Western Foothills of The Misty Mountains

To the west is a low cliff, some five fathoms high, with a broken and jagged top. Over it a trickling water drips, through a wide cleft that seems to have been carved out by a fall that once was strong and full. The Misty Mountains are momentarily obscurred both by the rock face ahead, and the shallow track the road has fallen into. To the side of the cleft is a flight of stairs cut steeply into the rock. The main path to the east winds away left, and looks as if it might reach to the top of the cliff on its north side.

Contents:

Fenzokh

Burzdug

Bozblot

Mugruk

Hykhert

Morian Encampment

Late in the day, the mountain's ribclefts groan as the sharp, thinning air plays through their mile-long cracks as driftwood chimes. The horde stays nestled in the crook of the diminishing path's shoulder, their gaunt tents shivering with every mountain breath.

An old, old orc grips his coat close to his breast, and staggers in a rag-worn tent propped beneath a rockwall... "You up yet wee one?" .. no answer comes. The old orc unfurls the tentflap, and shuts himself inside.

Twin snagas stand squat beside another tent, pig bones rattling along the ground between them. "There! I get the scimitar, Snot-Throat." The other snaga snorts and spits green over to the side. "Let's go again for his boots." Burzdug, lying on a makeshift stretcher groans weakly from within the half-rotten tent. The stink of old wounds mixes with fresh blood.

A quiet mumble is heard from inside one of the leather tents. The flap is then quickly shoved free and a huge, monstrous orc clambers out of it. He bends back at the waist, and several sickening pops and cracks sound from the beast's body. Reaching inside his tent, he pulls free his weapons; a war hammer and a battle axe. He begins striding about the camp. Soon he notices the snagas, and he watches them carefully.

The air streams around the rickety old tent, and the old orc marvels at its muted song from within the vaguely opaque walls of yellow-tanned skins. His old head rickets from its fleshless roost, and lifts to meet the tent wall where the great glow-smear of the sun spills through the hide's pores in a golden collinder. The wind groans again...

Bone-charms click together as the wind slowly weens the tentop from its base. The old orc mashes his gums together, and signs a prayer for those that lay along the tent floor.

Again the pig-dice roll, Snot-Throat warming them up in his hands before he chucks them along the ground. They slap up against the front of an old, mostly useless shield. "Pitsmoke!" cries out Snot-Throat with a shake of his head, picking up the dice. "These bones are loaded. They gots to be." He picks them up, biting down on one. His companion snaga is all grins. "No. They ain't. You already got the cloak." This forces up another groan and a cough from within the tent, feeble at best.

The clamour of the Morian camp echoes off the far reaching mountain cliffs, and back down into the rocky valleys below. Each reverberation of sound, a distant echo of impending doom to those who stand against the horde of Moria. The Morian camp itself is a din of activity, as all manner of uruk run about completing tasks or heading off for some duty. Even the feast tent in the Camp seems to be on the empty side as most of the uruks are being kept at work, each orc a different job.

On the outskirts of the camp stand the Guards of the Morian horde, manning their posts awake and attentive to the world around. Each post is occupied with at least two Guards and all of them can see another group, making for simple communications. However, slowly, a figure makes its way back from one of these guard postions, reducing their number to two.

The Senior Guard Huzghash marches his way back inwards towards the camp, his winding path taking him past snagas and other uruks who are busy at work; those not at work are quickly put to it. Huzghash moves amongst the controlled anarchy of the horde, metal armour ringing out with each booted step. His spear held out in his right hand, Huzghash uses it as a form of walking stick as he slowly makes his way back into the camp proper.

Hykhert grunts and rolls in his sleep, fitful as the light filters through his shoddy bivouac. Sitting up, he squints out of a tent. "Ah, to return home," He growls at nothing in particular but his own predicament, then rolls over again. However, noticing the Senior Guard, he stands slowly, placing his helm on and braving the light enough to poke his head out. "Get outta there, guard, into shade...or you'll be back in the wounded piles." He looks moody at having to brave the light, but the words are more cautionary than angry.

The old orc shoots a twisting, toothless smile at the dice-play, then urges his slouched trunk towards the exit, shuffleing the warted dry-pads of his feet along the dirt floor. He curses his fingers as they fidget with the tentflap's lash, but unknots it in the end.

Outside, the waste-toned hip of the mountain grows thick with debri and caked mud flakes; the ledge still groans. Old-orc slowly clears the tent door, and wrings his fists into his eye sockets. The wind's old thenody, or the dust, or meer age, summons clear beads of moisture to the crowfooted corners of his eyes; surely they were not there before.

Fenzokh continues his surveillance of the camp. He passes a few tents, and then stops short, surprised. He looks at the tent again, and nods at the Ambassador insignia branded into the leather. Ripping back the tent flaps, he exposes three Cobug Apprentice Ambassadors to the evening light. "Right!" he shouts, and they wake up groggily. "Get out of those tents, you lazy piles of warg-vomit! Come on, out! Get - out - you - fools!" He screams, smacking them at every word with an oaken stick he finds on the ground.

Huzghash turns to regard the Shaman as he slows, and then stops his walk. "The light is soon gone from the sky, and it is almost gone now." Huzghash points in the direction of the slowly waning sun, its golden crown slowly ebbing along the Western sky. "Soon that dread ball shall be gone from the skies!" Huzghash continues a few paces ahead and surveys the innards of the camp, each fire pit being lit and beginning to burn with abandon.

The Twin dice-tossers look up at the hollering and that brings their eyes on Huzghash as he speaks to the Shaman. Snot-throat looks over at his brother, "There he is, Snot-lip. The one that wants this one back alive. Should we tell him that Burzdug is still groanin' or should we just let him die?" Snot-lip shrugs slightly. "Your call. I could get that scimitar, but you know, that Huzghash is like to kill us if he finds Burzdug dead. He said to keep the guard alive." The two twins sit and fret, dripping green inside and out.

Hykhert grunts again as another orc seems eager to wallow in the cruel light of the sun. Growling, he shakes his head. "Melt in the cruel sun if you will, I'm staying wiser, and I'd counsel you two do two...'less the sun has already fried your skulls." He shakes his head, more lamentably than angrily.

Announcement: Thringol has changed the poll to: Wink WInk Nudge Nudge Say No More

The Snot Twins look back at each other and smile, looking over at the Senior Guard and Shaman before sliding quietly away into the shadows at the back of the tent. Burzdug groans again, a foot jerking out toward the twins but falling woefully short of landing a blow.

Hykhert grunts again as another orc seems eager to wallow in the cruel light of the sun. Growling, he shakes his head. "Melt in the cruel sun if you will, I'm staying wiser, and I'd counsel you two do two...'less the sun has already fried your skulls." He shakes his head, more lamentably than angrily. (REPOSERIFFIC for BV).

The three cobugs quickly scramble out of their tents, quickly coming to attention. Fenzokh makes to go away, but turns back. "Well, what are you miserable little animals doing? Staring at me? Find me fetching, do you? Well, break your gaze, you bunch of weaklings, and build me a fire."

Turning round again to face the Shaman, Huzghash grins, his lips twisting up tightly at the edges to reveal twin rows of yellowed teeth matched by a pair of grotesque fangs, dripping with saliva. The Sun banks its painful rays off the metal helm of Huzghash and go deflecting of into the encroaching darkness. "It will not melt me, not in its death." Huzghash nods towards the declining sun, even now its last few shafts of light cresting the horizon only to be beaten back by the darkness of night. "No, the sun is dead, and night is upon us O so soon." The grin turns to a smile as Huzghash stands, eyes fixed of the form of the Shaman.

The elder uruk turns into the wash of white-light, his knotted hair shucking and spinning behind him. Wide-eyed now, the old orc plows his boney form through the dry air currents, their song and their sting nibbling away his ears. The tears funnel through the gray, crowfeet wrinkles at either eye, and the gusts strike them from his cheeks, setting them to mist behind his wind-wound, sunlit curls...

"Shamanses?" gums the old one, his syllables cracked and dry as his sandpaper skin, "Where is, Shamanses?" The last utterance is but a wheeze, and the wind is quick to throw it back in his face and trample out its sound.

Hykhert makes an unconvinced noise in his throat. "Hrmm, then you rot in the sun while I wait the last of the vicious rays out, if you so desire." Then, watching Fenzokh, he motions Huzghash closer. "And you, who purge your guards wisely...who is this one? He seems eager to lead, but who? Is he one of yours? Perhaps the Thrakburzum Shakh, or a new assistant to Z'macht?" He watches Fenzokh curiously, awaiting an answer as he shields his eyes in the fading light.

Pough appears from behind a tent, lugging a pair of large sacks on his shoulders. Half-stumbling in the direction of the fading sun he ventures to raise a hand to his face, wiping the sweat from his eyes. For half a moment he catches site of the Shaman and the others around him, but the vision is blurred once more by the lowering sun -which now is at eye level- and body fluids which disturb his gaze. Onwards he trudges towards the orcs in front him without making any sign of stopping. Indeed, it looks as if he were going to walk right into them.

Huzghash moves close at the beckoning of the Shaman, moving his body so as to block the sun from the eyes of Hykhert. The Senior Guard follows the gaze of the Shaman to the tent, one flap marked by an ambassador symbol. Gazing upon the few uruks present before the tent, Huzghash answers the Shaman, "Maybe an Ambassador, Shaman. I wouldn't know as I haven't seen him before." Huzghash shrugs his shoulders slighty, simultaneously acknowledging the Shaman and shrugging away the building heat of the sun's rays on his back.

Whitewash strokes of day's bleak glare seek out the jutting facebones of the old orc, and chisel them to stark statue-tones of coal and cool bright greys. His dark locks still flap away behind him, as he bends through the camp's wightish cap of wind and cold-shine...

"Shamanses? Lil'Boz needs new turnicuts... Shamanses?" come the old orc's crackling crowing, sailing idly through the air.

Announcement: Namien has changed the poll to: One thing, I don't know why...

Hykhert growls, his relatively amiable conversation interrupted by the rapidly approaching annoyance in the form of an old Uruk. "Senior Guard, perhaps you'd do a Shaman another favour, eh?" Without waiting for a response, he growls...

"I am not a serving snaga. I heal when the time is right....that time is not in the cruel sun." He smiles. "Fell free to pass the news along." Then his gaze, squinting, returns to Fenzokh. "Ambassador..." he mumbles to himself. "To who?"

The sun sinks in the sky and falls below the horizon. Nighttime takes over.

Huzghash nods as he listens to the Shaman's words, "Yes, I can spread the message." Huzghash's eyes are interruppted slightly by the sun slinking into the darkness, the final rays ebbing beneath the western horizon. "Yet, the sun is now gone, Shaman." A grin quickly crosses the face of the Senior Guard as he turns to face Hykhert once more. His gazing view catching two orcs approaching, one a Hammerer, one quite old and wanting a shaman.

The nearly blinded Pough continues on, oblivious to the Uruk that he walking towards, untill he is nearly on top of them. Stopping abruptly as their figures become known to him he lets a sharp cry comes loose from between the purple tatoo across his lips. "Ah, aye! Pough nearly walked you over... Say, what yer all doing here anyway?" His bass voice is full of surpise. "I id lucky I see you!." He sets down his load, wiping his face off with his hand and the aid of one of his dreadlocks.

Hykhert nods. "Good, it's..." he pauses, recognizing Pough. "Ah, a good hammerer. Good company we've been given on this trip. :nods. "Good, it's..." he pauses, recognizing Pough. "Ah, a good hammerer. Good company we've been given on this trip." As the Senior Guard announces the death of the day, he peers out nervously. "Perhaps, perhaps. No need to rush, still too light for me." Head poking out of the tent, a visibly less cranky Hykhert than in days past makes banter with the nearby Pough. "How fares the party, big servant?"

"Eh? Things go good... I follow orders as my highers tell me." He allows a wink towards the shaman and continues. "Yellow face will be death of all, I waigr though..." He shrugs and looks around him, his crude features showing his gladness for the leaving of the sun.

Hykhert allows a yawn, ducking inside the tent. Then, after a moment, he emerges again. Adjusting his hefty helm, he lolls his head about on his neck as he casts a hateful stare at the retreating sun. Shruggin off a long, uncomfortable day in his tent, he adjusts his belt under his robes, then looks around the camp. "Grrr, to be home...this trip needs to be brief, I feel." To all near, he raises his voice. "Our mighty King, has he been seen? You, are you his ambassador?" He appears to be motioning to Fenzokh...who knows for sure?

The wry reed-form of the old orc swivells on his rickety limbs, creeping his way finally to the shaman. His movements are slow, decidely so, and he calls out a greeting while still some distance from the shaman's conversation.. "Hoooo, How is the Flame's right hand in the temple? Out-of-doors I see? Good, good.. we will be blessed." Old-orc turns to the stout digger known as Pough, "This one's like a charm, The Flame will bless us through him," Old-orc quirks his head to Hykhert. His neck gives a horrendous crack, which Old-orc pays no heed.

Pough folds his great arms across his muscle-bound chest. Nodding to the old Bozblot his purple lips twist into a grin. "You are odd, old one. But I like you." He shakes his head, allowing a chuckling to escape him.

Taking but two more steps, the old orc's forleg oscillates beneath him, as if to bore a hole in the ground with his twisted, iron-booted foot. "Would you bless me, when you have leave, or mood to.. Shamanses?"

Hykhert remembering the old one's earlier words, makes what appears to be a deliberate effort to avoid him, looking instead at Huzghash to send a nonverbal reminder of his earlier request. After a moment, however, his patience flags.

Turning the old one's way, he widens his eyes and flashes teeth. "Ah, so good to find one to show me the way. Certainly, after my blessed reception as a Shaman of the Flame, I am not more competent than to need a crisp old Uruk to wander about, telling me who to heal, and who to favour?" He grins again, though his eyes don't match the smile. "Ah, so good that us bumblers have so many to tell us what to do with your pathetic chunks of Uruk you call injured." Sighing, he decides to try the whole night over again fresh by returning to his tent, but hears the last complaint. "Bless you?" He now looks annoyed AND confused.

Fenzokh watches his apprentices set up his fire beside Pough and the others. Taking a seat on a rock, Fenzokh dismisses the cobugs with a wave of his hand and tosses a hunk of meat one of the logs, letting it roast.

Mugruk has arrived.

Pough's nose lifts into the air, the sent of roasting meat catching his sences. Turning he looks at the fire behind him, and then at Fenzokh and the others around it. Forgetting his job he steps forward. "Eh, who are all of youz?" His question is to no one inparticular, but seemingly directed more in the direction of Fenzokh.

The aged-orc, bends away from Hykhert and his oratory, slinking back to Pough's side... "When you've leave, or mood, I saids. Most look for under-healers, and not for the big Shamanses. I have found a big Shamanses, and most humbly asks for blessing," He scrapes his gums together behind his pocketed cheeks, and turns to the large digger, "I'm no ones, no Shamanses anyways."

Fenzokh barely even looks at Pough for half a second before his eyes return to his food. "Fenzokh." he mutters quietly. "Morian Ambassador. Cookin' me breakfast. And who are you?

An orcish figure stumbles into camp, barely able to make his way along. Festering wounds cover his body, making each step agony. Black crusted blood cracks on his wounds and clothing as he recklessly falls into camp. The hunter Mugruk has followed the camp from Moria where he was left to die.

Hykhert nods, happy enough to be left alone that he does not further correct the backtalking old one. Returning his attention to the Senior guard, he leans close to his ear -- his trip back to the tent is apparently forgotten.

"Who leads you, slayer of infidels? Who is your Master?" He grates words into the ear of Huzghash, but his eyes are drawn to Fenzokh. 'Ambassador?' He calls out, surprised enough that he forgets at first to back away from Huzghash's ear. 'To who? Are you of the King?' His interest in the cooking Uruk seems renewed.

Huzghash shudders slightly as the piercing voice of the Shaman echoes loudly in his ear. Rubbing his ear slightly, as if to rub out the sound, Huzghahs leans in close to the Shaman and whispers...

You +whisper to Hykhert, "A Master has not yet been appointed by the King, though I will not hide that I seek this position myself. However, I would seek the approval of the Shamans of the FLAME in order to request this position."

Pough looks to Bozblot at his side and nods, and then back to Fenzokh, "Oh. Grattings master Fenzokh, you may call me what ever you like, or you may wish to call me Pough." He nods his head respectfully, then straitens up, crossing his arms over his barrel-like chest.

Fenzokh calls back: "Yes, I am representative to the king, and also to whomever else the king orders me to represent. I have come to represent Moria in the event that we meet others on the path." He turns back to his food. "Pough." he mutters. "Strange name. But there are stranger."

The hunters beaten body can carry him no further. His legs give out and the rest of his body lands on the ground with a thump. For a long time the uruk doesn't move, a snaga even comes over and nudges him with a toe, thinking him dead. But the hunt isn't dead, witha light chuckle he calls out in a delerious manner, "I came. Left me for dead...I win. Live. Flame...oh yes...want me to live..."

"Ambassador? What a nice and frilly title," The old one shimmies up beside Fenris, and ogles at his stately bobbles, "Nice and frilly as your capes... Who, WHO will we meet on the path?" asks the elder uruk, his glower beeding into the distance; searching.

Fenzokh gets to his feet. "I don't know, you old half-dead moron.." he mutters. "I was given my orders, now I follow them." He strides over to the injured uruk and kneels beside him. "What happened?" He asked, his voice calm.

Hykhert nods at Huzghash, then growls to himself as Mugruk lumbers in. "Like flies," he mutters, then approaches the strange orc. "But he's given an effort, at least." He looks again at Fenzokh. "Well, then, Ambassador, where's the one you represent? I seek the king." He looks only quickly at Huzghash as he speaks.

Pough nods his broad head. "Yes. Strange..." Turning to the old one at his side he squints at him, prodding his shoulder. "Who are you, little bug?"

Mugruk rolls over painfully, his eyes a dull pink, almost lifeless. "Elf. Killed one...blue sword.." The hunter holds up a blood crusted hand that was holding his belly together. "Got me there...hurts...left me in Mountain...had to follow...or die...still might." The uruk chuckles lightly but the grimace on his face shows the pain he is in.

Fenzokh turns back to Hykhert, a exasperated look on his face. "I don't know, I'm his ambassador, not his freakin' baby-sitter!" He looks at the wound on Mugruk's gut. "Do you want my healing?" he mutters. "I'm not good yet, but there aren't many other healers around, unless you want to go ask the shaman.."

Old-orc leans back as the ambassadors many capes swoop behind him and away... "Not half's dead as that one. Not many of us not half-dead, and most of the rest's full-ded."

Folding his mantis-like legs, the elderly uruk creeks to his seet on the ground. A spindly, urchin finger glides to Pough's feet.. he pokes him twice..

"Little bug, strange, but you like me yes? Seats next to me and tell me some stories? Would you?" The seated orc gums up at Pough.

Hykhert kneels, pulling at the wounded one's hands. His entrails look eager to spill at this provocation, so he replaces Mugruk's fingers. "Gah, get him under cover, he'll be off his feet for a bit." He steps back, waiting for compliance as he feels through inner pockets for the healing tools he seeks.

Mid-search, he turns to Fenzokh..."I'm sorry, you'll need to repeat that...I surely heard you wrong."

Pough looks at the old one. "Story? I tell you story... But I do not sit now." He pauses and scratches at his head. "What sorta story?"

Huzghash watches as this injured uruk comes stumbling into the camp, finally collapsing to the ground. As the Shaman and Ambassador both reach the injured one, Huzghash quickly moves to their sides. As he reaches the injured orc, Huzghash looks upon him, scanning his many injuries. Hearing the command of the Shaman, Huzghash spots a snaga and quickly calls him over. "Help me carry this one into that tent over there." Huzghash points in the direction of a tent where a few wounded are being ketp, safe from the outside world.

Moving swift, HUzghash and the snaga cautiously lift the injured Mugruk up, and slowly carry him off towards the tent.

Fenzokh's eyes widen. "Ermm.. my greatest apologies, master. I didn't know it was you.. I thought it was that old uruk who has been bothering me. I would never swear at you on purpose, master, please forgive me." He remembers Hykhert's instructions and calls over a snaga, reaching down to lift the injured Uruk and bring him into a tent.

Mugruk looks up at the would-be healer, 'Does it look like I can go ask a healer?' The wounded hunter, much like the animals he hunts, gets angry when hurt and cornered. He is not about to hurt anyone in his condition but suffering the fools is not what hsi is going to do. The only thing that stops his ranting is the appearance of the shaman. He lets him examine the wounds before speaking to him in teh toung eof the Beast itself. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

Pough turns and shrugs, remembering his job he picks up the two sacks and starts off, without a word of good bye, as if he never was going to tell the old one a story.

Hykhert follows as a few insignificants comply with Huzghash's order, but his eyes stay on the ambassador. "And this is how you speak of my king, and a personal acquaintance of mine to add. As a baby?" He paws at his chin. "I am not sure such words are prudent for one who represents our kingdom...now you SURELY must tell your king that his shaman respectfully seeks his audience." Reaching the small, sideless tent of Mugruk. Grunting at his odd words, he chuckles. "I speak only the tongue of the common Morian, leaky one. Perhaps one more elite could share your audience, unless you have lost control of your tongue like I pray the ambassador here has." Expelling air at the grievous nature of the wound, he beckons Huzghash. "Come here." He produces a small bag.

Fenzokh nods eagerly. "Yes, master. I meant no offense by it. I will tell the king that you wish to speak with him. But first, may I watch you heal? I am learning, and I would not willingly pass up this oppurtunity to watch a master at work."

Huzghash quickly moves across the short distance seperating himself and the Shaman, metal armour clinking lightly as he moves. Reaching the Shaman's side, the Senior Guard says, "Yes, Shaman? What do you need of me?" Huzghash bows his head slightly as he speaks and then turns himself to regard the wounds of Murgruk once more, wincing slightly as Mugruk's wounds bring swift reminder of his former wounds.

Mugruk looks up at the shaman confused. A shaman that does not speak teh Beast tounge, how odd, perhapse he is an imposter. THe hunter desides he really doesn't care, the politics of the mountain bore him. "Just keep me...from dying." Mugruk manages to get that last sentice out but the strain exhausts him. Now he just lies there, letting them do as they must.

The old orc only wilts into his horrid posture even further, twiddling his spiney finger-fur on his lap. He twists again at the neck, and grits his gums for the inevitable pop. The neck pops, and he stares at the inksmeared hunter as he's surrounded.

Hykhert shrugs. "Good enough. Tell him Hykhert, who mends the right hands's left hand, seeks him, but only at his leisure. Then return." He looks up at Fenzokh again. "A little slow, seem you...repeat to me what you will say." Then he returns his attention to Mugruk. "Here, we need to seal him: little else is of use until that is accomplished." He pauses. "Yet, I see reason to spare a bit of Magog's own salve first.

He laboriously rubs just a bit of the salve, a rare type not seen often by healers in the mines, on Mugruk's very innards. Chuckling, he responds.

"The Flame decides who dies, I'm just giving a fair opportunity." Then he turns to Huzghash. "Procure me rags?" It is a question, not an order.

Fenzokh takes no offense at the insult, happy enough to be alive. "I will tell him that Hykhert, who mend's the right hand's left hand, seeks him at his leisure."

Hykhert smiles. "Ah, better. Exactly as such. Now..." Rare altruism breaks through Hykhert's usual nervous, annoyed state.

There is little the hunter can do now, he is too worn out to stop the shaman now. Mugruk's face contorts into a look of great discomfort as he feels the shaman touching his large and small intestine, briefly tickling his stomach and massaging his colon. It is truely a rare feeling tha tdoes magange to bring out a muffled moan of pain.

Huzghash nods as he watches the salve being applied to the injured orc, noting the unusual color of this particular one. Then, upon hearing the request of the Shaman, Huzghash merely nods and turns; his eyes seeking a rag or four. His eye spots a small pile of rags, not too dirty, lying near one of the tens. Moving swiftly huzghash picks the rags up off the ground and slightly dusts them off, the main pieces of dirt dislodging and producing a rather clean set of rags. Moving back to the Shaman, Huzghash offers the rags out in his left hand, "Shall these do, Shaman?" A nod toward his hand is what is offered to show the location of these four, fairly lengthy rags.

Hykhert smiles. "Ah, better. Exactly as such. Now..." Rare altruism breaks through Hykhert's usual nervous, annoyed state.

"See, this salve is noe of few I would dare to intrude so heavily. Normally, let this one go, but maybe he's important if he's spouting odd words." He peeks a little further. "And, by Blessing, the King's salve remains. So let us be scant with it, bind tightly, and let the Flame make the rest of the decisions?" Tense with the work, he pulls his hands from Mugruk's innards just before a tremour allows his left hand to shake. "Ah, close call, I can only stay steady so long out in the open." His apparent anger now seems forgotten; Hykhert seems nearly friendly as he grabs at the rags. Cautiously wrapping Mugruk's torso for minutes, he hands an end up to Huzghash and takes and end on the other side of the stricken body. "A pull, guard."

Gripping one end of the bandage firmly, Huzghash pulls on it, though not terribly hard. Eyes watchign the Shaman and this injured uruk as he waits to be told to stop pulling.

Mugruk sighs audibly as the shaman pulls his hands out of his belly. He arches his back as much as possible to aid in the wraping of the bandages. As ht guard start spulling the hunter grits his teeth and lets out an angry snarl of pain.

A tentflap is flopped side, and the light of the fire-warmed enclosure spills into the camp. The tentflap closes, the light is extinguished, but not before spitting out a small orc on the round.

The old looks aghast, and he wills his spriggy limbs to untwist him from his seat, and to the small form... "The biter! What are you doing? Back in the tent, I told the shaman to come to YOU."

The little lump lashes at the old orc's ankle, and clips it hard enough to topple the bumbling geezer. Groggily, Bozblot seeths at him, "You TOLD him to come to ME did you? Might as well kill me yourself, they'll never come now... who is you anyways? eh? Scrawny? Fess up!" Bozblot crimps to one side, still sprawled on the earth..

"The High-Guards, send me to tend to those that could not obey the march orders by their own strength..." Old-orc sputters... The lump only lunkers himself away on the ground, spotting...

"High-Guards is here, I think? Ohh, he spins though..." Bozblot clutches his head.

Fenzokh turns. "I will go seek out the king now, master.." he mutters, heading out of the tent.

Hykhert gives a hearty pull of his own, and looks satisfied as he takes Huz' end from his hand. Tying off the cinched-up binding, he shrugs. "Now we see how he fares, ambass...." He notices his "apprentice" has left. "Eh, perhaps he didn't want to learn after he saw it was dirty work." He winks -- winks! -- at Huzghash, then carefully puts away teh puch of ever-diminishing salve. "Ah, good enough." He blinks a few times...healing is a drain.

Hykhert examines the injuries on Mugruk.

Hykhert tends to the injuries on Mugruk.

Bozblot reaches the tent housing Mugruk's operation, but in his swagger he leans upon the tentside. His miniature form barely straining the hide-wall at all, the jailor presses his round body-bundle into the fabric.

Salivating heavily, Bozblot barks through the screen into the tent's inhabitants, his oral spatter quickly seeping into the hide in a wide grease-stain... "High-Guards... is you in there?"

The hunter looks releived as the shaman ties off the bandages. He picks his head up slightly to glance at the shamans work. Mugruk drops his head back down and sighs, "Thanks..It feels better." The hunter then relaxes all of his body, content to sleep where he lies.

Huzghash releases the bandage into the grasp of the Shaman, and watches closely as the bandages are tied. Huzghash nods slowly as the Shaman winks at him, and the finishes the delicate opertaion. However, Huzghash's thoughts are quickly impeded upon by a familiar, though noticably weaker, voice. "Yes, the Senior Guard is here..."Huzghash's voice trails of as his head swivels to see the speaker. Once his eyes are upon the injured Bozblot, however, Huzghash moves quickly to his side and says, "Here. Let me help you up onto a cot here." Huzghash extends a helping arm to the Jailor.

Hykhert sees a ghost...stepping backward and touching his blade, he pauses. No ghost, but how lives this one? Mending none, head burned...better just do what it says! Blinking and shaking his head, Hykhert points wordlessly to the ground, shakily procuring a flask. "This stuff is working better than I thought, we're keeping corpses on their feet." He motions again for Bozblot to sit as he pulls at the cork.

Bozblot clutches fast to his skull... "Thank you Huuuzghash, someone's played a nasty trick.. shoved a lava-rock in my headhole!" The jailor's hands, flat about the curve of his head, scrunches to a point... Bozblot points to lavarock, and it is in his head.

Hykhert looks cautiously over to Huzghash. "You eye this one...can't be much left of it...an apparition nearly." Nonetheless he tosses the inexplicably durable Bozblot the flask. "Drain it," he says, not eager to step closer to the marvel. He again looks at Huzghash, as if the Senior Guard might explain.

Huzghash gently grabs hold of the injured Bozblot and moves him oneo a cot, sitting him down. Huzghash once again hears the words of the Shaman and turns, "Yes, he has been near death for some time. I am surprised he has held out so long." Huz' gnarled finger jabs out towards the injurde Bozblot. "He fell in battle against the elves of the acursed wood." Huzghash spits on the ground near his own feet as he speaks of the elves, but his eyes return to the Shaman as Bozblot receives the flask in his hands.

The old orc follows, though favoring one ankle now, and he takes up one of Bozblot's arms... "The king did this they say... the Flame's blood, right in your brains... and you live sti.."

"Off me bat!" Bozblot squirms to shrug away the Old orc's clawwing, and accepts the flask with his chest. The flask slides to his lap, and the jailor hoists it. The first swig seems insufferable, but Bozblot commands his pallet's revolt, and suffers it to drain the entire flask. He even taps the butt of the emptied flask for the last few drops.

Smacking, Bozblot considers the flask-thrower, "Thank you stranger.. with stinkers like this geezer," one glower turned on the old orc and the geezer scampers away, ".. like the geezer, 'helping', hard to get better. Thank you, I is.." but Bozblot grows silent again, now clutching his head with one hand, and his stomach with the other.

Hykhert tends to the injuries on Bozblot.

Hykhert, not one for formality, looks about quickly and sees no further matters of his concern here. As he leaves the tent of the maimed, he passes Huzghash and mutters again in his ear, as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. "You...I have not forgotten your service. I trust not this ambassador...what did he say? Baby sitter? No matter... make sure he sends my message, so I can speak of you and others who have served the Flame well... You will prosper." He passes by, but not before pausing long enough to hear any words the guard might offer in response.

Huzghash listens to the words of the Shaman intently, not letting one slip by his ear. Turning slightly, huzghash says, "Thank you, Shaman. I owe you much." Bowing his head slightly, Huzghash watches the Shaman as he continues his path out of the tent.

Bozblot pinches at his wee love handle, dropping his flat hand off of his head. He picks up the emptied flask, and holds it up to the strang orc, little interest invested in uruks' whisperings.

"Gud flask," is all the jailor says.

Hykhert lets the tent flap fall behind him, muttering to himself quietly as he leaves. Another night of wounded...and the foes have not yet been met. How well can this bode?

Now left alone with the dozing and his superior, Bozblot brightens a little. He even relinquishes his pinch for a moment to punch the Senior-Guard's knee. The jest-strike is sent with aenemic speed, the runt seems only to puppet his own strengthless flesh. He musters some breathy jeering, "You know that one? You make kissy-ears with him like you do eh HUUuzz... get his flask back to him?" Bozblot leans, and /leans/ and flops on his side, though still smiling.

Huzghash smirks at the battered form of Bozblot lying on the floor. "Yes, he is a Shaman of the Flame. You would do well to respect that one." A finger jabs out after the retreating form of th Shaman. "hold on to the flask for now, and return it when you are able. Now, get yourself into a cot and rest!" Huzghash turns away from the Jailor as he says this, a slight chuckle coming forth from the Senior Guard as he retreats from the tent. The form of Senior Guard quickly moves away, and out towards the sentry fires surrounding the camp.