The cavern glows an ominour red, as usual. The high cieling rests in darness though, like much of the black pit. Laying in one of the most well lit areas, close to the pool of hot lava. He partly lounges there, seemingly somewhat relaxed but in pain none the less. Gurgil's chest and upper right arm are encased mostly in dried, cracking layers of blood. When he moves around a little, some flakes off and he groans a little, but that is all the sound coming from him now.
 
Piler grunts, beaten and bruised -- a snaga of insignificant proportion and badly damaged body. Looking first one way and then the other, a Uruk who bears no real merit of a name moves toward a few discarded fauna and stuffs them into his meager garb. Looking again suspiciously about, he makes as if to creep from this place ... nervous, cautious, and visibly fearful. A snaga poking about in the Temple when there is work to be done may be no more safe than in the grasp of the Thugru.
 
At the slight echos caused buy the rummaging of the snaga, Gurgil sits straight up with a groan. He narrows his eyes at the small form and grunts. "'ey you, have ya seen a shaman or an healer or somethin like that about here? Doesn't look like youre doin any real work, you must have some sort of use."
 
The snaga freezes stock-still, not wont to move and incur more beatings for what may be perceived as an attempt at escape. Bent head slowly turning, the meager snaga reluctantly allows his eyes to meet those of Gurgil. "Urm..." Slow words, chosen with care within a mind frantically searching for a way to avoid punishment. "Urm ... Some uvem died." More cautious trepidation. "Some of em must not be round." Eyes wide, the snaga looks instinctively about for escape -- a beaten whelp.
 
Gurgil frowns, a deep lining of his brow. The jailor narrows his red eyes and growls, "Well obviously they ain't around. Doesnt take a half-wit to figure that out." He coughs a little, wincing as he does. He then leans foreward a bit and asks the snaga, "What're ya lookin so guilty for anyway, whatcha do?"
 
The wretched creature cowers a moment, then immediately turns to thinking quickly for a way out of another beating -- or an execution. "Picking up ..." He looks to the floor. "Just picking up the rubbish that defiles this Temple." The snaga points to another discarded bit of fauna as he halfheartedly scoops it up. "Cleaning the Temple." Unsure eyes scan the area.
 
Gurgil raises a dirty black eyebrow. "Well thats jus great. To bad there ain't shaman around. Theyd like dis. I dont like it though. Find me somtin of worth and maybe I would, you find anytin good round here?"
 
The lowest of the low, the dirty beast, shakes an ugly head. "Nothing of value from the weak and lowly. We are but servants of you mighty warriors." A quail to emphasize. "We haulers of dirt could never enter a cavern with anything that would ever catch the eye of the mighty warriors here." Looking about, the snaga shows two hands -- palms up -- to emphasize.
 
Gurgil narrows his already narrow eyes once more. "I don't belive that." He pauses dramatically, "Lucky fer you I'm not well enough to question that." He gestures to the snaga, "come 'ere you."
 
The wee wretch, still holding his hands up before him, slowly creeps forward, as if his ambulatory system is at odds regarding the direction in which he will travel. Eventually he stands not far from the wounded Gurgil. "Er..." The vocalized pause becomes the statement, the only offering from a nervous snaga.
 
Gurgil grunts from his sitting spot, and then says, "Now that I think about it, I bet ya do hav somthin good. I deserve it, lookit me here wasting away all for the flame, do I get anything out of it..no, so I need to get some payment.."
 
The snaga of such little import looks at the floor, but his eyes show immediate fear even to a casual observer (though one would not be found in this dank place). "No...No..." Not objections, but hesitant answers. "Nothing has the weakest of the weak for the mighty warrior. You may search even my dirty rags if you must. Surely if such a lowly servant had anything to provide, the mighty warrior would be given it proudly." Again an anxious attempt to gauge Gurgil's response.
 
Gurgil frowns some more, apparently not very happy. "Whatcha say is all good, but dat dont mean its the truth. I think I will search you." He suddenly rocks to his knees and lunges foreward, swinging a large fist toward the snaga's head at the same time. This task takes quite a lot of effort, as is apparent in the grimace worn on his face.
 
Caught off-guard, this dingy snaga takes a hesitant step back. His subservience now gives way to self-preservation, and he achingly now just avoids the lunging swipe of the injured Gurgil. Unsure what to do, the snaga wavers hopefully beyond the range of Gurgil. Taking on a fighting stance, the wee Uruk knows better to strike a superior...but what to do. "No...nothing!" His speech is more plaintive than ever.
 
Gurgil sprawls flat on his face, a loud -thud- echoing throughout the chamber. He shouts out a loud curse as he lands on his injuries, and then he looks up at the snaga once more. "Ya can't tell me ya got nothing after I just did that." He growls, "Lookit the trouble you are making me go through. You musta found somethin, somewhere."
 
The snaga shakes his grimy head vigorously. "No, nothing is deserved by the meager beasts of this great kingdom." He steps side to side. "Nothing would be kept from the mighty warrior!" Still watching for another blow from Gurgil, the snaga breathes hard in anticipation of danger.
 
Proping himself up on his elbows, and then back into a sitting position on the ground Gurgil shrugs. He looks the snaga up and down and frowns, "If you say you got nothingm I guess I might as well belive yah. Dont wanna hurt myself even more tryin to find out. But watch yerself if yer ever in the jails, I'll be keepin an eye open for you. hehahahehahah." This sadistic laugh continues for a few more second before abruptly cutting off.
 
The bent snaga maintains a crouched stance, but begins to realize that the wounded warrior seems to be interested in letting him live. "Nothing was taken." Consternation mars the meager beast's face -- realization that future punishment is imminent when this one recovers. "Surely all would be given to the warriors." The snaga has the look of one that doesn't know whether to run or fight.
 
Shrugging again, Gurgil lies down once again on the floor. "Go away snaga, take your patronizing with you. I've had enough." He lays his head back agains the stone, and shuts his eyes, attempting to rest.
 
The fortuitously spared snaga takes the dismissal to heart, turning to go. However, as Gurgil's eyes close, the snaga can't help but allow only the smallest of grins at the prostrate form of the injured warrior. Those wounds need attention ... where might a healer be? The snaga addresses none of these questions as he slinks away. Jostled loose by the near-fight, a small remnant of a healing herb drops from the gear of the snaga that hurriedly leaves the chamber.