical to care about the impending danger. In either case, the debris stops its crashing journey but a stride or two from Jed. Looking down at it, he grunts a laconic response. "Might need to mind them pillars a bit more, Jarvus, I reckon."

Somewhere in these rocky mountains is another figure, big and beastly, its keen brown eyes looking toward teh miners here as it moves in the shadows, pawing slowly down the mountain. Its fur glistens dark brown, its feet are gigantic and yet it seems to move through the mountains without a sound.

Marvin looks upslope at the noise and stares slack-jawed for a moment at what is coming before he too starts to run off to the one side. A moment too slow, for a bouncing head-size rock hits his leg and he falls.

Mirodhel feels the ground beneath his rock start to give way and the rock starts to roll. The Elf thinks fast and before he loses his perch and falls to his doom, he throws down his shield!

Jumping lightly into the concave side, the Elf surfs the scree until the landslide comes to an end!

Jarvus is knocked several feet by the landslide and is covered with dirt. His left flank hurts but he opens his eyes and tries to stand. Anything broken? No.. Except his pipe. He coughs and throws the stem onto the ground.
"Everyone alright?" He yells out. It is difficult to see through the plumes of dust that have arisen. Indeed - night has fallen.

Jory coughs as the dust settles, lifting his hand to brush himself off. He spits to the ground, then looks around. "Aww.. blood and bad luck and .. Idyuts don't know how to mine!" He yells in anger, throwing his axe down to the ground in frustration.

The rising dust elicits another stream of gruesome coughs from Jed. "I wasn't all right before that, taskmaster, seein' as I'm here," he growls sardonically. "But I ain't no worse." He spots the broken harmonica for the first time and softens his tone. "I think we lost us a good man, though." he mutters without a hint of the biting bile he had been offering. Jed lowers his eyes, wiping at a moist spot in the corner of one of them.

Marvin tries to stand, but collapses as soon he puts weight on the rock-hit leg, and he lies on the ground moaning and clutching at his shin. "No," he grits out, "Not alright."

The dark shape haunting these hills is also caught up in the landslide, though the bear--for such it is--stays upright, slipping and sliding and half falling down the mountain, some of the smaller rocks coming into it. Its path takes it right toward the elf!

Jory looks up towards Jed when he announces a man lost, and grunts. Then his gaze strays beyond the fellow miner and his dark eyes widen. "A creature!!" He yells, pointing at the bear and leaning down to scoop up his pickaxe.

Hester turns away from the rockslide and is running in Jed's direction when the rocks catch up to her. She is knocked to her hands and knees and buried to her waist, but is crawling out easily enough. She looks up as Jory calls out.

Jarvus's eyes go wide. "Brother!" he cries. He runs right past poor Marvin, ignoring the man's busted leg (in fact he may stumble on him and hurt him more!) and stops near the broken harmonica. Jarvus, tears in his eyes drops to his knees. He picks up the harmonica and begins to weep deep, heaving cries. He blubbers quite a bit.
"Oh! Earl!!! You were the best brother a miner could have!"
Amidst the turmoil, Jarvus seems oblivious to the elf and bear.
He's even oblivious to the vein of silver that now stands out in the moonlight...

Jed's eyes, still bright though they are surrounded by a dusty and wrinkly face, moves from the broken and newly ownerless musical instrument to the wounded Marvin. He takes a step toward the miner, perhaps to offer help, but is distracted by a strange sight: two strange creatures both traversing the midst of the deadly slide. "Wha?" is all the usually verbose Jed can muster in response. Given the goings-on, the old man also misses the precious harbinger exposed by the catastrophe.

Marvin screams as Jarvus 'accidently' hits his legs, and passes out.

Hester gives a grunt and a mighty struggle and is free of the rubble, covered in a fine layer of dirt that, frankly, improves her appearance somewhat by hiding it. "Jarvis, get yerself together, yeh woman! We're needing you out here!" She turns toward the man and her eyes suddenly widen at something.

Mirodhel has come to stop some distance above where the Mannish camp used to be. The Elf steps off his shield and tests the ground. Smirking at his own tentativeness, Mirodhel steps off with the other foot as lightly as if walking upon fresh snow and takes up his shield. Then he turns his attention to see if anyone survived below.

The spectacle of shield-walking elves and landslide enduring bears is quite a thing, but when one has been searching for that which glitters for all one's life, perhaps one becomes particularly sensitive to the sight of it. Jed gasps, pointing. "Silver...no...it's smoother, shinier, that ore. I think it's..."
Jed doesn't bother saying any more. Instead, he hops and dances, forgetting chaos and mourning around him. "It is! It is! Yippey aye eh!" Jed tosses his hat up in the air, still dances in circles as if he were fifty years younger.

Jory spits on the ground again, swinging his pick-axe loosely at nothing. Marvin stops hollering because he's passed out and that's just fine by -this- miner. Jed's words draw his attention away from everything else, and the old man rushes over with a greedy glint to his eyes. "Lemme see!" He tries to push Jed out of the way to get a better look.

Of course there are survivors! .. though they are dirtier, smellier, and uglier than before. Jarvus wipes away his tears, still blubbering and leaving a trail of grime across his wet face. The man rises. When he speaks it is with a thick drawl.
"He was my bleedin' brother, Hester!"
Then his eyes go to elf. "My lands!!!!" He stoops and picks up a pickaxe.
"Did you cause this?" he blubbers.
He is vaguely aware of Jed's excitement. But Jed is always excited - and he talks too much besides.!

Gollum claps Jory on the back. "We'll be as rich as them stewards in Gondor, Jory!" He laughs, coughing. "Fnacy suits. Fancy drinks...fancy young women!" Yeeehaw!" He begins to attempt to lock arms with Jory to effect a jerky partnered dance.

There /is/ a survivor just below the elf--the huge bear comes to a stumbling halt, having missed the elf by a few feet in his fall. He shakes his ridiculously large form, trying to get rid of the dust and dirt and to regain an ounce of dignity. Then he snuffs the air, eyes staring down at the miners.

Jory whoops like a boy, laughing in delight! "Aye!! Rich!! It was worth it!" He gladly rings around with Jed for a few turns, cheering!

Mirodhel sights the bear easily enough and he is about to say something to calm the creature when suddenly shouts below draw his attention and the Elf's eyes draw quickly to the pickaxe. He holds up his hands in a gesture of peace and waits for the Men and Women to sort themselves out.

Hester gives a squeal that would be girlish were it not so husky in the undertone. She flings her hands in the air and shakes them around as if she will dance. "Finally! Finally!" She capers toward the men and finally catches sight of the elf. "Hey! They knows about it! What if he tells his friends and steals it?"

Something like a deadly feral bear would usually draw one's attention...but again, a lifetime of searching for that which glitters can change one's perceptions. For now, Jed remains oblivious. "Rich. And women!" His excited rant is incoherent. "Just when I thought I wouldn't live long enough, I finally get to enjoy that good life!" He whirls, kicks the air, and claps and he dances with Jory...
...and then suddenly stops. Jed's face goes ashen and his eyes go blank, as if he is staring at something very far away. He grabs at his left arm, then at this chest. Then, Jed drops forward on his face and is still.

Jarvus might not recognize an elf, but he sure recognizes a bear when he sees one! Cling! He drops this pickaxes and it falls to the ground with a clatter.
"B-b-bear!" he stammers and backpedals. Soon he is near the other humans that were dancing in the shimmering like of the silver vein of ore that has been unearthed.

At least two of the men have grabbed pickaxes after spotting the bear, and now Hester and Jarvus seem to be threatening the elf--and the bear seems to take that personally. It stands on its hind legs, rearing up to a tremdendous, towering height, "smiling" at the miners--that is, you call barring a nasty set of fangs a smile. Maybe it's greeting the men? Maybe it is protecting the elf? It doesn't seem to have trouble standing on its hind legs--this is no ordinary bear. Either that or it is _extremely_ well fed

Mirodhel looks to the bear and calls out, "Easy there, friend-bear! The Secondborn mean no harm!" He takes a few steps forward and bravely pats the bear in a calming fashion while looking at the people below.

The chattering of Jarvus's teeth slows somewhat as he watches the elf and bear. Are they *gulp* friends? He taps Jory on the shoulder. His voice is low and raspy. And is that smoke that he is still coughing up.
"You," he says. "You first.. er.. go talk to them."

Hester back-pedals as well at the sight of the bear. She trips over Jed and falls down with a yell. A gasp. "It got Jed with its Magic!"

Overhead, lightning cracks and crackles through the air. It is followed by a deafening BOOM!

Other than presenting an obstacle for Hester to trip over, Jed's role in this adventure is at an end. He is still and growing cold...though in this atmosphere, none may notice for some time!

Jarvus kicks at Jed. "Wake up, old fool.. go with Jory!"

Whoa, wait, what?! Jory's dancing partner is suddenly stiffening and dropping lifeless to the ground. The miner stares in a surprise, his whiskered jaw hanging open in disbelief. Then Jarvus is tapping him on the shoulder and telling him to talk to someone? Jory looks around, "Be gone! It's ours! We found it!!" He yells, waving his hand dismissively at the elf and bear alike.

Jed does not respond to Jarvus' prompting. Even his flesh is not like a man kicked. Already he is more like a heap of meat than a miner...even an old one.

The elf approaches the bear, pats it--and lives to tell. Slowly, the bear drops down to four paws again, swivels its head to look at the elf, and then back to the miners again--as if to ask (as if bears could talk!!), "What the bear is going on here?" The thunder does gain the bear's attention, though--it looks up, sniffing the air.

Hester gives a rough scream as the lightning cracks and scrambles backwards, further into the mess of a mine. "Magic!"

Plip. Plop. Plip... plop. Plipplop Plipplop Plipplop pitterpatterpitterpatter pitterpatterpitterpatter pitterpatterpitterpatter
... the rain begins to come down. Hard.

Marvin groans and stirs as the icy rain (Almost snow) hits him, and then starts screaming. His leg is bent, and not at a joint.

The Elf is about to say something new when it starts raining. Mirodhel turns his head up and the water falls on his face for a few moments before he looks around and starts for a tree, calling out in Westron to these Men and Women, "Take care, this loose ground will give way!"

Jarvus backpedals. He looks back to the vein of ore. He desires treasure above all else. His gaze strays from the bear and the elf to the lode. He doesn't seem to give Jed a thought and his poor dead brother, master harmonica player, is clearly out of mind!
"That's right, Jory! Tell it to 'em straight!"

"Ye killed Jed!! With yer magics!" Jory yells accusingly at the elf. "Take yer enchanted bear and be gone!" He holds up his pickaxe.. threateningly! (If a middle-aged balding man with a minor screaming in agony behind him can look threatening.)

Jed offers nothing to confirm or deny Jory's accusations, busying himself instead with the task of assuming the temperature of the autumn air around him.

"SNORT." The bear's looks directly at Jory and makes a very loud snort sound, as if it's answering the miner. Then it looks to the vein of silver, up at the rain, and up at Jory again--and makes another 'comment': "Snort snort gruffle mrrphmh...." Is that the sound of some laughter coming from the bear. The beast then turns its head to the elf, looking for all the world as if it is frowning at the loose mountain rock underfoot.

Oblivious to the bear or gleam of ore, Marvin yells "My frelling leg is broke! Somebody help me!"

Jarvus nudges Hester. "Get busy with a sample of that stuff," he says. "I'm absolutely positive it is what I think it is .. but.. we need to have it checked out." His voice is low. "I guess any armoursmith could tell us the purity..."

The other miners now slowly emerge from their tents. The ones that weren't buried, that is! They creep and press in on the group. One kneels near Marvin.
"Yep. It's broke all right." The man manipulates it harshly - just to check..

Marvin passes out from the pain. Again. This just isn't his lucky day.
(But at least the injured miner is quiet again.)

Mirodhel calls out in Elf-latin strange words that the miners aren't likely to understand. He points at the water and then the loose rock and replies in the Common Speech, "You fools, forget your silver and save your short lives before you're swept away by the stony tide!"

The bear backs up, edging quietly up the hill so that it is starting to get behind the elf--and it nods its large head as the elf speak. A series of growls are then directed at the elf, though who can say if the elf understands him. If the elf does, it would be something along the lines of, "they're in love with the silver in the mountain."

"We're not showing it to no armorsmith unless we're selling it," Hester argues, continuing to give the elf and bear the Eye. But still, she scoops up a pickaxe and heads toward the wall, her gnarled hand reaching tenderly toward the gleaming silver patch.

High on a clifftop, red eyes appear. They are there for no longer than a second then are gone.

Perhaps now that Jed has shuffled off this mortal coil, his incorporeal self watches over the scene. Then again, perhaps not. One thing's for certain: If Jed is watching, he's filthy about the timing of his demise after years of fruitless mining!

It seems the elf is right. As the rain comes down, the earth beneath Jarvus's feet becomes softer and softer. Indeed, small rocks tumble from up above event as Hester sets to work in getting a sample from the lode.
"Bah. Just hurry up!" he says. The miner stairs at the bear and the elf through the rain.
"I don't know who you are," he says. "But there here's mine and we plan to profit from it!"
 
Mirodhel gives the bear a look and shakes his head before he turns for his tree. It's a big, tall, thick thing that's probably stood for a century or longer. The Elf jumps for the first branch and then starts scrambling up it, gear and all. The Men and Women below are left to fend for themselves.

Jory considers the advise of this other person, then immediately disregards it. Wealth beyond imagining is just behind him and some mud is -not- going to slow him down. "Bah! Be gone!" He yells again, spitting at the ground and turning back to Jarvus and Hester. "The rain'll wash er all away soon enough!" He says, gingerly stepping among the loose rock and dirt back to the site of the silver. He starts swinging his axe down, trying to get to more.

The bear considers the tree, watching the elf scramble out of the way. But the tree is probably too scrawny to hold this enormous bear, so he snorts and gives up on that idea, turning attention back to his footing. Carefully the bear climbs up higher to solid ground, and _then_ it turns to Jarvus. And growls, meancingly.

The woman, smaller than any of the other miners except the dead ones, swings the pickaxe hard, then a second time. A hunk of the cavern wall splits and falls to the ground, a wider slice of the fine silver revealed beneath. She reaches over to scoop it up. "Got it, Jarvus! Quit your scolding!"

Jarvus seems to wink at the elf and bear and give them a salute as he begins to run. "Nice work, Hester.. now let's get out of here!"
Even as Jarvus begins to run, trying to grab Jory to come along with him, mud begins to slide down and cover the rich, silver vein...

Jed, too, is covered by the second wave of loose soil and stone. Although he never got to enjoy the fruit of the find, it looks as if he will at least be granted to chance to spend a bit more time in the rich vein's company.

Jory feels Jarvus pulling at him, and fights against the man for a moment, scrambling to scoop up a hunk of the silver ore for himself. He stuffs it into a pocket before turning to flee the falling, sliding mud.
 
Hester runs awkwardly after Jarvus, clutching the pickaxe and the silver-studded stone in her chest. "Jarvus!" she screetches. "The mine! It's closing!"

As the miners begin to depart, the bear follows after them, picking its way carefully down the mountain. It seems that it means to follow the miners.

As the humans flee, the mudslide comes with a rumble and a crash. Overhead lightning blazes. Jarvus and his companions manage to zoom away to the east. But what will happen next?
Will they find the identity of this precious metal? Will they be accurate? What of the orcs in the area? What will Mirodhel and the bear report back to their kin?
Stay tuned for the next episode of: Of Ore and Orcs!

Setting: High Pass, Western Face

Players:
Squee, Morian Chieftain
Dulugobghaash, Morian Guard
Lithiugelir, Ranger
Mobeorn, Beijabar

What a miserable trip this has been... and they haven't even seen a single orc yet! But rain, boy has the party seen a lot of rain, sleat, wind, and lightning. Lots of lightning. So the going has been abismal and slow.
The group has yet again been forced to stop in a most uncomfortable place upon the trail to take what shelter can be found or made while a storm blows over once more. Thunder booms and lighting, finally mostly on the eastern side of the range now, continues to flash. The front is almost past, finally. Almost no one in the camp has managed to sleep at all. The pack ponies are skittish and the men on watch are soaking wet and tired.
Among the latter, Lithiugelir stands with his long bow just inside the lee of a stone that gives little protection from the rain and wind here. Pale grey eyes squint against the rain, trying to keep a wary watch on the night. His cowled head turns from time to time, but it is very difficult to see anything in the heavy rain, even when lightning flashes.

"That thing work in this weather?" Mobeorn says, coming up next to the Dunadan now. "And more important, is that harp case of yours watertight?" he grins, then grows sober, surveying the rainy landscape. "Don't like this. Not at all. Rain keeps the goblins away...maybe..maybe not. If we wind up fighting it'll be twice as hard in this soggy ground. And arrows..." He shakes his head. "I should go out. Check around us."

When there is blood to be spilt, no orc is left behind...except those that don't show up. Together, a patrol of several orcs is being led by Dulugobghaash. Steady heavy raindrops pound away on the battle rested orcs who are eager for the blood of something other then their kin.

Behind the group, mounted on a dark black warg is the Chieftain of the Morghash, Squee. His merciless eyes flood with rage as each bolt that lights the sky sends fear for those who meet this orcs gaze.

The harper smiles, "Flax string, not gut, so yes my bow's fine. I keep the bow waxed and the harprcase oiled. And the gash is sealed with wax over my mending so it should hold." A flicker of those pale eyes and a grin for Mobeorn's questions. Of course Lith looks to keep such valued items well kept.

To the other, the Dunadan frowns and shrugs, "Not much soil up here to be muddy... rocks are slick though. Very slippery footing. Becareful." His voice is pitched low, though in this downpour it wouldn't carry anyway. Lightning flashes again and thunder almost at once booms, shaking the mountainside. Bad, bad to be caught this close to the peak with lightning, but the storm is almost past.

Dulugobghaash looks through the sheen of cruel weather at the travelers below. A malicious grin crosses his face. "New meat," he mutters, and a murmur spreads through the small group of orcs at his flanks.

With each crack of lighting and thunder, the uruk known as Squee hops around using the darkness as his own cover. Quickly he drifts from rock to rock atop the growling warg who's snarls are missed in the deep fat raindrops.

The lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the landscape, and Mobeorn takes a step out from under the shelter, ignoring the rain pouring down on him. He frowns, standing dead still as he waits again for the storm to light up the landscape.

"Something out there," Mobeorn says, turning back quickly to the harper and the rest of the gathered Beornings--a party of a dozen. Then he turns back and steps into the night and the storm, and the next time the lightning flashes the man is gone and a huge brown bear roams the landscape.

Turning as Mobeorn rumbles a further comment, Lithiugelir asks, "Something?" It's vague, but it's enough to make the man perk up and look around more carefully - both up slope and down, as lightning flashes allow. Then the harper picks up his bow and starts to move among the others in the group, speaking low and letting folk know that something may be afoot, to be wary.

Dulugobghaash squints in the downpour, shaking his head in disbelief. "Wha..." he grunts to no one in particular. "Is there a...is that man or...?" Although the guard stands firm, several of those near him misinterpret his muttered queries. In the harsh conditions, Dulugobghaash's words could be heard as nearly anything, and some interpret them as a call to battle. A few orcs tear town steep ledges toward the travelers, and others take up the charge to follow suit. Before long, ten or fifteen orcs are bearing down on the party, though Dulugobghaash remains stock-still as we works to make sense of what he is seeing below.

As the uruk scouting party advances, Squee's hopping forces him to miss the shape-changer's magic in process. The large brown bear, appears black in the night and is large enough to blend in amongst the small boulders of the mountains. Now almost a hundred feet or so behind the scouting party, Squee continues to advance in the rain.

The Beornings get to their feet hastily. If a beijabar says something is out there, they take it seriously, blades drawn and bows being strung. Those with swords drawn follow Mobeorn out of the cave, and the archers take up positions along the rocks.

"There!" the brown bear roars, only it's not a word but something harsh and gutteral. The bear tears uphill suddenly, looking to meet head-on the orcs bearing down on the party. Beorning arrows are loosed, fired over the head of the on-rushing mass of fur.

Seeing the first of the orcs start to run down the slope like a cascade of falling stones, illuminated only when there are flashes of lighting, and nearly invisible otherwise... Lithiugelir nocks an arrow and takes careful aim. Two arrows he gets off into the trail coming down but the orcs are coming too fast and between the wind, rain and darkness it is difficult to tell if he hit anything at all! snagging his long bow back into the loop on his quiver case, the man shouts to the others, "Stoke up the fire! We'll need light to see by!" and so saying, the harper draws his long blade forth from the scabbard and grabs a newly lit, oil annointed brand as they are being handed out. Hopefully the rain won't dampen down the light too much.

"Here they come! Blades! Too close for bows now!" And Lithiugelir himself moves forward from the camp towards the upslope to meet the first comers.
[Combat(13388)] Lithiugelir unwields Wyr's Long Bow.
[Combat(13388)] Lithiugelir wields a longsword.
[+LIGHT:27282] Lithiugelir lights Flaming Brand.
Lithiugelir says, "Isn't it amazing that I remembered a +light this time???"
Brown_Bear grins
Brown_Bear never remembers.
Lithiugelir says, "Who wants to pair up with whom?"
[Combat(13388)] Lithiugelir puts on Studded Leather Shield.
Squee shrugs
[Combat(13388)] Lithiugelir puts on Studded Leather Armor.
Lithiugelir shouldn't be prancing around nekid like that. Shameful. *wink*
Lithiugelir says, "Whoever is tougher, pair up with Mo? Whoever ofyou two is whimpier, pair up with me? :>"
Brown_Bear hides eyes
Brown_Bear says, "good idea."

Orcs drop in heaps, rolling down the steep face dead as stones and bristling with arrows. Dulugobghaash scowls as the ambush quickly devolves into a massacre...of orcs. All the same, some orcs continue their makeshift charge. A few rush toward the giant bear, bellowing with a mix of rage and fear, while others try to beat a path that will take them around the bear to the party at the cave mouth.

Dulugobghaash shrugs. Just do whatever's IC, I guess.
Lithiugelir says, "ALl right... Dul's hanging back. How about Squee 'n me dance, and Mo & Dul? As if Mo were further upslope and can reach him."
Squee says, "right now Squee is far back, then hy, then mo, then wyr"
Lithiugelir says, "Or whatever. Squee, feel free to whack at me if you are kewl with that."
Squee says, "so Squee will come after Mo, and hy can either deal with Wyr or Mo with me"
Brown_Bear says, "ok"
Lithiugelir is just confused then... "Go ahead. I jsut can't stay real late so don't want to go too long before we engage."

Squee gallops onwards as the brown-bear is finally seen in the darkness. Moving faster then the rain itself, the warg's vicious claws dig into the earth and prod on without problem. As the bear mauls on, Squee urges his warg through the darkness to meet it head on.

The oncoming orcs are not a problem for the bear--they're tossed like paperdolls through the air, one after another as they rush him. More than a few get by--those the bear misses and those smart enough to swing wide of the bear--and soon the Beornings have rushed forward to engage in bloody hand to hand combat.

The bear, though, is focused on another target--the bear's keen eyes having spotted an oncoming warg. The pair might meet head on--bear rushing toward warg, warg and rider rushign toward bear.

With the others, the Dunadan meets those few that got past the bear and the arrows. There aren't many. Lith's long blade catches and throws back the light from his brand as he engages one orc that right off nealy splits him, catching a little leather jerkin with a thrust! The harper's sword comes around to parry the thrust aside at the last instant, saving himself a nasty wound.

Others around him cleave with axes, thrust with spears, or swing swords as well. The Northmen High Pass Guides are stout men, used to such grim work.

More orcs are strewn about after the bear creature's attack, further blunting the star-crossed ambush. The guard looks left and right, considering a retreat, but eventually chooses duty over wisdom...possiby after also considering what might await him under the mountains sould he flee in battle. The guard produces his blade and attempts to join what remains of his patrol, sliding awkwardly on loose stones as he hastily descends.

COMBAT - Wielded: Scimitar

As the orcs remain, and the bear charges, Squee's warg meets the bear with a head-on-charge. His eyes gleam with such intensity as he meats the bear. "Come creature, let me taste your blood!" The uruk growls as he and the bear collide.

An answering growl meets the warg rider's challenge, though the men of Beorning who know the language of the bear would understand the answer. "The only blood you'll taste tonight is your own!" With that bear and warg collide--the beasts crashing into each other, loose rock sliding down the mountainside underneath them.

With a hefty axe coming to bear down upon the orc that faces the harper, the creature is distracted by one of the Beornings long enough for Lithiugelir to get his blade into the thing. The creature screams, having wounded the man who had distracted it. Still, in moments more the few that had come in the first wave are dispatched.

Alas, the Dunadan looks up slope to see yet more orcs coming! "Ware! Another wave!"

Dulugobghaash is dispassionate as he hurries to catch the disjointed rabble of orcs that engages the group. A fatalistic look on his face, he grunts a few commands in a belated attempt to reorganize is scattered force. "Regroup at their camp. In numbers only will be survive."

Squee ignores the command having the abyssal bear in his midst, he looses his etheral blade upon his foe. The blade seems to move of it's own accord. Catching his breath from the first collision, Squee strikes at the bear with little effort to test it's hide.

Squee attacks Brown_Bear with his Scimitar, but he misses by an arm's length.

A stab of light from the horizon, and the sun rises cold and distant.
[Brown_Bear(22365)] The rocks slide loose as bear and warg and rider collide, and the huge brown bear slides sideways a few feet, tumbling down the mountain on wet rocks and equally wet fur. The orc's blade goes wide, meeting only dirt and stone.

But this is no ordinary bear--it's nimble and swift, and it springs to its feet even as it slides--and then comes back -up- the mountain, back toward its foe, a full force charge meant to crush warg and rider.

Brown_Bear attacks Squee with his Beijabar Fists and badly wounds him!

The storm has finally let up and the clouds for the most part have eased over the summit and onto the eastern side of the range. Lighting grows more distance but also... is that the first paling of dawn light through the cloud cover?

Lithiugelir keeps the flaming brand, such as it is, for even though he can now see better, it is still dark enough to fool the eye. As the new group of orcs descend upon them, the wounded among the Beorning camp have been, or are, being hastily drawn back. The harper covers one such downed man as Cecilia and another tend to him. One particularly foul looking beast looms up suddenly in Lith's path and the man lunges forward to meet Dulugobghaash with his blade - aimed with a thrust for the creature's belly!

Lithiugelir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

ARB: You've been injured for 10 hp's by Lithiugelir's attack...
...you have 75 left. Please RP this injury accordingly.

A howl sends the warg and it's rider reeling backwards as Squee lifts his shield to try and block it, but the large bear rips the leather from the uruk's arm. Slowly he raises his arm, finally shaking off the initial assault to thrust again into the brown_bear.

Squee attacks Brown_Bear with his Scimitar, but he misses by a long shot.

Squee removes Studded Leather Shield.
[+LIGHT:27282] Lithiugelir douses Flaming Brand.
[+LIGHT] Lithiugelir's Flaming Brand flickers and goes out.

As the mounted orc chieftain is dealt a crushing blow by the bear-beast, the cruel sun heaps further indignity upon the broken orc ambush by cresting the Eastern horizon. Scowling and squinting as the rays of light shine upon his face, Dulugobghaah whinces. The unwelcome light distracts the completely, and his flesh is pierced by the ranger's blade. Still half-blind, he howls in pain and hacks awkwardly with his sword in the general direction of his assailant.

You half-blindly attack Lithiugelir with your Scimitar...
[Combat(13388)->Dulugobghaash]
Lithiugelir dodges your attack.

The bear twists and turns, a huge thing of wet brown fur roaring in rage over Squee. There -is- the light of the sun breaking over the horizon now, the first glints hitting the mountain, but the enraged massive form of a bear might block that from the orc's sight. Writhing to the right, the bear ducks out of the way of the orc's scimitar, then smashes a paw down toward the orc's gut, like a wild animal trying to disembowel its prey.

Brown_Bear attacks Squee with his Beijabar Fists and terribly wounds him!

Yes! Blessed Valar, but the clouds are thinning and that is dawn light beginning to break in from the distant east! The peak itself was obscuring it, in addition to the storm. Shouts go up among the Beorning camp, shouts of relief! It is the very first thing to go -right- on this ill fated trip, and just when it was needed most!

As the light grows stronger, the tall harper is finally able to get rid of the sputtering brand. He evades the wicked looking scimitar slash and thrusts the brand at the orc's already blinded face both to get his hand free of it, and to hit the orc in the head with it if he might.

But Lithiugelir's real purpose is to make another thrust with the long steal blade, aimed for the creature's chest, "Foul spawn of a banished darkness!"

Lithiugelir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

ARB: You've been injured for 33 hp's by Lithiugelir's attack...
...you have 42 left. Please RP this injury accordingly.

The attack does indeed pierce the uruk and his warg's throat letting out a yelp as the warg falls the the ground. The sharp claws of the warg pierce Squee's torso and he begins to bleed profusely onto the ground. "I will never give up!" he growls and swings his sword but falls short of his prey having been trapped by the orc's own mount leaving Squee helpless to the onslaught that is the forbodeing orc's death.

Dulugobghaash is a hopeless combatant in the sunlight, as are the orcs around him. Some try to retreat, some fight one. Most die in either case. The guard's fate is a similar one. Struck again as he flails blindly, he slumps, swatting the air with his free hand as he falls to his knees. Dulugobghaash snarls and coughs blood as he struggles to regain his feet in the cruel day.

[Combat(13388)->Dulugobghaash]
You forego your chance to attack.

The bear doesn't glory in its victory over the orc--but nor does it leave the job unfinished. A vicious swipe of the bear's claws, trying to break the orc's neck, as a wild animal would try to kill its prey. The bear's roar does echo across the mountain, though, a warning to the orcs still lingering here in the sunlight and on the pass.

Squee collapses to the ground, defeated by Brown_Bear!
[Combat(13388)] Squee's weapon "Scimitar" falls to the ground...
Squee picks up a Scimitar.

Wow. It is a slaughter and a route! The few orcs left are on the run, or too badly wounded to flee! A very unexpected victory looks to be falling into their laps when only a very short time ago, it looked very grim indeed for the Beornings! Cheers rise up with delight - but they have wounded among them as well.

The harper despises orcs. Where there would be pity and mercy for anything else but an orc, Lithiugelir presses to destroy this creature of the departed Morgoth. He raises his blade and then brings it down, intent to slay the creature so that it might not come back another night to feast on some other unlucky soul. The stroke is aimed for throat but may just as easily catch one of the guard's raised arms....

Lithiugelir attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

ARB: You've been injured for 23 hp's by Lithiugelir's attack...
...you have 19 left. Please RP this injury accordingly.

Squee's final yowls of pain are never uttered, his eyes burn with passion as the etheral blade looses it's ghastly glow as if the essence of the flame dissappates from it. Their is only a grunt as the legacy that is Squee ends with a bear claw piercing his head. The uruk's eyes are forced into his skull by the claws. Blood and brains oozes from the eye sockets as the bear pulls it's claw away and Squee falls dead from his prone position.

Dulugobghaash, too wounded and dazed by the light to discern much around him, grunts and stares at nothing as he hears the smashing sound of Squee's life ending. A moment later, it is the guard's turn as his undefended throat is speared by the ranger's fine blade. His blinded eyes go dim, his death occupying but a moment in time.
Removed: Scimitar.
You drop Scimitar.

It is done... the last few orcs are being dispatched, or are already too far up the slope to easily pursue without breaking up their own group and scattering.

Lithiugelir looks down upon the bloodied carcus that had been a living thing and frowns. There is no elation in killing such a pitiful thing. The harper turns back towards the camp to see what aid he might give to the wounded, keeping wary eye out for injured orcs playing dead.

The bear, though, does disappear further into the now misty morning, searching after any lone orcs or wargs foolish enough to be out.

Setting: Goblin Town, "Gutted Pig" Tavern

Players:
Drogosk, Morian Merchant
Dulugobghaassh, Morian Guard

The tavern of Goblin Town is alive with activity, as it has been since the arrival of the visiting Morian party weeks ago. Drinking, fighting, crude song, and gluttonous feeding are the norm here, elements of the only sort of crude merrymaking that orcs know. Into all of this fray emerges the Moria guard Dulugobghaash, who trots into the Gutted Pig hastily. Before he can even address the crowd, the merrymaking quiets somewhat in response to his hurried entrance and the look of urgency on his face.

Thusly granted something of an attentive audience, Dulugobghaash wastes no time calling out an urgent announcement: "The scouts say visitors dirty the High Pass! Ready all who can carry a blade or bow!"

His chains jingling, protruding in hanging golden tangles from below the truncated overshirt he wears, Drogosk's jaw drops open as he stops bouncing around and accosting the tavern's patrons in light of the guard's sudden announcement. His jaw slackens, a bit of dry drool at the corner of his lip recombining with fresher stock, and sliding down his chin. All things considered, not the sight of an effective merchant -- rather the look of someone who was pulled a little too roughly from the black birthing pit, with pincers squishing his head a bit too tight. His eyes glaze over for a moment before he blinks the fit away and mumbles, "Bad for business".

Sullenly, he brings his arms closer to his body as another might close up shop, the jewelry retreating up into the hidden pockers that hold it. He waddles a bit, his gut preceding his coming to the wide slab of a bar, and yells out a little too loudly, "Hey. A cup!"

In the surrounding silence caused by Dulugobghaash's enterance, that does turn some heads.

As makeshift warriors of all stripes rush to and fro in response to Dulugobghaash's proclamation, the guard turns his eye toward Drogosk and his mobile business. "Surely the travelers might have some things of value...to be pillaged by an enterprising orc." He raises an eyebrow, watching to see whether his lure has enticed the merchant.

Drogosk tilts his head to the side like an intrigued parrot. Certainly, the uncharecteristic bright colours of the patchwork he wears do not take away from the suggestion of that look. "Yeah," he grunts, turning around and hitching his filthy, raggy pants in his seat. He stares at the guard with a combination of weariness, distrust, and laughter. "But that's a lot of risk. I've seen fights before, and there is never enough loot to make the risk worth it. Bigger boys get there anyway, take it first, whatever there is. Now... You still gonna try to convince me?"

Dulugobghaash shrugs, giving Drogosk the jaundiced look that those who love a fight often give to those who do not. "More blood and loot for the rest of us then, merchant. You are welcome to battle for Moria and the Misty Mountains if you locate you spine, though." The guard raises his voice to address all who remain. "The reports are that the travelers have yet to crest the pass. We set our ambush carefully. In three days' time, we crush them and bring their skulls to the Flame for a homecoming gift!"

"Well, you're brave, no doubt about it!" Drogosk begins jingling again as he rises, the mug of beer left untouched behind him. "You're brave, sure, but let me ask you this -- how are you going to be killing those light lovers?" His eyes narrow on the guard as he tries to read anything in that face that Dulugobghaash gives away, intentionally or otherwise.

Dulugobghaash grins as Drogosk's interest is apparently piqued. "They are few, trinket-seller. We will rain down on them like bouldes thrown by stone-giants." He grins, showing jagged, broken teeth. "Considering a trip above ground?"

"Boulders, stone giants... well, well.. why don't you just tell them you're gonna ambush them? That'll work just as well, won't it, with all the noise you're sure to make?" Drogosk takes a slow, experimental step towards the guard. "I thought you said you were planning an ambush, and here you go telling me your ambush might as well be announced beforehand. Now, tell me, do you want to do an ambush properly, or not?"

Dulugobghaash watches Drogosk closely, somewhat intrigued by his warnings. "If you will join in, then perhaps your strategy will be of assistance." He pauses. "But your planning will be of no use if you are not to see it through with us."

Drogosk throws his hands up in exasperation, but just as quickly as the gesture is done, he narrows his eyes in on the guard's own and takes another step towards him, chains clinking as his step lands. "Strategy? Did I say anything about strategy? No... no, I'm not talking about strategy. I'm talking about... weaponry. Boulders is ancient stuff, isn't it? Before my sire of five generations ago was born, they were using boulders and calling it an 'ambush'. And it wasn't effective then, was it? Flame and Shadow didn't crush the light-lovers like it should have. And it won't be now.

"You want an ambush, you gotta do it all silently... now, are you interested, or do you want to take the path of the ancients?"

Dulugobghaash pensively licks at a jagged fang while regarding this merchant, visibly curious. "I speak of steel and arrows as our weapons, merchant. I only mean that we would strike as hard as those stone-giants' boulders. Perhaps too much ale clouds your tactics, merchant." He grins a bit, softening what might have otherwise been taken as an invitation to a brawl. "But perhaps you havea secret of warface tucked away with all of those trinkets. Would you share it?"

Drogosk starts to turn away in that manner merchants use when they want to lure in their customers. But when Dulugobghaash finally does express his interest, the merchant affects something of a coy half-turn towards him. "Should I take that as a statement of interest? Let me give you a tip then -- you shouldn't make fun of those who are offering to help you, and whose help you look like you want. Now, of course, I would share what I have. I'd share it for the glory of our ambush, and of the Shadow and Flame, and of yourself, too. But you know, we do all have to eat. I can't share it for free. Now, for the information itself, I charge next to nothing -- and that's a bargain, cause if you've ever heard the wise ones talking, they always say information is worth more than gold. So, I'll make it one, single silver piece. That's all, for something that might change the whole face of your ambush."

Dulugobghaash shrugs and produces a silver coin, tossing it to the floor before him. None move to take it, given the proximity of the armed Dulugobghaash. "Let's hear your tale, goods-seller."

As quick as the coin lands, it disappears again under Drogosk's clawed foot. He drags the foot back, and ape-like, clenching the coin between his unthinkably filthy toes, raises up his leg, plucks the piece of silver with his fingers, and deftly pockets it in some fold of his bulging yet under-sized overshirt.

"No tale, no tale. Just a weapon. Let me ask you this -- have you seen the effects of poisons? Paralyzing poisons, poisons that cause whoever touches them to burst in a rash like fire, poisons that make you hurt so much you want to pull out your own insides -- and mind my words, some of them do -- now, you ever heard of poisons like that?"

Dulugobghaash looks at the spot once occupied by his coin, his face rueing its loss. "I have heard of such things, merchant, though in open battle they seem a poor substitute for the blade and bow...both in their speed and in their stealth. Your means are more suited for betrayal and backstabbing." He swallows uncomfortably, considering the implications of his own statement. "You will be welcome to try them on our foes at the ambush, though. In the meantime, I will be sure to regard you...cautiously...given what you've told me, merchant. Remind me not to accept a gift of fine meat from you." The guard chuckles to himself nervously and backs away toward an exit.

"Hold on, hold on. Who do you think I am? You think the plan is to try to sneak 'fine meats' into our enemies' mouths? No. Look. Listen. I got some poisons, get them premium. Now /this/ is what you do for an ambush. You take all your little arrows, and you smear my poison on them. Now, instead of a screaming panic of an ambush, you get the real thing -- the light-loving bastards won't even be able to call to their friends when one of these things hits 'em -- throat's the first thing to get paralyzed. Then they stop breathing. Think about it -- think about only needing one arrow to take each of 'em down, and having it go quietly. Having it be a real ambush. And all, of course, for the glory of the Shadow and Flame."

Satisfied with himself, Drogosk finishes his pitch and in a classic move, lets the buyer come to him. He takes a step back, and with a hop, perches himself again at the bar, and reaches for his untouched beer... only to find someone's drank it all in his absense.

Dulugobghaash, retreating, nods at Drogosk, but he is preoccupied enough with thoughs of more underhanded applications of poison that more discourse with the merchant is not to his liking. Hastily, he mumbles a response. "Of course...poison on bows, not in an unsuspecting orc's mug..." He swallows again uncomfortably, trying to remember whether he had recently dined near the merchant. "We'll talk more as the ambush is brought together." The lost bit of silver now the last thing on his mind, Dulugobghaash slides out of the hall, eager to get away from talk of poisons.

Scene: Goblin Town, "Gutted Pig" Tavern

Players:
Squee, Morian Chieftain
Dulugobghaash, Morian Guard

As the sun punishes the pass above, orcs of the Misty Mountains cling to holes and caverns far below ground. The Gutted Pig, Goblin Town's crude tavern, swells with orcs both local and of Morian origin. Some fight. Some drink. Some doze fitfully. Some do all of this and more in stages as the day goes on.

Amid the hustle and bustle, the Morghash officer Dulugobghaash sits on the floor in a corner, rubbing at his own wretched feet. Weariness is on Dulugobghaash's face, and frustration. His countenance suggests that he is not keen to converse, and the rabble comply by staying clear.

There is a crack, as the tavern's down is forced open by the Talashakh. A mug is poured, and the uruk known as Squee makes his way towards the bar missing Dulugobghaash, or perhaps simply ignoring him. To either side are small warriors, cloaked in dark black leather with several silver daggers on their hips.

Dulugobghaash raises his head as Squee and his entourage pass, his face still despondent. The exhausted guard continues to idly massage his weary feet and legs, but does not address his chieftain.

"Fetch my choosen warrior," Squee drolls softly into his tankard. His eyes hint of annoyance as the small uruk sips at the warm ale. At his belt, a dark black scimitar.

Dulugobghaash's attention falls again to his own taxed body. The guard picks and scratches as sores and scabs, tending roughly to the toll that many High Pass patrols has taken on him. He hisses as he pulls at a thorn roughly imbedded in his swarthy skin, mumbling curses and scratching at his irritated flesh.

The guard makes it's way towards Dulugobghaash. "Come, the chieftain wishes to see you." The smaller of the two chides as he keeps his weapon sheathed. "Don't make me ask twice," he growls and licks his parched lips, the desire in his eyes for some ale.

Dulugobghaash doesn't address the aggressive guard, snarling at the dagger-wielding orc's implicit threat as he stands uncomfortably. Limping on sore feet and legs, he strides toward the chieftain, then offers a nod of deference. "You have called for me, chieftain?" he mutters in a low voice, wearily straining to ensure that he is audible above the crowd's din.

"Yes, It's been many nights since you've been seen by me. Does the rebel still attack us as the Morghash patrol the mountains?" Squee asks as his hand waves and another tankard is brought forth quickly. "Sit, drink." He growls subtly and gestures to the wooden bar-stool and he pushes the tankard infront of Dulugobghaash.

Dulugobghaash slumps onto a roughly-made stool, slurping at a vessel before answering the Talashakh. "The Southron picks and prods at us as will, as he did in those old days when he first vexed Moria. We and the Kaalbug alike are being played with like a cat with mice." He pauses, weighing his thoughts a moment, then continues. "Long we have been without reinforcements. Perhaps counsel should be sought back in our home caverns."

"I see, and agree, we shall return home for a few days before returning with fresh warriors and supplies for our allies. Then the army of the Morghash will march onto this vermin and he will end up the mouse and I the cat that eats him." Squee squeels with delight and drinks down the rest of his tankard asking for another.

Dulugobghaash nods and stands. "It will be done immediately, my chieftain." He sets down the earthen drinking mug from which he had been sipping, awaiting dismissal.

"No it won't, sit down and have another drink, you've earned it!" Squee says ordering another round for his guards as well as the larger orc Dulugobghaash.
Dulugobghaash looks a last time to an exit tunnel, almost longingly, then complies with his chieftain's order. "As you wish, Talashakh." Again he sits on the rough-hewn stool.

"Hungry for some grog?" He asks slowly before banging his fist on the bar. "Grog!" he shouts and inspects the uruk bar-maid before him.

Dulugobghaash nods, speaking to the Talashakh while staring pensively at a rough cavern wall. "I am sure that sipping at some will do good for the wear and tear the rebels have visted on me, chieftain." He puts his fists on the coarse surface of a bar-table as he awaits the coming sustenance.

The stone basin is filled with a strange mix of items, however that's grog for you. The bar orc recedes quickly to another patron fearing the reach of the Talashakh and his reputation.

Dulugobghaash feeds silently on the slurry he is offered, eyes moving up and down the Talashakh's group of guards. Pausing his sloppy dining for a moment, he asks a question of the chieftain: "Shall I withdraw all our forces, Talashkakh?"

"Yes make them seem like we've given up, I also want you to see if there is a secret path into this area so that the rebel's wont know we've come back." Squee says looking to one of the female uruk dancers in the tavern.

Dulugobghaash downs his soupy drink with a final series of greedy gulps. Wiping his mouth with a dirty forearm, the guard stands again. "So be it, Talaskakh. Our warriors are weary, and the news of a trip home will do them well. With your leave, I will ready them."

"Then take leave, we leave in three days," The uruk growls and orders himself some grog. Waiting for the bowl he says no more to Dulugobghaash.

Dulugobghaash nods quietly, his face showing more than a little bit of relief at the order. After a final glower at the guard who had chided him earlier, the Muzgak shuffles out of the tavern. Even as Dulugobghaash moves on, though, the word begins to circulate through the cavern. The Morians, or at least the Morghash, are returning home.

Setting: Goblin Town, Tangle of Passages

Players:

Squee: Morian Chieftain
Dulugobghaash, Morian Guard

There is no moon here to wax and wane as the orcs spend another day away from their caves. In the darkness, at home, the uruks of Moria grow wrestless now that the threat of the Mordain is over.

Orcs move, to and fro working quickly, or at least attempting to look busy, rumor has been that ever since the departure of the Mordain, Squee has sought blood striking down Morghash and Thrakaburzum alike to attempt to satisfy his bloodlust.

Some of the Morians sit around the fire, leaving a single guard to watch for the coming Talashakh.

The sounds of bustling in these rough-hewn tunnels are a change of pace. For the first time in a year or so, Morians walk the Goblin Town halls in mass. Since their crushing defeat in the High Pass and on the road west, the forces of the Flame had been regrouping in the South, but no more.

Into this busy scene emerges Dulugobghaash, guard and recently promoted Muzgak of the Morghash. He carries a bloodied orc helm in each hand. Neither of these is the guard's, though, as Dulugobghaash's own helm sits atop his head.
Dulugobghaash casts the helms onto the stone floor before him, the resultant clanging getting the attention of the few orcs. "The rebel has struck again," he snarls.

By the firelight, uruks jump onto the fallen warrior's heads beginning to try and take the helms before others can get them. It's only as the Talashakh enters the scene do the warriors jump. "Has he now? and what is being done about this Muzgak? Anything?" In the chieftain's hands are his shield and sword as he inspects the scene and shoots a glare to the fighting Morghash.

Dulugobghaash shakes his head, his face wan. "We search, but the rebels hide like they are one with the stones. Dhygrukh has tormented the orcs of the Misty Mountains for years, eluding punishment. His rebels draw us into traps when we pursue them in the open." The guard lowers his eyes as he awaits the brash chieftain's inevitable tongue-lashing.

"Then why are we not setting traps and trapping them? We are just as, if not more intelligent!" Squee snarls to no one in particular. One of the scavenging uruks picks up helm only to be struke down by Squee. The uruk is not dead, however a good flow a black blood begins to flow from where the uruks arm was. However no one picks up the helm, as it now has collected a head and hand tight held tightly onto it.

Dulugobghaash keeps his eyes on the stone floor, weary from battle and lacking a compelling reply to the Talashakh's queries. "They are few, and their leader does not suffer under the sun. We are hard pressed by this foe, Talashakh."

"Then this is what we do," Squee pauses and then sits down into one of the rotted logs allowing him just enough to move. In the rotten-wood-throne, Squee looks on to his Morghash, who's wide aprehensive eyes wait for command before he speaks. "Each patrol who falls will be marked, after time a routine will be found in these attacks. That is where we strike, we plot and hit our enemy when they think us weakest. Do you have anything to say for that Muzgak?"

Dulugobghaash nods, eyes still averted, and responds. "We will watch for a pattern, my chieftain." His tone is not optimistic, though, after weeks of grappling with these foes.

"However when the time comes.....will your scimitar be right there tearing flesh from bone Muzgak?" Squee asks looking up as his lip curls as the malicious dry lips widen revealing a jagged row of teeth.

Dulugobghaash finally raises his eyes to meet those of the Talashakh. "Indeed," he grunts, eyes flashing despite the guard's fatigue.

"You look like hell my guard, how will you fair should sleep not find you before a battle? Prove to me you can draw your blade even in the prescence of something so hindering as sleep." Squee smiles and remains seated as he watches the shocking expression of those who watch.

Dulugobghaash raises an eyebrow, a bit unsure of the meaning of the chieftain's command. All the same, he produces his blade immediately, raising it to a ready position. "So long as there is black blood in my veins, Talashakh, I will be able to produce my blade."

A smile comes from Squee's face as he stands and brings his sword and shield to the ready position. "Then come at me, prove that you can indeed produce your blade and attack against the will of your weary body." Squee smiles and looks up towards his foe.

Dulugobghaash's response is quick, the guard more eager by far to trade sword blows than words. In one motion, he jabs his scimitar toward Squee, the strength of the blow checked to limit injury.

"Nice!" Squee squeels as his shoulder is bruised by the blade of the guard. "You know Dulugobghaash, even in your state your blade will one day become deadly. It's all about turning your wrist at the last moment," Squee growls and slashes at the neck of Dulugobghaash, letting the blade cut up after a moment so his strike is light enough to leave a shallow would.

Dulugobghaash draws back his blade and steps back from the chieftain's counter-attack, his unshielded left arm swatting at the chieftain's blade. The gesture fails, though, and the guard's neck is gashed. Winching for but a moment, he lashes back quicky at Squee with a hacking overhand blow.

Squee's blade comes up to meet that of his guards. "Enough, I'm not here to push you to your limits. In fact it looks like time has beaten you to your limits. My suggestion is to find a tent and sleep your strength back. Given your current position more rations can be given to you should you need them, but I can't have my Muzgak be this tired all the time." Squee says with a hint of disapproval.

Dulugobghaash nods, lowering his blade. Sides heaving, he gasps a few words. "Thank you, my Talashakh." The guard's shoulders slump as he hangs his rough blade at his side.

"Good, then off with you, I have more pressing concerns then sleepy orcs." The talashakh mutters with a cackle as he scoops up the fallen, and bloody helms. Slowly the uruk is scene walking off muttering to himself, with that Squee disappears into the passages of Goblin town.

Dulugobghaash rubs at his neck silently as the chieftain walks away. "Indeed," he mutters to himself.

Setting: Goblin Town, Tangle of Passages
Players:
Squee, Deposed Morian Talashakh
Grishnakh, Mordain Visitor
Lorbag, Mordain Visitor

Activity! A flurry of it! The Mordain orcs are scurrying all about. The tents come down. The fires are snuffed. The wagons are being loaded. It would almost seem as though they are preparing for a journey. Supplies bought from the Gutted Pig are being carried in by Morian and Mordain snaga alike. Some booze, and quite a bit of dried pig meat. Not a single snaga is idle. The officers keep things moving, the cracks of whips and yelps constant.

Grishnakh stands a bit off from the proceedings, atop a rock outcropping, watching without moving. The big uruk-hai's arms are folded across his chest. His cloak flutters behind him, blown by some unseen air vent in the floor. The commander looks displeased, eyes scanning the area outside the breaking camp.

Activity doesn't just flow from this end of Goblin Town. Several days ago, the uruks of Moria were forced to march the depths of Goblin Town.

Even in darkness, the uruk-hai that is Grishnakh is seen watching the goings on, but not in his own camp. A small company of uruks bearing the banner of the Morghash make their way towards the Mordain as the servant of the Eye and the servants of the flame seem to prepare to go their seperate ways the commanders meet for the first time since they were welcomed to Moria.
Mounted on a dark black warg is Squee, his grosteque face hidden under a full black cloak causing his brow to glisten with sweat.

A host of Mordain soldiers is gathered in a close line below the Vorazg, mustered to show force and tithe their strength to his retinue until the Morian denizens of the mountain have embarked on the southward road. Among them is Oglaz, his attention intently focused on the mounted figure.

The vorazg's gaze turns to Squee and his mount. He glares at the warg, malice glimmering from his eyes. Positioning his body square to the other, Grishnakh asks one simple question.
"Where is your /king/?" The sarcasm oozes off the last word.

A simple shrug is enough to throw the hood from Squee's cloaked form. "Perhaps you scare him....." The mounted uruk sneers back with equal sarcasm. However tonight something strange has happens about Squee as his fangs, and that of the wargs, drip with some malificent liquor, even at this distance the scent is intoxicating. Slowly Squee takes the scimitar in his hand, with a simple flick of his wrist he presses it into the folds of his cloak.

"It is likely," says a new voice then, and emerging from Grishnakh's retinue comes Lorbag. "The skull-faced runt stands barely to our Vorazg's chest, so he would do well to stay hidden if he thinks to rival us. Come to beg for our aid again, goblin?"

Grishnakh holds out a hand to Lorbag, bidding him stand by his side. The vorazg notes the movement of Squee, yet keeps his arms folded firmly across his chest. He speaks softly, his words calm, "That would be wise....to be scared. More scared of the truth are you I'm afraid." The orc issues a low growl, aimed at the warg, "Tell me little monster, you must be Squee, slaughterer of messangers and defender of wargs?"

Squee bows his head at the honored title as the warg lets out a vicious howl in response to grow from Grishnakh. "I am also, the uruk who marched into your camp and offered a non-aggression pact between our two hordes. And do not be so quick to forget it!" Squee retorts with a malicious undertone that seems to put his own mounted warriors to unease.
"I know who you are great orc......However your the snaga by your side must learn some control with his blade before he ends his own life trying to stab someone else." There is a pause again as Squee laughs allowing a bellowing chuckle to fill the room. "You want your messenger back....Fine....Release him!" Squee announces and the banner-holder pulls a thin string as under the flag of the Morghash, the skin of the messanger waves.

As the skin is unvieled, Lorbag snarls at the sight and clutches at his now famous sledgehammer. "So, you dare to bring the hide of my herald back to the Vorazg in such a manner! This worm's insolence knows no bounds, mighty Grishnakh! Let me crack open his empty skull so you wont have to piss into a pool..."

The vorazg instantly whirls on Lorbag. He seems surprised that the orc hasn't launched himself. He growls in frustration and takes a step back, drawing his own razor honed blade. His voice sounds loud and clear. It causes even some of the orcs packing camp to pause.

"ENOUGH! I know nothing of your treaty, orc. It was NEVER brought to me! These were the orders I gave when we entered these mines! I will not suffer my boys to halt if they have reason though! Why'd you give them reason?" He holds his scimitar, tip to the ground, staring at Squee with a nasty scowl.

"But you see, the problem is simple. You bow to a false god. A god who will only shudder and pray for his life at the hands of OUR lord! The time will come for you all! You will see the light before it is snuffed from your eyes! We come seeking alliance, when we should DEMAND loyalty! I tire of your kingless tribes!"

"Then I say to you......O Mighty ignorant warrior.....If my false god is so petty to the warriors of your own, then were is your god...I will bow down to you, only, and only when your god comes to smite the likes of mine. For as long as the shadow and flame has a place to burn, I will be there fueled by it's rage!" Squee declares, and with his noble proclimation he pulls out his sword and shield in one fluid motion.

"You dare draw your blade on the Vorazg?!" cries Lorbag then, and this time there is no restraint in the Rakarg left. Perhaps the ordeal of the Nazgul has turned him wilder, or perhaps there is more to know in his eyes than mere savagery, but with a snarl of outrage he surges forth.

Out and up sweeps the head of his sledge, looking to shatter the Morian orc's knees.

Grishankh's scowl turns to a tight, tight grimace. The lips are pressed so tightly together that a word seems unable to come out. He turns his head and regards Lorbag's attacking form for a second. He takes a slight step back. The pure rage in his eyes is brilliant. A deep, long breath comes hissing from his wide nostrils.

"It has a place to burn, for now, foolish goblin. I will take you myself to see the one if you please, though I doubt you'd survive the encounter." Even thinking about seeing the Eye, causes a fresh burst of sweat from the Mordain commander. The fingers tighten on the hilt of his fabulous blade, "Escort us from these mines, Squee, noble bearer of shit and piss."

If any were to gaze at the camp they would see the orderly lines, ready to march. Snaga hitched to the wagons. Whips ready, all eyes turned towards the encounter.

The warg leaps at just the right time to spare his rider another attack, for Lorbag was already rounding up his sledge for a second swing. But when a hefty beast of claw and tooth comes bearing down on you, it has a way of drawing the attention and right enough, Lorbag is forced to raise his weapon in defense. Up comes the handle, into the warg's jaws and holding back their fury as he is wrestled to the ground under its weight.

But beset as he is, he is not daunted just yet, and his own fangs gnash with equal savagery. Releasing one hand from his sledge he digs out his clawed thumbs at the beast's eyes in a bid to get if off of him.

It takes a mere moment as Squee tucks his sword away. The banner is pulled as the messangers skin falls to the banner-holder's hands. "'ere's yous bleeding messanger.....no much bleedin no more!" He announces as ten of the twelve warg riders fall back. Two remain to cover the repositioning as the darkness swallows up the Morghash Talashakh again.

The vorazg growls as the wargs and their riders disapear. He turns to lorbag and grunts, "Let em' go. We're leaving now." He turns heel on everyone standing there. His voice can be heard booming from the camp. The wagon wheels grind. The whips crack. The Mordain move from the mines of Moria.

Setting: Goblin Town

Players: Squee: Morian Chieftain
...and a heap of visiting orcs from Mordor...

Mold, blood, death, all drift down the darkness that is Goblin Town. Even in the darkness there is little that an orc could see down the road. However along this road are the two camps of the uruk's of both Mordor, and of the Misty Mountains. Each banner droops proudly around their camps as some orcs intermingle to gamble away their lives.

Tonight is no different from any other night. Except tonight, a dozen warriors are led by the Matadush of Moria. Squee, mounted on Surath, makes his way towards the Mordain camp. "I come for my meeting with the vorzag, he says boldly keeping weapons sheathed as an example to his troops. Also concealed are two small tubes strapped to the mount beneath the Morghash Talashakh. The strange-linked tounge of Squee wiggles like an eager snaga out of the whole in his cheek awaiting the Vorzag or something different.

"The Vorazg is not around at this time," says a tall, cloaked orc, who seems to admire the warg. He smiles at it and lets out what seems to be small growls, barks, and yelps, that seem to be a way of communicating. He then stands and waits for a response or reactiong.

As the Morian party enters the Mordain camp, cautious glances greet them coupled with a few even openly displaying distate. One of these is the snaga Horthrak, the presense of the Morian guards not deterring him in the least from not showing the proper respects. "Lorbag and da Big Boss both be bussy at da moment. Come back lata ." The snaga then begins to occupy his time by licking his fangs clean from a past meal.

Squee looks on, disdain on his lips as he flicks them. "So Let me get this straight. You invite myself over here, and then refuse me. Fine! I at least want the two orcs promised to me from the Vorzag's original letter." Squee yells as the cloaked orc begins to bark and growl.

The dozen mounted Morghash begin to sound the halls with different tones of laughter as the cloaked orc seems to try and speak to the warg. However Squee's eyes meet the Wargs as strange glutteral sounds come from the hell hound followed by a deep growl and the gray warg bares his teeth at the cloaked Mordain.

Looks at the wargs oddly, he begins to speak in the odd language again. He looks at them and then back at the other Mordain, but finally he steps and looks at the snaga who spoke, "And tell me snaga do you speak for US?!" He is extremely angered.

"What I can tell ya is dat your embarrassing us right now trying to talk tah that mut over der. So what don't you shut yer trap and let me talk for a minute, eh?" The large uruk slave's mood has now turned to one of anger. Changing the direction of his attentions to the mounted Morian, he speaks once again "You'll get what da Vorazg promised, Morian but currently there both indisposed. Probably plannin the demise of da humies and leaf ears as we speak or maybe there both just havin some fun with she-orcs. Any way, is not my business."

Within moments, Regak's axe is out and in his hands, "You speak out of turn Snaga! You do not speak, unless spoken to." He then turns to Ashtaluuk long enough to see the scowl, and he then steps back bowing in what seems to be apology to the Shaman. He does however walk over to the snaga and says quietly, "Nice job, slave, speak with me later."

"Actually from what I've been told, their both indisposed at the moment. And this cloaked creature thinks he can speak Surath. Needless to say he's insulting the intelligence of my mount." Squee growls and looks back to his warriors regaining his composure.
The warg however is not as forgiving as it snaps at the snaga and it's deep colored eyes begin to shift back and forth demonically between the cloaked one and the snaga.

As the cloaked orc draws his axe, Horthrak stance shifts slightly. "Yeh, yeh, yeh. I've heard it enough times," is the uruk's response to Regak. As the warg snaps out at him, Horthrak backs away. Making eye contact to the animal, he points to the Regak and jokingly states "Eat him. Hes got more meat on em." The snaga then begins to laugh loudly.

Ashtaluuk raises an eyebrow and exclaims in a sarcastic voice, "Indisposed? Is that so! As for Surath, I don't know what this. What I do know is that I don't see anyhting wrong with thinking."

Here he leans down and whispers to Regak, "Maybe this Squee should try thinking."

Continuing loudly, he asks, "Why do you raise your axe against this snaga? What did he do?"

"He spoke with authority to this Morian go...orc. That is unbefitting a snaga." He steps back from the warg and he walks towards the Shaman, "But not unbefitting a Dog. However, that is neither here nor there at the moment. What are /your/ orders?"

Squee looks down at the shaman, and his demi-gauntlets shift and grip the reins.
The warg however turns it's gaze to the cloaked Regak. Saliva drips from it's maw as it see's it's next meal.

"I think you've really annoyed him orc." The mounted Talashakh growls to the mordain axe-wielder. "Perhaps it would be wise to not insult him by trying to speak wolf to him." Squee suggests hinting perhaps at why the warg might be bitter towards Regak.

Slightly confused at Regak's statements, Horthrak remains silent for the moment. The snaga then contines to back away in order to makes sure to give the warg a wide birth should the worst occur.

Ashtaluuk watches this all with interest. He turns to Regak. "This snaga shouldn't be killed. Let him live, but let him know that he is a slave and he will remain in his place." he turns sternly to Horthrak, then glares at Squee. "If that warg touches one hair on any orc of Mordor, I will see to it that you're dinner with Grishnakh be a long one."

"I for one care nothing for what such a mangy cur has to say..."

The words hang there in the air for a moment, ere their source is revealed. Lorbag emerges from one of the Mordain tents, a half-dozen uruk-hai spilling out behind him, and where Squee comes with weapons sheathed the Tek'rak of Dol Guldur seems proud to bear his notorious sledge in his hands.

"Come to buy the other skin, goblin?" he asks then of Squee, as he continues to advance.

Nodding at the Shaman he seems to ignore Squee, but at the sound of the Tek'rak's voice, Regak stands slightly taller, and walks over to stand by the Tek'rak's side. He then looks at Squee and the rest of the Mordain and assumes his job as Herald, "Squee of Moria, I give you, the Chosen of the Vorazg, the Cleanser of the Eye, the Tek'rak of Dol Guldor." At this, Regak bows and moes back as if to give Lorbag a majestic standing.

"Well while your at it, see to a few other things as well. First off, Lorbag as slaughtered two of my wargs and is now trying to profit from one of their hides. Second off, I've slaughtered one Mordain, and in return three Morian's were slewn. This is unacceptable espically coming from a group who desires to keep relations with us Morians."
A deep sigh comes from the cracked lips of Squee as the looks down at his warg and notes it's uneasy posture at the entrance of Lorbag(whom Squee ignores). "In return, for the slayings of those creatures, I demand payment for both the wargs and the two others slewn.....Given that I had slain one, I've taken that off of the three already killed. You're vorzag has but a few days left before my hospitality is demished." With that Squee turns his warg to leave the camp as one of the riders watches their rear.
"However tell your vorzag that it's not wise to come to a predator's den and then poach the nest, and if my demands are not met, you will not escape alive." With that the uruk's move amongst their own Morian camp riding towards the darkness.

Ashtaluuk cannot contain himself. Not even the appearance of Lorbag hinders him. "Why should the Vorazg, great Emissary to Eye, accept such demands from a mountain rat?" he snaps, glaring at Squee. "You hide here in your mountains and refuse to accept that the Eye is the supreme ruler of the earth, and you expect US, the very soldiers of the Eye, to listen to YOU? Has all this mountain air clogged your wits?"

"Coward," spits Lorbag in the silence that follows. The word echoes out through the cavern. "If you were able to carry out half yer boasts, you'd not be talking at all."

Glacing around to the rest of the Mordain gathered, the Tek'rak sneers and points to the backs of the retreating goblins. "See now lads! The Shaman has the right of it... Look at these so-called warriors of the Flame! This runt on his dog claims he wants payment, or else we'll not escape alive? He claims we're here living on his hospitality! I say let him come forth and punish his guest, for we will not pay a thing!"


"But," adds Lorbag then, licking his fangs. "He wont. He hasn't got the courage, or the strength. His words mean nothing.. as does his authority..."

"Do not demand such things...." Comes a voice in deep voice in the shadows, that which is hidden amongst the rocks. There is a dull whistle before an arrow shoots past Lorbag's ear....then the voice is silent again


But the Tek'rak is not afeared of the dart. "Ha!" he growls, as his uruk-hai move to protect his person; forming a ring around him. "I demanded nothing before, merely invited, but now I do! Show yerself, puny archer, or else prove that no goblin has the guts to fight face to face!"

Whoever this archer is, Ashtaluuk does not know. He takes a step back though, and continues to glare at Squee.

Another voice fills the hall, different, higher and it shrieks. "The Kaalbug do not reveal themselves to such unworthy snagas under the banner of an eyeball."

"YOU CALL US WHAT?! YOU SAY WHAT?! WE ARE THE CHOSEN OF THE EYE! We are wraught from his nightmares! We are the Uruks of Mordor, we are the true ORCS! I cannot believe that your lives in dwarven halls have made you forget your people!" Regak is openly angered and screaming into the darkness, "STAND WITH US ORCS OF MORIA, COME UNDER ONE BANNER! We will destroy the elves, the dwarves, the men of Gondor and Rohan!"

Ashtaluuk glares into the darkness and turns to Lorbag. "I sense fear. I sense much fear! They are frightened! They are nothing but cowards! They are nothing but MOUNTAIN RATS!" he spits into the darkness. "MOUNTAIN RATS!" he yells again.

There is a squeak in the darkness however no more voices can be heard, not even a whisper as the all consuming shadows offer nothing more.

And Lorbag listens well to the waiting darkness, but with no more forthcoming, he snarls and spits upon the ground anew.

"Once again we hear thunder but see no lightning. Puny worms.. why does the Vorazg even bother with them? If we withdraw, orc," he says to Horthrak, "it will be to find business more worthy of the Eye's forces. These rabble are barely even worth conquering."

"But," he adds darkly, nodding to Ashtaluuk and Regak, "I should be glad to do it, all the same. Perhaps when these tunnels ring with the cries of our Shriekers they will learn what reall goes Bump in the Night..."

Ashtaluuk glares. "The cries of Shriekers will scare them silly!" he yells, spitting again. He turns to Lorbag. "I would love to see the looks on their faces if a Shrieker came."

Somewhere in the darkness a tiny rat scurries across a passageway, for a moment brushing against one of the Mordain orcs and then disappearing down a hole.

From the hole that the rat goes into their is a blood squelching squeel as a new rat attacks it's invader.

"Aye, boss. Yous got it. What do ya want us ta do? I'm here ta serve after all." The orc known as Horthrak then takes a knee in the direction of Lorbag. While down there however, he notices a shiny rock which he is quick to claim. Continueing to lick his fangs, Horthrak awaits a response from the Tek'rak.

"Wait for the Vorazg's command," replies the Tek'rak then, almost by default it seems. "Much as we're ready to quit these maggots and let 'em slit each other's worthless throats... it's by his word we move or dont move. Though, I don't think he'll be impressed by these latest displays. I wonder how these runts can try to claim importance when all they ever do is talk big and do little. Their king hasn't even shown his skull-like face in weeks!"

Rising back to his feet, Horthrak sighs and walks back to the Mordain camp. "One of these days, I'm not gunna be a snaga anymore. One of these days...."
"Ha!" declares Lorbag. "That rat has more courage than this entire Kaalbug rabble!"
"Ha!" declares Lorbag.
"That rat has more courage than this entire Kaalbug rabble!"

Setting: Moria, Durin's Way

Players:
Squee, Morghash Chieftain
Ashtaluuk, Mordain High Shaman

The temperature of the Misty Mountains was cool, compared to the Balrog's fires, resulting in an unnatural fog to fill the cave. Sorrow mixed with sulfur to cast gloom over the home of the Morian uruk's, as if each was filled with doubt.
Their scattered efforts to prepare for the Kaalbug were delayed for too long. In the darkness the only prelude to the demonic uruk was eyes glowing from the faint torchlight marking the arrival of Squee. Under him, another creature of vile darkness as the hell hound took slow prowling steps not wanting to throw it's rider from it's back.

Silence. That is the herald that proclaims the presence of Ashtaluuk. He stands in the shadows, his arms folded. Pitiful uruks. He turns to the entrance of Squee and steps out of the shadows just slightly, interested in the creature the Morian orc rides.

The Flame-blessed uruk rides in slowly, no need for haste with time on his side. A few moments pass as the grotesque scarred figure moves from the hell hound. "Bring him to his stall, a good rest is needed before the return to the Kaalbug armies," Squee growls and a small snaga takes the warg reins, for a moment the uruk leads the creature, however one leap and the hound begins to pull the snaga away having found an easy meal.
"You are not Morghash, nor are Thrakburzum," Squee says drawing his weapon and glaring about. From the hole in his cheek comes a strange tongue split once and held together by metal rings. "Declare yourself!" The chieftain says at once.

Ashtaluuk sneers. "I am Ashtaluuk, Shaman of Barad-dur, and visitor to Moria. I'd like to know who it is that addresses me." his voice is calm and he speaks nonchalantly. He does not unfold his arms nor make any attempt to move from his place, half in shadow and half in the dim light.

A single thought flickers showing in Squee's eyes as amusement and curiosity. His lips, dried from the journey from the lower mines, are flicked against by that strange tounge. "I am the Morghash Chieftain, Squee, Flame-touched warrior of the Balrog." Squee announces as his face pushes from the darkness revealing the scarring of the scolding fires of Durin's Bane.

Even the hardened Ashtaluuk shivers at the mention of the Balrog. He does not let his fear show though. Still unmoving, he looks at Squee's scar and seems to think to himself. Finally, he says, "I see you rode a warg in here, Morghash Chieftain Squee. You clearly rank high among the orcs of Moria. Let us hope that in battles to come you will be there as a warrior."

The mention of battle burns in the eyes of the malicious chieftain. "I expect the same of your title shaman. Our meeting was not a coincidence, for I'm in need of something I cannot find amongst the rest of the Morian tribes. Who is your commanding officer and orc in charge of the marching uruks from the south?" Squee asks bitterness in his voice as he speaks of other uruks in command.

Ashtaluuk raises a brow and smiles. He leans forward with interest and narrows his eyes. "What do you need Morghash? As for my leader, is the Vorazg Grishnakh."

"I'm in need of numbers. Will you convey a message to your commanding officer shaman?" Squee asks his lip curling from having to ask for assistance, however uruks outside of the cave didn't respect a flame touched warrior as the Morian's did. "Well shaman?" Squee says as his patience grows thin.

Ashtaluuk rolls his eyes and stands. "As you wish Morghash," he says a bit too loudly. "I see no need to get angry. It is my duty to convey messages to my higher-ups." He stops, looks as if he will say something further, then falls silent.

"Then wise you must be, if only other Thrakaburzum would learn such loyalty to their superiors." Squee growls and stands a bit taller still small in comparison to the great-orc in front of him. "Let your Vorazg know that I wish a meeting with him, and tell him to send an envoy back to the Morghash Talashakh with his reply soon. I would seal it with my mark, however you are not mine to command." Squee chuckles knowing that anyone else would have been bitten, or carved by his claws to seal the message of the Talashakh.

Ashtaluuk nods, showing he understands. "The matter must be urgent, Morghash Squee, for why else would you need to meet with the Vorazg?" his smile has faded slightly, but his voice has lost none of its cool voice.

A strange shriek comes from the warg's den as the snaga's life is snuffed out between the powerful maw of the warg Squee rode in on. "Word has also reached my ear that one amongst you wishes to ride the hell hounds of Middle Earth as I and my Morghash do. Seek him out also, and tell him to report to me for training, and an offering should be by his side." Squee says confidence in his words except the threat at the end. "Is that a problem."

Ashtaluuk laughs, a drawl laugh will little feeling or meaning behind it. "A problem? Of course not! I was just merely wondering, is all, what you wished to speak about!" He pauses, then continues, "I will indeed inform Regak. I believe he is eager to start. Is there anything else you need?" The question is asked more out of courtesy than out of interest.

"Until the Vorzag and I speak I will not say the purpose of such a meeting." Squee says low, paranoia in his voice. "No there is nothing else," the chieftain says waving his hand dismissively. "That is it, if you don't mind I have other matters that need my attention." Squee says turning on the balls of this feet and turns into the shadows there is a heavy thud of his boots, that quickly fades leaving the Mordain alone in the dark.

Setting: Endless Way, Lake of Death and Shadows

Players:
Staazghru, Morian Shaman
Squee, Morian Deposed Chieftain
Dulugobghaash, Morian Guard
Mogishi, Morian Messenger
Orkuut, Rogue Northern Goblin

 While outside the mountains are serene, far below, in the caves and tunnels of the Misties, orcs are about! They have gathered in Moria, calling forces from the mines and arming them with spears, leather armor, and hastily fashioned helms and sent them north on a mission most dire, for indeed it came from the Demon itself!
 The host of Moria marches, scouting ahead as it goes, through the Endless way, a subterranean passage reaching from Moria to Goblin town.

From the north, a rider on wolfback approaches. He will give report to whatever captain there is to listen.
 "I bring good news," the scout growls. "The Kaalbug remnant has been located. It seems that have taken over the old Grishkuga tunnels near the Lake of Death and Shadow." The orc scout pauses. "Their position is well defended."

Snarls and shouts answer the wolf-rider's announcement. The battle-tested guard Dulugobghaash, dressed in full armor, raises his rough-hewn scimitar. "Let them defend. We will flow over them like melted snow down the Silvertine in spring!"

Mogisihi the messenger, standing well back from the front lines in his characteristic fashion, cries out as well. "Indeed, vanquished they shall be. I will be pleased to pass the word of the victory back to the King...after you good Morians finish the task of subduing them, of course." He grins and takes another step back, as if to reinforce his unwillingness to be physically involved in the battle to come.

 Staazghru the Shaman marches near the head of the column as well. A great head-dress, fashioned in the likeness of a red-eyed wolf, covers his bald head. In his right hand he bears a great staff and affixed atop it is a dreadful black banner.
 "That would make the King proud," he snarls. "But give him too much pleasure!" He jerks his head to the north, where the supposed stronghold of the Kaalbug lies. "Too often he sulks in his lair! His place is here with us - in battle!"
 Staazghru marches on.

Dulugobghaash looks to the ground as the shaman speaks, lips pursed to hold back any response to Staazghru's thoughts on the king. He does not appear angered by the shaman's claims, though.

   Towards the back of the shaman and guard, mounted on a welp warg, is the a figure having been missing for weeks. Armor oiled and silent as Squee rides on the black of the brown hair hell hound. Bandages have all been covered by patchy robes of dark brown and dirt. Blood has dried in splotches on the traveling cloak of the former chieftain as he rides on silently.

Mogishi clears his throat before going about what he does best: talking. The messenger nods at the shaman. "Indeed. I have no word from the King, so I know not why he has not come on this errand of the Flame. But surely he will be glad to see us bring back loot from a defeated foe! Let us move to please king and Flame!"

 "Well," the scout says as he turns his wolf near the head of the column to fall alongside the column. He rides near Mogishi, Staazghru, Dulugobghaash, and now possibly the emerging form of Squee, who he takes in with wide eyes. "Well we will move quick.."
 Then he pauses, seeing Squee. "I thought you were dead?!"

   As if by some unholy vengence, Squee looks on as crimson orbs inspect the shaman. Even atop the welp Squee watches on, though lower in rank the warg's rider is still strong. Reaching up to draw back his hood, Squee's scarred face meets that of the guard. There is a strange sound then, as if the uruk tries to speak. Opening his mouth Squee reveals two pieces of the same tounge, each pointed strangely, as he utters a single grotesque word "Flame."

Dulugobghaash lets out an approving grunt as the shaman promises a rapid assault, then cranes his neck back as the presumed-dead Squee is named. "The chieftain lives..." the guard whispers in disbelief.

 The nameless scout draws back as does Staazghru the Shaman. He takes in Squee's hideous visage as the train of orcs continues to march north. "He bears the Mark of the Demon!" the shaman says. Then he cowers somewhat and hands his banner to Squee, if he should accept it.

The messenger Mogishi squeaks with glee. "What news! The burned chieftain lives! Big news in Moria!"

   Reaching down, Squee accepts the banner with an approving nod. Like a curious pup, Squee looks onto the guard, "iffent," he tries to say and holds the banner now in his demi-gauntleted hand. One of the tounges of the former chieftain snakes out the wound delivered by the king before his eyes shut visibly in pain, before Squee shrieks loudly.

 And so with a returned Chieftain, the host of Moria continues forth. But to what end? Well - we shall see.

For even as the column strides forth, small eyes peer down on them from unseen passageways: spies of the Kaalbug. And when the Morians arrive at their destination they may be surprised, prepared, or both!

You follow the straight northern tunnels for many miles. The air grows damp, then wet; the smell of water pervades the air.

The guard Dulugobghaash presses along, his eyes still following the scorched Talashakh. "Surely the Morghash are blessed indeed if their chieftain survives," he grunts.
   Squee looks down and shakes his head. "ull-ace, 'e 'o eader

   Squee looks down and shakes his head. "ull-ace, 'e 'o eader." The welp seems to snap at those that get too near infront of it's maw as the former Talashakh tries to explain himself. Aggitated from the past few weeks, the uruk's claws sweat and he begins to lose grip on the banner keeping it in his grasp though.
Mogishi continues to rant on, drawing more than a few angry looks from the Morian throng. "Big news in Moria! Squee survives the Flame's wrath! Moria subdues the rebels of the North! So many messages to pass along!" Finally, the messenger goes mercifully quiet as he listens to the disfigured Squee's garbled speech.

 The scout that remains nameless holds up his hand, stopping the army's march. "E' o' eader?" he asks. A slow look of confusion hangs on his face. "Whatever do you mean, Banner Bearer?" he asks.

Far to the north, on the shore of the lake nearest Goblin Town a small company of orcs emerge. They are clothed in furs and carry with them great, curved shields. They slowly make their way south towards the Morian army, but are still a great ways away.

   Beginning to get frustrated, Squee sighs as hair pushes from his holed-cheek. Slowly the former chieftain points to himself "'e." The second thing he does his waggle one of the fingers of his free hand "'O." Finally the scarred uruk makes begins to gesture like a king would reapeating in strange Squee-speak "'eader."

Mogishi squints as he tries to make sense of Squee, then he grins and shouts out more of his grating commentary: "The Morghash chieftain is chieftain no more? Who will lead the tribe? Big news in Moria!" The messenger drones on, pleased as can be with his droning reports.

 Staazghru just looks at Squee atop the whelp. "Your words still elude me, one touched by the Flame," he says. He peers closer at the orc's wrecked face. "Perhaps a healer would be able to remake your visage so that you may speak again?"

As the shaman talks, the shapes that have emerged round the bend in the lake and come closer to the main orc force of the Mines. Ones with a keen eye may be able to make them out. A tall, guant orc is in the middle. He is flanked by two other, squatter and thickly built orcs.

The guard Dulugobghaash shakes his head in response. "Squee is our Talashakh," he snarls, eyeing other Morghash as if issuing a warning to any who might seek the role. "If not, then the Morghash have no Talashakh. And the Morgash need no Talashakh imposed on us by force from the new King!"

   "'kull-'ace 'o 'ant 'quee 'eader." The former Talashakh says however looks down. A growl comes from his lips as the uruks look on, then prying apart a broken ring from his mail, Squee reaches into his mouth with a few fingers before wincing. The uruk pierces the tips of his tounge together as drool leaks out. "Skai-ace no want Squee lead'r." he says as drool leaks from his his mouth.

 After a few seconds to wipe his mouth Squee spits a wad of black blood. "On'y be'ore da bat-le." he says to the shaman in regards to the strange surgery.

 "Well," the shaman says ominously. "It appears battle may have come to us..."

Perhaps fifty paces from the horde of Moria now stands the three orcs. Indeed, it appears they are Kaalbug. They bear their long curved shields and plant them in the charred ground. One of the orcs, the squat one to the tall one's left, brings a black horn to his lips and makes a mighty blast. It echoes off the walls before dying down. Then the tall orc in the middle speaks. "Who comes with such forth against the Kaalbug? The Lost Tribe?"

Dulugobghaash's attention is wrenched from Squee's bizaare self-treatment as the Kaalbug vanguard emerges. He waves for the guards to form ranks, but they are already doing so as the Northern orcs speak. Dulugobghaash clenches his teeth as he listens to the Kaalbug speak.

   As the uruk tribes meet, Squee dismounts. He hands the banner to the guard Dulugobghaash. "Mrow'gash ob Mrowia!" Squee announces and begins to cough almost as if he's choked up by his own tounge.

Dulugobghaash takes the banner from Squee and nods at the erstwhile chieftain, but says nothing.

The silver-tongued messenger Mogishi compensates for Squee's lack of wordiness with plenty of his own. Speaking from a safe position at the back of the Morian ranks, Mogishi calls out to the Kaalbug representatives. "Moria comes to bring the Kaalbug back to the fold...or to crush them! You must bow to the King and Moria, rogues!"

 "Speak truly, orc!" says the tall Kaalbug. He gestures to the army that rides behind Squee. "You cannot say that your intentions are peaceful here, for our spies have followed your progress north. Have you come to reclaim the Kaalbug for the King? Are you come to force us again into servitude?" He hears Mogishi's voice and then frowns.
 "So it is true. You bring war to your brother orc!!" The tall Kaalbug looks at Squee and then spits in the dirt.

Dulugobghaash breaks his silence, raising the standard of the Morghash. "You can avoid war...if you submit to the will of Moria and the Morghash!"

   Like nothing before, Squee draws in breath before letting out a deafening battle roar with the fury of the flame behind it. Drawing his bow, Squee pulls his scimitar out and lifts it high in the air.

 "Submit?" the tall Kaalbug chuckles. His name is Orkuut. "Submit? Why would we submit?" He smiles as he hears Squee roar.

 "Indeed your army may be mighty, but so is ours - and likely better defended." He gestured behind him. "In these tunnels and these hidden ways and finally in our secret Fortress we could withstand an assault of months - maybe years. Would the King dedicate such forces to subdue us? I think not. If you want us to serve the South, then offer us something worth of the Legacy of the Kaalbug!"

Dulugobghaash snarls and tightens his grip on his blade, but does not speak further. He looks instead to Staazghru, knowing that the shaman's gifts of diplomacy surpass his own.

Squee breaths deep as his chest heaves up and down, his scimitar waits readily even with his hips as if he were going to deflect an arrow on a moments notice. The former chieftain says nothing as he looks on a glare in his eyes.
Staazghru nears Squee and whispers. "The order to take the Kaalbug comes from the Demon, my Lord," he says. "They /will/ submit... one way or the other. Through diplomacy or war. I suggest you use this opportunity to further our tribe's interests."

Mogishi gets visibly nervous as the Kaalbug talk of their immense forces "Well..." he searches for words, hesitant. "Perhaps the Kaalbug might be interested in an alliance...a chance to...rally forces and gain loot? You have wolves and wisdom of their ways. We have metal and wheels!"

Squee speaks quickly "'ell dem, we 'ill negoitate, and no harm come to da Kaalbug..."

Dulugobghaash goes silent as Squee speaks again.

Mogishi gets even more vocal, switching his tone. "Indeed! The Kaalbug could be a powerful ally if they turned to us! What say you, good warriors!"

 The shaman, Staazghru, raises his voice now. "We will negotiate with you, mighty Kaalbug!" he says. "For you would make a bitter enemy, but a powerful ally. Know, however, that in this all parties serve the Flame first! The Morghash allegience is to him and not some Skullfaced King! What demands would you have of us?"

 A sly look slinks over Orkuut the Kaalbug's face. "Ah," he says. "Demands? Yes, demands..." The tall orc prys his shield from the sand and comes closer to the Flametouched. "You southern boys aren't the only ones who have trouble keeping your kin in line. A rival of mine, an orc by the name of Yazgrut, has drawn a sizeable force to him and soon seeks to overthrow me as Chieftain of the Kaalbug. Join with my forces in overtaking him and you will have the allegience of my tribe!"
 However, the Kaalbug pauses. "Beware, though. I am suspicious that Yazgrut is getting help.. technologies foreign to this land. There are rumors of a giant Uruk among them."

The annoying messenger speaks up again. "Let us plan a meeting of our great forces! Together we will wipe out this threat!"
   The weapons is sheathed as Squee's maw widens into a twisted smile. "Kill Y'zgut!" Squee roars solemly as if vowing to kill the uruk who he doesn't know. "Where we stay?" Squee asks Staazghru as drool continues to drip to the ground like a savage warg.
Dulugobghaash softens his scowl. Battle is his desire, but the chance to subdue a third foe with redoubled forces appeals to any warror.
"You may use the lake for fishing," says Orkuut, "And feast with my kin in the nearbye fortress. Soon, we will set out to take Yazgrut and his mysterious companion.. and ride back to Moria with their heads on pikes!"

Dulugobghaash stands down, and many of the assembled guards do the same. As orcs put down their weapons and prepare camp, it looks as if the standoff is at an end.

Mogishi grins. "I will send word to Moria! The Flame's weapons will crush the foes of the Kaalbug!" He grins and darts down a tunnel heading south, showing the quick pace of a keen messenger indeed!

 ... And so the host of Moria marched North and met upon an unlikely ally. The Kaalbug Chieftain by the name of Orkuut enlisted their help in destroying a rival. Only then, promised Orkuut, would the Kaalbug willingly ally themselves with the South. It is here also that Squee made his return and was key in making the decision not to enter a long, drawn out war against the Kaalbug.

Join us next time for Legacy of the Kaalbug: Part III!