Moria, Great Temple

The cavernous ceiling of this room lies hidden in shadow, like viscous ink, it obscures nearly every rough surface of this giant room. A halo of burning light sits in one end of the enormous cavern, a pool of liquid lava, bubbling with the energy of the earth. Its heat casts an oppressive haze throughout the temple, as if the spirit of the Balrog has blessed this room. Behind the bubbling pool, an outcropping of rock shoots towards the ceiling, providing a platform adorned with fetishes and icons in honor of the Flame. Yet before it a giant stone altar sits heavily, like a gateway to the common uruk. The stone surface is stained in places with the dried blood of victims, and a multitude of braziers burn with a brilliant flame, mirroring the pool of light behind it. In the nightmare darkness of the shadows, two doorways lie, one covered by a heavy cloth, the other stinking of herbs and sickness.

Contents:

Magog

Huzghash

Bozblot

Malaerc

Purity Stone

The Temple seems cleared now, only the more gravely injured orcs remain here; their bodies still lying scattered on the floor. The few who are left, however, seem to be the hardest fighters in near-death; their bodies unwilling to let go of the mortal world. Among these is Huzghash, Senior Guard. His body lies off near the altar, though out of the way of the many praying/worshipping orcs. Wrapped crudely in bandages, the Senior Guard lies still; the only sign of his living being the ragged breaths that pump his chest up and down every few seconds. His eyes remain closed, and his body coated in a feverish sweat as the Guard lie in immense pain. Slowly, a shockwave of pain ripples across the form of Huzghash, its unstoppable tide visible externally as well as felt by the Guard. A moan of pain escapes the listless form of the Guard as he goes still once more, still breathing but not very well.

Beside the Senior-Guard, a tiny bundle has been tucked, but the bandage-bundle pants, balooning and releasing doggidly in short stints. The bundle, namely Bozblot, lay otherwise still. Repugnant sauces of various origins emit from the folds of his swaddle, and the sultry stank of the temple-ward keeps him ever glaced in salty glaze, but he lay, /still/.

Magog enters the rather barren temple from the north, his face pained from traversing the narrow passage leading in. Like all passages leading to and from the temple, the one in the north is designed to be taxing. Thus, a frown is written on the King's face as he beholds the scene in the temple. Magog pulls out a small knife from his belt, a black-creation seemingly made of obsidian. Dispassionately, the King stares at one of the critically wounded and bends over. A swift stab and one who wasn't going to make it is put out of his misery.

A squint follows, and Magog murmurs to the next in the row of the wounded, "You live." The next orc too, is slain - he gurgles to his death. The King remarks to the next, "You live." Finally, Magog comes to the Senior Guard. He bends over, knife poised.

Pain flows down each vein in Huzghash's body, causing him to shudder slightly. Even as the King stands over him, the chest of the Senior Guard heaves up and then back down; a giant breath for a quite injured orc. Shortly, the breath is expulsed and the ragged breathing continues. Every now and again a slight gurgling is heard in the throat of the Senior Guard, and is quickly followed by a cough or two, clearing the blockage.

The little bundle Bozblot clings grimly to his vitals though, the thumping of his wee little black heart's wee little black valves taken in almost blasphemous obstenance. Bozblot flouts his sickly suction on life with every broken breath... the staples in his headwound have begun to tarnish though, and their puncture-holes slowly sucreet their irridescent bilge.

Magog's eyes narrow as he studies the form below him. An officer. No matter - down comes the knife swiftly and decisively. One of Huzghash's soiled bandages is cut away to reveal the wounds below. "Must train harder," Magog grates as he beholds the carnage of his spirit of military adventurism. With clipped movements, a small pouch is withdrawn followed by a brush, both from the Gothshaka's belt. The pouch is open and a strange brown substance is applied to the now exposed wound. Spitting on the brush, with three quick strokes the paste is rubbed in. Replacing his implements, Magog ties the recently cut bandages back over the wound and departs from the cougher - a tiny berry is crushed between his rough thumb and forefinger and stuffed into the guard's coughing mouth as he makes his way to another of the critically wounded.

Magog tends to the injuries on Huzghash.

HEALING: Magog attempts to treat your wounds...

The rediculously short, but toned body of Malaerc shuffles into the Great Temple with his usual pitter patter of quickly moving feet that never really seem to get him anywhere. Noticing the stagnant pool of crimson lava, the little orc's attention is gripped vice-like on the liquid's bubbling surface. Unable to control himself, he scuttles as quick as his stubby feet will carry him to his newest discovery, quite heedless of the plethora of dead and dying scattered about the room. Neglecting to watch his skittering step, Malaerc's foot finds a catch on the loose bandages of huddled bundle not too much different than his own. With a forced grunt, the minute orc sails through the stifled air, only to skid across the bloody-slick floor, coming to a halt a few paces from his unseen obstacle.

Magog lets forth a vigorous snort as Malaerc sails through the air. "That is the Flame's way of getting you to halt and pay reverence to it. Those who enter the Great Temple would do well to mind the master." There is a pious fire, almost a hint of zealotry, to the King's words. His eyes blaze forth, catching the light given off by the exer-exposed pool of lava, and Bozblot is beheld. Without mercy, the obscidian blade is taken to Bozblot's head and moves swiftly. Anything atop the head, be it staple, scar, or hair is scraped off quickly, leaving the sick uruk's head exposed and smooth.

"This shall be a true test of my skills," Magog proclaims fiercely, rising to the challenge presented.

The form of Huzghash goes still for a moment as the berry's juice slides down the Senior Guard's throat. A short ragged breath, followed by another and then....a deep breath. The breathing of the Senior Guard seems to regulate itself and stablize, as the chest of the orc barrels up and down in a more normal pattern. The form of the Guard stirs slightly as he lay on the floor, his head gently lolling to one side and his glaze-over eyes flitting open slightly. Cough. Cough. The senior guard manages to clear his throat as he looks out upon the Temple, hazy figures bending in his view.

*Splurt* *Squirt* burps the little jailer's hurts. His parched lips purse to join at only one point in his wide mouth, but his lipflesh cements itself together with plaquen strands of spume. The strands bow and bulge, and flutter blurrily at every exhailation; perhaps the only discernably clue that the freshly-scalped Jailer lives still.

The flesh revealed by the ork-king's knife seems tuffed and pocketed as beast-meat-coloured colliflower buds.

Magog wipes the filth from Bozblot's head off his knife and moves it to his other hand. With his dominant claw, he withdraws a chisel from his healer's belt. "Must relieve pressure," he murmurs as he studies the vicious cerebral injuries. Plasing the chisel atop the mangled skull, Magog begins rapping down upon it gingerly with the bottom of his knife. Little bits of skull flake off until a hole has been bored all the way to Bozblot's exposed brain. Replacing his chisel and knife, Magog stands back and squints, looking about the temple and then back to the new hole in Bozblot's head.

Bozblots brain-nodes heave and subside visibly within this new, unnatural vent-shaft, as an unearthed nest of fetal serpents; heaving... heaving.

Magog marches over to the noxious volcanic pool, snatching off the helmet from a hapless temple guard along the way. Calloused hands hardened in the forges grip the helm tightly and scroop into the barely liquid substance. Running now, Magog moves back to Bozblot and pours the substance from the white hot-helm onto Bozblot's helm. With a gasp, the painfully hot helm is cast away while the King can only peer at Bozblot as the lava almost instantly hardens atop his head once removed from the Flame-blessed pool.

Magog tends to the injuries on Bozblot.

Malaerc rubs his squat head as he does his best to heave himself back to his staggering feet. Stumbling about for a few seconds, the orc mutters to himself about tricksy bundles, but his attention is soon scattered once again. Standing in the rooms center lookin quite forlorn, the tiny uruk scratches his coarse hair as he attempts to recolect his purpose for being there at all. A pair of giant, bulbous orbs scan the cluttered room for an answer, but only fall once more upon the lava pit. Deciding it in his better interest to abandon that quest, he continues his somewhat meticulous rovings of the Temple and it's contents. *Whap* The memory electrode in his rat-wheel brain collides suddenly with his neural processes as he beholds the Morian King. Dropping to his knees in abominably comical prostation, the tiny Malaerc begins bowing up, and down, up and down at the Gothshaka's figure.

The fat-line of his inner skull pops and peels away, liquifying instantly as the molten mold is pored. An orange sheet of faintly opaque puss-fall christens the jailor's skull. Grease-fire smoke pillows away just above his sparse, charred headhairs. The panting stops....

The panting resumes...

Magog shakes smoking hands quickly about in the air. "There is a greater power than me in this room, Snaga," he rumbles painfully and motions with his entire head towards the enormous altar of the Flame. "In time, perhaps, the Flame itself will heal that hapless uruk." An idle glance is cast over Magog's shoulder at Bozblot and the grisly scene just created. "In the presence of the Flame we all live and die. The Flame's will shall show itself in time."

Squinting at Malaerc, Magog snaps, "Only healers, the gravely wounded, and pilgrims ought to be here. You're not the first, so you'd best go show you're the third lest I make you the second." The Gothshaka's neck whips back to gaze at the totem and he falls silent. Brusquely, he makes to leave announcing, "I go to visit the Flame."

Blinking a few times, the Senior Guard's eyes clear for a moment and he sees the immense form of...of the King. His eyes go wide a second before he is forced to blink again to try and clear his vision. "Go....Gothsh...aka." The first word emitted from the worn out throat of the Master Guard in many a day come out cracked and tired. :Thank...Thank you." Huzghash falls silent again, head rolling so that his eyes stare up at the ceiling. The eyes of the Senior Guard remain open, though hardly alert, as he lay breathing on the floor.

Several otherwise greivously injured uruk harken to Bozblot's brain spatter, the temple's stagnant air now thick with the scent of frying flesh. They perk in their cots, rising in their bandages... chapped nostrils probe in snotty inquisition.

The inane bobbings of the tiny uruk halt abruptly as Malaerc's pointy ears take in the King's directive. Scrunching up his face and closing his eyes tightly, the small runt considers heavily what the Gothshaka could possibly desire for the result of his command. Coming to his decision with a stiff nod, Malaerc shifts his minute frame to face the various idles and icons depicting the mighty Flame, only to continue the same dips and bobs. Minutes pass, and Malaerc ceases his homage to present a pair of palms outstreatched penitently, lying prostrate, seemingly in quiet piety, but a closer look reveals the runtorc to be snoring heavily in deep, rythmic tones.