PARTICIPANTS: UBERGHASH (GULP), ZUPGUGH, BOZBLOT, FENZOKH, Z'MACHT

Moria, Feasting Hall

The darkness and cold of Moria is broken and swept away within a few paces into this huge hall, replaced by bright light, sweaty heat, and a fetor of burnt flesh. The smoothness and straightness of its walls are indicative of Dwarven hands, but long ago orcs condemned this once-beautiful spot to become a feasting hall, destined to be defiled by decades of abuse. A multitude of long wooden tables are scattered about, but the centerpiece of this room is a huge bonfire, roaring within a pit carved into the floor. In addition to smoke, light and warmth pour from the flames. However, the great shadows cast by the single flickering source of light within the room also lend an unwholesome air to the chamber; in one moment a whole table can be plunged into darkness by a single being's silhouette.

The unfortunate snaga forced to brave the heat of this bonfire plunge spitted chunks of animal and orc flesh into it. Also cooked by these miserable slaves are enormous pots containing a horridly mysterious combination of ground animal parts, termed 'Sog's Surprise'. Once the food is heated, a blend of spices is sprinkled atop, just enough to keep the foul stuff down a diner's gullet, and they are placed atop a wooden counter along with loaves of bread. Beside the counter are large wooden barrels filled with ale, with a stack of complimentary tankards next to each. Periodically, an empty one is wheeled away to the Juicer still, replaced quickly by a new vessel.

Contents:

Uberghash

Sog

The raucas howling, never-ceasing in the hall of feasts, grows exceptionally ferocious. Whatever angle the sun is lingering in the lands far above, in the feast hall it is time for play, time for gorging one's self till your black-green bellybuttons sprout inside-out, time for merrymaking in the orcish way; crude, lude, and plenty loud.

Juicers paddle in on caskets, and behind their one-wheeled acrobatics peddles in the little jailer Bozblot... *One-Two One-Two One-two-three* the little uruk's feet go, pitter-patting towards the head of a table. He leaps, and scrabbles his little frame up to the table top. Bozblot parades in high-step down the length of table, rapping the orc noses at either side with a small leather strap. He makes several passes, back and forth, and those seated at his stage pound into the table with their fists and crude utensils. Bozblot kicks the odd platter up and over the uruk's heads with panache, always in unison with the hungry host's pounding beat.

Uberghash slinks into the feasting hall, red eyes glowing with horrible glee. "The Sober Fate of the Orange Doom rules the Caverns Under the Earth," he declares icily, and giggles. "The other fates are ousted or ended -- even the Beautiful One. Was fun while it lasted."

Bozblot hikes up his little black kilt of leather-metal pleats, and thoughtfully twists a red-leather boot in front of him, and in front of an especially roudy orc seated in front of his prancing. "What you think, is new boots better than my old loverly mocassins?" asks the jailer of the uruk before him. Bozblot finds three seconds to be three seconds too long to verbalize the correct answer, and the orc is swiftly delivered a close-up of Bozblot's new shoe.

As the bust-nosed orc grapples his face and slides out of his chair and under the table, Bozblot resumes his clogging. "You there!" Chirps the jailer mid-step, "where can good servants of the flame find Sog's most finest swill?" Several thumbs direct him to a corner stash.

Uberghash hops toward Bozblot, now, frowning most dreadfully. "Liars!" he calls. "I am the Prince of Cooks, Master of this Feasting Hall, and I say you are all buffoons. That's Chaumurky's ale. Ughhh. If you can afford it, get Drolyag's stuff."

Announcement: Dairnir has changed the poll to: Wearwolves in Dol Amroth ... aroooo!

Bozblot 's nob nose frazzles as his wide-cocked ears bend to make out the mad cook's booming. The noise of the feast hall is most inclement now, and it lingers in the stale, sweat heavy air. The hoots and howls of even the loudest orc float deadly in the air, and they seem of the air itself, and not the fruit of orcish lungs; which ever mouth they sprout from seems only a mute catalyst, fueling the deafening static.

Bozblot clogs closer to the cook, still playing the tiny tyrant on his table-top. *BAP* another orc is introduced to the jailer's spanky new handsome heels. "The rat lover? Drolyag? Always petting... 'Fred'.. bet there's rats in his juice. Mighty KICK though eh ladz?" squeaks Bozblot, emphasizing 'KICK' with another.. well you know.. but apperantly the owner of the third assaulted nose doesn't, because he doesn't duck.

Bozblot 's nob nose frazzles as his wide-cocked ears bend to make out the mad cook's booming. The noise of the feast hall is most inclement now, and it lingers in the stale, sweat heavy air. The hoots and howls of even the loudest orc float deadly in the air, and they seem of the air itself, and not the fruit of orcish lungs; which ever mouth they sprout from seems only a mute catalyst, fueling the deafening static.

Bozblot clogs closer to the cook, still playing the tiny tyrant on his table-top. *BAP* another orc is introduced to the jailer's spanky new handsome heels. "The rat lover? Drolyag? Always petting... 'Fred'.. bet there's rats in his juice. Mighty KICK though eh ladz?" squeaks Bozblot, emphasizing 'KICK' with another.. well you know.. but apperantly the owner of the third assaulted nose doesn't, because he doesn't duck.

Uberghash waves a small, clawed hand admonishingly at Bozblot. "Drolyag's is the best, fool. The best, and every Lord since Jreznog's admitted it. And I've got the whole supply as remains," he boasts. "Save for five barrels."

"A toast then!" shrieks Bozblot, "Toasts to Drolyag.. Bozblot will serve his own swill." The jailer stomps down the table and leaps most artlessly to the ground with his hands flippant in the air, as if his stunted little arms could lend drag enough to slow his fall. Once grounded, the wee-orc blinks his feet, and his sheeny shiny new boots towards Sog's counter.

A single arm flanks the wee-orcs progress to that wide and happy land of 'booze store', and yanks him to a standstill. A less than jovial guard leers at the runt, and spits his scolding straight in Bozblot's face.

"Shouldn't you be lookin' after Pigtusk runt?" grunts unpleasant-orc.

"Quite right, quite RIGHT, I'll see too it cap'n!" squeaks Bozblot.

"The jails is THAT way, runt." Unpleasant-orc crooks a warty green finger to the exit.

Bozblot heads towards the ale barrels just the same.

Bozblot sashays to a barrel almost as tall as he, set at the end of Sog's counter... "NOT that one runt! work the ones we's already tapped!" comes a gruff thundering from Bozblot's left. "Hold on a minute.. they're all empties. Ok lil' fello, tap that one for me, and yer first beaker's free!" comes the big, big voice from beside the runt, and an a huge hand is lowered in front of Bozblot's face. The hand holds some kind of spiggot, and the wee-orc is quick to snatch it up.

Bozblot straddles the cask as best he can, his distended tongue following his eyes as he aims... *CLOMP-splshhhhhh* The spiggot enters the barrel! .. but so does half the lid, and so does half of Bozblot's arm. His hand comes out, but without the spiggot. Bozblot begins unstrapping his scimitar... mumbleing something about 'getting the nasty out of the nasty poison'

Bozblot grips his sword with both hands, his feet still wide apart. He bites down, and closes his eyes, and begins slashing maddly in the direction of the barrel... still mumbelling.

'Nasty bog-rot... buncha filthy spit... greedy grog..' curses the wee-orc, and he feels himself go light on the floor. His mad slicing yet to find resistance. Bozblot opens his eyes, and finds that he's been lifted by the seat of his little kilt, and that the casket is fairly far below.

He grins, and then he's sent OVER the bar, and halfway across the hall, loosed scimitar and all.

A shift of snaga, covered in saw-dust, groggily relinquish their seats at the table little Bozblot bowled under, and a second shift, this one caked with soot takes their place. Little Bozblot emerges, up and over a bench, his handsome metal helmet traded for a bowl of noodles somewhere in his rooting about the floor. Are they noodles? They seem to be alive... edible anyways, as the wee-orc nibbles on the ones flopped over his forehead like withering-slithering slick-slickery bangs.

"Heya cooks, who's this 'Beautimous One' you was barkin about when you came in?" asks Bozblot of the applauding orc.

Zupgugh slinks warily into the Feasting Hall. He does not see any of those who wish him dead, but does not completely let his guard down. He grabs a plate of grub, literally, and sits.

Uberghash removes a flask of liquor from a strap whereby it dangles from his belt, grinning. "Him they called Trezak," he replies, giggling. "He is dead now."

Bozblot bobs his chin; a quick bow. "And is that Trezak's life-juice in yer beaker?" asks the wee-orc, admiringly considering the prince's flask, "Your highness?" He bobs his nob in a second quick-bow.

Uberghash shakes his head sagely. "Of course not. It is distilled liquor, my good orc." He removes a short, greyish cord from a pouch at his hip, tying it to the neck of the bottle and uncorking it.

"Is that like grog? Like swill? Your highness?" inquisits the runt, flopping the bowl from his head and timidly pacing towards the cook... "I bet its flamable..." Bozblot jokes.. or seems to joke.. his eyes shift side-to-side, scanning for something. They dart from a torch sconce, to the fire place, and back to the flask.

Uberghash's tiny mouth twists into a sharklike grin, his fangs glittering white against the crimson of his mouth. "Do you? How ... perceptive. Bring me a torch."

'CH' has barely dwindled away its sound, when Bozblot perks the fat end of the torch over the cook's shoulder. "Is smolders enough? Its almost gone out?" chirps bozblot, though the torch is still blazing with a foot-long flame. "Do we need, /more/ flame, 'highness?"

Uberghash extends the end of the cord into the flame, giggling wildly as it lights. "Now, to test my newest holy weapon. Perfected." Raising the brittle flask above his head, he takes aim ...

"Should we pray first? Do we need more flame? Do we neeD MORE FLAME?" the welling ire in the wee-orcs eye's mirror the malevolance in his voice, "Its like the digger ses, you can never to chores too... you can always do a better... well I forgets how it goes," Bozblot scampers to the fireplace, calling back to the cook, "But what it means is, MORE FLAME"

Bozblot begins digging around in the great blaze with his scimitar, unseating a few flame-soaked logs. The logs roll away unnoticed from Bozblot's feet, till they settle at the base of some ornately clad adjunctant of sorts.. at least he's ornately clad, for his robes are long.. long enough to trap up the logs...

*WHOOOSHHH* .. screaming.. flailing about.. The jailer keeps his gaze locked on the cook's flask.

Uberghash scowls. "No, no!" he cries. "Only the flask matters! Its very burning shall be a prayer!" Cocking back his arm, he tosses the primitive Molotov cocktail. At Zupgugh.

Zupgugh reaches down on the floor to grab a grub that crawled off his plate. He then looks up as a snaga bursts into flames right behind him and falls on the floor laughing.

"I will say prayers to the flame just the same!" screams Bozblot as the flask flies across the hall. The wee-orc flops on his belly, pupils ever locked on the mad cook's missile, even when the orc withi the flaming cape runs over him screaming something about his eyes, and melting, and why his skin is crinkly.

The flask hits.. "PRAISE BE TO THE FLAME!" squeels Bozblot, picking himself from the floor and dancing in front of the snaga behind Zupgugh. "Stop your chicken-dance, you are BLESSED!" screams the wee-orc.

The two flaming uruk combine, and though they seem to strain to part, their blackening skin... sticks together?

"A DOUBLE BLESSING!!!" Bozblot flops to the floor again in prostration.

Uberghash draws his black robes about him with a giggle, patting his dread meat-fork with a wicked smirk. "Thank you, Garjin and Yog. I knew you would not lie to me."

"PRAISE BE! PRAISE BE!" screams the wee-orc, as the two orcs being consumed by fire /peel/ apart. Still on the ground, Bozblot squeaks up at the cook, "Highness, you are indeed a prince amongst cooks. PRAISE BE!" A charred arm wrends its meaty weight from its socket, and slops to the ground in front of Bozblot... "PRAISE BE!"

Zupgugh stops laughing and shambles off into a far corner of the Feasting Hall. He is full and eager to leave the presence of the strange cook.

Zupgugh has disconnected.

Uberghash slinks closer. "The spirits of the Great Old Ones call to me," he hisses.

Bozblot rises from the ground, but not before trophying the charred arm down the front of his pants. "What do they say?" the wee-orc whispers breathily.

Uberghash shrugs. "They talk about the weather," he replies darkly. "Storm's coming. The Blue Metafabriculation has arrived. Watch out for the Beastah." He waves a claw about idly. "Wra'qura is lonely and wants to drink soup; Narkhash whines about the unfairness of the green hammer."

Bozblot contorts in facial-ticks at every syllable of 'Metafrabriculation', but his bright wide irises burn beggingly... "Who's the beastah? Where does prince of cooks reside? A great and powerfull throne of pots?" Bozblot stumps his toe as he kicks away some crude dishes of the feast hall strewn about their feet. "Not THESE Pots, but runed and loverly pots of LORE" squeeks the runt.

Uberghash folds his hands arrogantly, giggling. "I am Master of the Kitchens," he replies. "I have a secret den of darkness in which I practice ... Necromancy. I converse and commune with the unquiet spirits. Truly, we must all fear the Blue Metafabriculation and beware."

Bozblot tucks in his elbows to his stomach, and purposes a forced shiver. All the wee-orc's raiment shimmies as he jiggles. "I fear it," offers Bozblot, though still hoofing at a pot with a stray leg, "Will fashioning a mighty throne of cookthings stay this bloo-things anger? Majesty?"

One of the orc-torches flops to the stone beside the jailer, motionless now and for ever, though still sizzleing. The other ork-torch follows only seconds later.

Uberghash shakes his head. "No, we must feast. I shall declare a feast in honor of the King, the Holy Demon, and Moria. It shall also frighten away the Blue Metafabriculation."

Bozblot nods. He nods so hard that the loose flesh around his chops keeps nodding long after the rest of his head stops. "A feast, is wise. Wise amongst orks, Prince amongst cooks. How shall humble, humble" Bozblot begins lowering himself to one knee at the second 'humble', "humble lil'boz be helping the feast? Highness? Majesty."

A manic grin, as Uberghash gestures toward the kitchen. "You must procure rats. Take with you the cooking staff. We shall impale a thousand little rats on sticks and cook their little bodies!"

"And maybe some we will not cook" adds Bozblot, now bold and readied for the kitchen, "For some like stringy ratsticks cold? Yes? Majesty?" Bozblot waddles away from the cook, though inspecting every mess of matted snotrag and moulded meal that pocks the span of tile till the kitchen door is reached... and there are many...

Bozblot whispers above all the din of feasting, quieted thought it has become since random diners were set ablaze, "A thousand rats... and maybe a fish? or two? for lil'boz.. maybe?" A discarded bird carcass moves... beneath its serving plackard, which is scored with fractals of bacterial fuzz, a serregated tail whips idly on the floor.

*ShhHINK* 'DIEEEeee' ... (The jailer is armed, and cast head-long towards the floor. Some chitter-chatter rodent squeakings turn to squeeky-squalky rodent SCREAMS.

Uberghash nods imperiously, hopping up onto a nearby table. "Indeed. But I stand firm on one point: we must impale the little buggers." Coldly: "Stick the stakes into their mouths and PUSH-hh-hh."

Following the sickly stench of burning flesh, Z'macht eventually snakes his way towards the feast hall. His nose crinkles, allowing two symmentrical strands of mucus to wind their oozing way down down down towards the cheiftain's menacing mouth, full of sharp teeth: bloodstained rows of them! He stands in the Hall's entrance, his face set and hard, a pillar of granite.

"What is this tomfoolery?" the strict uruk growls, eying the writhing bodies on the floor. Sulfurous yellow flames jut from their wrecked bodies and blue plumes of noxious smoke unfurl in the air above them. "The blasted elves no sooner deplete our ranks than we start helping them ourselves! Skai!" This last expression of frustration is followed by a long line of curses that would even make the most trailworn scout blush.

Bozblot hears the cook above the talashak, and offers him no answers. Instead he claps up his rat and beams at the cook. 'Push-Push-Push, for the Dush-Dush-Dush!' squeels the wee-orc, and he pets the rat, tenderly. He cuddles the rat. He coddles the rat... He repeats his rhyme...

"PUSH" Bozblot's knuckles go white. "PUSH" The cracking of tiny rib bones can be heard by almost all. "PUSH" The rat coughs up its own tongue... "For the DUSH" Guts now.. pink.. "DUSH" nope, make that green... "DUSH" Rat PINJATA! And Bozblot has won! For he is showered in rodent entrails.

Uberghash folds his berobed arms. "Welcome to my Feasting Hall, O Dreaded Talashakh!" he calls. "Those burning orcs were in the way of the holy flames of the cooks of the hall, regrettably. They should be lashed for their incaution! Beaten to death!"

Z'macht brushes Uberghash aside as he storms towards Bozblot. "Do so," he calls over his shoulder. "And make it fast!" Upon reaching the small orc, the Talashakh hovers over him with baleful and hatefilled eyes. He licks his lips.

"It seems you carry your job every where you go, little one," he says. Z'macht eyes the animal carcasses scattered about. The enrails. The stench! Hundred of feathers are scattered about the ruined feast hall - some singed. "Help Uberghash clean up this mess. After that, I demand your company in the Morghash commons... There is the small matter of Pigtusk... Now, he lies bound hand and foot in my quarters."

Uberghash frowns. He is, after all, prince of the cooks. Pouting, he claps his hands together, and a number of feasting-hall snagas emerge from the kitchen, cringing at the sight of Z'macht. Uberghash claps again, frowning, and they file over to him. A strange, high-handed gesture, and the little orc snaps his fingers ... several of the servers begin cleaning up, but the rest blink, or frown, or mill about blankly, uncomprehending.

"Helping the wise and wonderous prince of cooks is no chores to skulk over!" merrily chirps the Jailer, and he kneels to finger up the intestinal tract of the first of the thousand feast-rats. He happily pops the gutsack string into his mouth, but something crunches... Bozblot spits out a bit of tile from the feast-hall floor. The rest of the rat he scoops into his opened hand, till its heaped to overflowing.

"Pigtusk! Inquiries! DOUBLE BLESSINGS of the flame is THREE-TIMES blessings! Happy day!" the wee-orc cheers. Bozblot stands, hands his steamy handfull to an unsuspecting cooksnaga, and takes up rank beside Uberghash.

Fenzokh enters the room, his muscular arms folded over his barrel chest. Sitting at the bar, he orders Sog to bring him some ale.

Z'macht nods his head gruffly and wades his way back towards the exit. "Indeed, I expect you'll make a good time of putting PigTusk to the question, Bozblot. Bring as many uruks as you can muster.. I want all ears to hear what the prisoner has to say!" Finally, z'macht reaches the door and vanishes into the gloom.

Uberghash glances at Bozblot, eyes glowing mischievously. "Heehee."

Bozblot returns the glance, though steals it away towards the fancily caped ambassador at the bar. "Bless this one?" whispers the wee-orc, but then he screeches, "BLESS HIM"

Fenzokh leans back in his chair, drinking deeply from his mug. Leaning forward again, he takes a look at Bozblot. He raises an eyebrow at Uberghash. "Your new assistant, then, cook?" he asks. "I thought you'd never get one more mad than that Bonk, but you've outdone yourself once again. Good show." He looks at Bozblot again, and then back at Uberghash. "Strange one, this. Seems to have a fascination about me wearing women's clothing."

Uberghash ooooohs. "Such delicious attire!" he declares, hopping to his feet. "Sog, provide this being free ale, on the house!!"

"FRILLY SKIRTS" sings wee-orc, peddleing in place, scowering the cook-prince's belt for a second flask. "FRILL-skirts frilly-skirts!" Bozblot picks up his pace, but he still doesn't gain any ground.

The crowd rumours of another beat... a few orcs pound their tables.

"Frilly skirts frilly skirts frilly" Bozblot gasps dryly, his voice cracking the more progress he makes towards nowheres... running... "Frilly skirts.. Bless him!"

Fenzokh glares at Uberghash as if Bozblot is his reponsibility. "My thanks to you, Uberghash, for the free drink, and I accept. However, if you don't quiet that beast immediately, I may have to smash the mug over his cranium after enjoying your generosity, and I'm sure Sog would start complaining about it."

Still running in place, with the many-sets of fists hammering away, Bozblot spots an unremarkable orc heft a flask simmaller in fashion to the cooks...the flask is tucked away.

Bozblot speeds towards the flask-holder, and frisks him. The thefted uruk claws after the wee-orc, but Bozblot speeds away...

The little jailer grips at the flask, and with his other hand, rolls the hot butt of a firelog, never grasping it in once place long enough to sear him.

"Bless him? Majesty?" Bozblots arms, and the instruments therein, ache to be brought together, and his anxious eyes pleed after the cook.

Uberghash peers at Fenzokh, then at Bozblot. "Sog does not like it when cups are broken," he agrees. "Good lil'boz, please cease thy antics and get thyself a drink."

Fenzokh nods to Uberghash. Sog brings him his ale, and Fenzokh holds his cup up to Uberghash before taking a drink. "So, Uberghash." he says. "I have not heard news of you in some time. How is it in the kitchens?"

Bozblot gnaws at his underags as an invalid, both hands occupied. He wins with his fangs a strip of cloth. Just as he begins lapping the strip of cloth into the flask's mouth, the cook invites him...

Both his hands are freed, as the log and the flask are cast behind him. As bozblot sands his palms together and approaches the bar, a kitchen snaga kneel with an armload of plates. The kitchen snaga adds to his load the flask, and the log orange-blotched with cinders still. He adds them to the SAME load.

Behind the wee-orc, though he feigns not to notice as he saunters up to Sog's counter, is more flailing, and screeming. Other kitchen hands are quick to pounce on the cleaning slave though, and the fire is put out.

"A tankard.. IF you please!" chirps Bozblot at the bar.

Uberghash folds his tiny, sharp-clawed hands, grinning dementedly. "All is well." he replies, eyes glowing mysteriously. "The Blue Metafabriculation, though, that is not good. We must all be wary."

"WARY" chimes in Bozblot, now with ale-foam mustache. It takes the wee-orc several hops to summit the stool beside the cook.

Fenzokh looks slowly down at Bozblot. "Doesn't express thoughts very well then, does he?" He looks back up. "The blue mataculation? What exactly is that?

Uberghash shakes his head. "Metafabriculation." he corrects. "A dreadful Megapoesiarch from the depths."

Another orc, a miner seemingly, for he is petina'ed in mine-grime and ore dust, flops down on the seat to Bozblot's right. The new arrival sets a dish, and a crooked paring knife on the counter, and greets the wee-orc with: "Hoo there. Do you like riddles?"

Bozblot turns from the cook, and to his right, and answers: "No, No riddles."

"I got a good one though!" Bozblot's neighbor persists, before leaning into his meal and setting the crooked, rusty knife beside his plate.

"NO riddles."

"Its a really great one" insists the other orc, but as he leans back from his plate to chew, he feels a prick at the nape of his neck. He cocks his gaze to his left, and there sees Bozblot, knife readied, and most unenthusiastic about his riddle.

"Well, okay then" sweats the wee-orc's neighbor, both hands palms-up in capitulation. Bozblot lowers the knife... The miner resumes his grazing.. "Really was a good rid-"

As a woodpecker browsing for termites, Bozblot pecks the rusty knife into the miner's temple.. till it breaks.

"NO RIDdLES"

The miner picks up his plate and slouches away, pouting, and a little bloodied. Bozblot looks back at the cook, and the ambassador, and chirps "So.. about these wulvvvss.. I've got ideas!" Bozblot sips his neglectedly full tankard.

Fenzokh laughs. "Now you have ideas!" he calls. "There was no flaw in my idea, but those others ran off like girls as soon as one was felled. We couldn't have done it without losing at least one life, now that uruk has died in vain."

Bozblot swivells his head in the negative, and says between sips "Not ideas for the taking of the wulvvs... but for once we gets ahold of some. IDEAS" Bozblot taps the side of his head with his forefinger while taking another draught.

Uberghash grunts. "Cook them!" he pipes, before swiping an ale from a passing server and gurgling some of it down. Then, brooding, he falls silent. Probably communing with some sort of long-dead ghost.

"Now that is one idea" admits the wee jailer, noisily sip-supping at his ale. He blows some bubbles in his drink before continuing, "I had more in mind... well.. do you remember the big stone-looking tark that snipped up the Gothshaka?" Bozblot then takes an extra long, extra messy turn with his beakar. Probably communing with some sort of soon-to-be-dead cluster of brain cells.

Fenzokh folds his arms. "Not really, but for all immediate intents and purposes, yes. Go on."

"Wells," *sip* *sip* *gurgle gurgle gurgle* "The tark was ridin some kind of long-legged cow. RIDING him mind you.. got me to thinkin.." Again the wee orcs oratory is punctuated with some noisy nursing of his ale.

Uberghash ponders, still frowning ...

Fenzokh raises an eyebrow questioningly at Uberghash, pointing a thumb at Bozblot, but says nothing.

Bozblot visit with the cool suds residing in his cup is brief, and he finally concludes, out loud "That we should discuss when we got our sticky-mits on some wulvvs though, eh? Do you concur?" Bozblot purses his lip to the tipped level of his ale and sputters some more bubbles... "I certainly concurr" comes the jailer's chirp, muted from the insides of his beaker.. and then his throat gets busy hauling the liquid, golden ore down to the depths of his wee stomach.. gulp by gulp.

Uberghash hops to his feet. "Never mind. The Pink Monomatriculation is threatening the Doors of the Grey Orifice. Sog will serve you ale in my absence, yes." He saunters out ...

Fenzokh nods absently, long since stopped paying attention to Bozblot. "Aye, I.. concur. I guess." He drains his cup.

Some Morghash lacky of their Morghash chief storms into the hall, grabbing several small uruks by the backs of their collars and spinning them around to get a better look.

Bozblot recognizes the messenger, and remembers his earlier summons... but as he slides the side of his rear off of his stool.. most importantly, he remembers his ale. *Gugga-gugga-GLUNK* "We will speaks more later Frilly-Pants!" shrieks the wee-orc, skedaddleing somewhat bowlegged from the bar.

*END