[Envinyatar]

Kransha's post

A dull, pointless tune, whistled badly by orcish lips, rent the calm air. Búbkûr was not a good whistler, not at any rate, and his butchery of the same old uruk folk tune he’d heard circulating around the campfire was appalling. He didn’t even like the melody, as he’d made clear earlier, but the silence of the area disconcerted him greatly, filling him with the urge to be at least half as noisy as he usually was. He didn’t like all the nature, which was a given in a forested, hilly land. He especially didn’t like the trees. He’d lived his whole life in a place without trees, or bushes, or leaves, or roots, or any filth that accompanied trees. Any tree was like a thorn in his side. But, he especially hated those leafless, crooked ones. Those were the worst trees, and since Búbkûr didn’t like trees, he especially didn’t like the least likable trees, as they were not likable (which made perfect sense to him, somewhat). There were a lot of those in Bree-land, mostly in the dense, derelict forests. Thankfully, there were not that many of those trees in the area where Búbkûr was at the moment.

Where he was was at a familiar locale, between Bâzzog’s section of camp and that of Ugwakh, his second. He had come from Ugwakh’s section, having acted as an annoyed messenger who brought word of plans and schemes that he did not fully understand. He felt left out of the loop, regardless of who he spoke to, and it made him mad. Ugwakh’s dull, gruff attitude hadn’t helped. The parley broke into quick and steady argument, common for hostile orc-kind. Búbkûr was content to have left the wretched glob of an orc to his own wretched devices. His course back to Bâzzog was abandoned as he sought unheard of tranquility to ponder his situation. He felt better, not in the company of Bâzzog, Ugwakh, or the smart-mouth Gráthgrob. But, his feeling was overthrown when clip-clopping noise broke his ‘concentration’ and a trio of those crooked, horrid trees appeared just as he crested a small lump of a dirt mound. To the most crooked, most hateful tree was tied a horse, with its rider walking beside it. It took an irritatingly long time for Búbkûr to recognize the fellow and realize that he had wandered to an appointed place of meeting with said man.

“Yer Fen Sheperdsnurse, roight?” He said, enthusiastically, as he approached the man. He remembered that the 'negotiator' between the orcs an the Breelanders was actually old Grathgrob, and that's probably who this creature was expecting. It didn't matter, since, as they said in Bree sometimes, "Beggars can't be choosers." When it comes to orcs, everyone's a beggar, and nobody bothers risking their lives making choices. Choices are a bad thing, in uruk company. Finishing his exclamation, Búbkûr looked over the man, who looked dissapointed about the recipient of his soon-to-be-delivered message. He also looked like several other things, but Búbkûr was never any good at conjuring appropriate adjectives.

Fen coughed pointedly. “That’s Sheperdspurse, orc.” He corrected, his raspy voice grating on Búbkûr’s easily stricken nerves. Waving his clawed hand dismissively, the uruk nodded. “Yeah, sure it is. Whaddaya want?” He was obviously impatient, and in a sour mood. Even though he never considered challenging Bâzzog, he was often tempted when the superior orc treated him so dishonorably. Growling in his bracken-clotted throat, the orc’s hook hand scratched idly at the small of his back, drawing blood inadvertently. Though Fen’s eyes were drawn to the strange activity, the man of Bree managed to remain focused and continue speaking. Búbkûr’s gaze, though, unavoidably continued to sway, looking at that crooked tree behind the man; that tree he so disliked. Disliking the tree made him feel more confident, and he almost blocked out the sound of Fen Sheperdspurse.

“I come bringing ill news, orc,” Fen drawled on, “and you’d do best to pass it on to your captain.” Búbkûr looked up; one brow rising so that one of his two beady eyes became swollen and bulbous, which was probably the best look of inquiry the foul creature could muster. The orc whipped his hook hand back out and brandished it in a menacing fashion at the Breelander. “Yer bringin’ illness?” he said, skeptical and confused, “I don’t wanna get sick, ya know!” His two eyes were now bulging from their sockets, to Fen’s dismay. The Breelander probably would’ve been irritated by the orc’s stupidity if that same orc hadn’t been waving a rusty metal hook several inches in front of his nose. Hurriedly, Fen attempted to calm Búbkûr promptly, gesturing with his arms to settle the bewildered fiend.

“Bad news,” he stated swiftly, “I bring bad news.”

Astutely, Búbkûr settled down, speaking dimly as if nothing had happened. He needed no second measure of reassurance. His hook returned to its fleshy scratching post. “Oh…yeah, fine.” He muttered, looking away without a care or aim. “What is it?...The bad news, I mean.” Fen nodded, as if in understanding and, wrapping his narrow fingers around his staff again. Like a foul orator preparing for rhetoric, he contemplated. With a reserved gesture that plainly meant “Get to the point,” from Búbkûr, Fen began again, saying “There’s been some sort of clandestine meeting in the Prancing Pony” and pausing afterward to see the orc’s reaction (or lack thereof). After Búbkûr bobbed his head dimly, Fen went on. “Four northern Rangers and four Elves and a fifth ranger, all whispering like they’re talking about some dark secret. I thought Bâzzog would want to know.”

“Sure he would.” Búbkûr snapped, frustrated, not fully comprehending the situation, “Ya say four tarks meetin’ with four Elves?” Rolling his eyes as the orc looked away, Fen replied: “Yes, and another Ranger with the Elves.” Búbkûr’s lower, bulbous lip wound up over his upper jaw, enveloping it, and he scratched his hairy chin. “I’ve got it.” He said at last, a spark in his bugging eyes, “After we spend all the gold from last noight, we’ll get right on doin’ somethin’ about them tarks.” Fen’s own eyes illuminated evilly all of a sudden at the last statement. Stuttering in anticipation, the man ventured a query.

“Last night, you say?”

“Yeah.” Búbkûr tried to look intelligent as he nodded, still unaware of the wound he was tearing in his back, “Them stupid trolls got a grand haul from the Whittleworth Farm just outside o’ Staddle. Thems trolls get stupider by the day, I reckon.” He laughed, good-naturedly, but the laugh he elicited from Fen was forced (though Búbkûr was too busy developing the cognitions of a proper guffaw to notice). “Indeed.” Fen murmured, as soon as his ‘surfeit of raucous laughter’ had concluded, “So, what of the Rangers and Elves?” Búbkûr noticed Fen’s uneasiness, but ignored it in true orc fashion, considering. His feeble strivings toward philosophy were miserable, especially when he tried to look philosophical. “Pump ‘em fer information, ya know?” He growled sinisterly, “Ya can tell ‘em about the farm, that’s old news. Just so long as ya get some good news next time ya come.” He brandished his hook hand with ominous intent again, his eyes narrowing. “I won’t be quite so pleasant if’n ya bring ill news again.”

It didn’t take long for Fen Sheperdspurse to turn on his heels, leap onto the malnourished horse he had bound to that nearby, crooked and hunched over tree, and gallop off briskly into the distance, towards Bree. Chuckling merrily to himself, and thinking himself quite intelligent, Búbkûr galumphed back towards Bâzzog’s camp, slicing through half the trunk of that crooked tree, shaking it to its very roots. He really hated that tree.