Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Alaksoron]

Osric was grateful for the fire's warmth as he made his meal. When he was finished he drew his sword and produced a whetstone from a pocket of his cloak and set to sharpening. The blade would already shave the hair from his arm, but, as anyone who has ever owned a sword knows, it can never be sharp enough. Kim had told him on more than one occasion that he was obsessive, but he didn't care. A depressive gloom set upon Osric at the memory of his wife, now buried on a plot of their little farm. And he thought of his young son, strapping lad with a quick mind, whom was now staying with Osric's brother in Edoras.

Osric checked himself as he realized he was staring blankly ahead. Brightening, he asked "Anyone want an apple?" Aidwain nodded, but Veryadan said no. Shrugging, he reached into his bags and produced two appples, one for Aidwain and one for himself. He juggled them briefly before tossing one to Aidwain. He bit into his own apple, not caring that the juice ran down his chin. He loved apples!

He watched his companions heads swivel toward him as he jerked to his feet with a vehement curse that came out quite strangled. He lifted his left hand to stare in incredulity at the blood dripping from his left palm where the midge had bitten.

A moment's pause, Osric standing with his mouth agape, and the others broke into hysterical laughter. Veryadan was clutching his sides, and Aidwain was rolling on the ground. Blushing, Osric laughed with them.

[Nuranar]

As the nauseous stench surrounded them, Tarondo swallowed hard and set his jaw. He swung down to the ground. "Fen, you stay up here with the horses while Silrûth and I look around. Don't move or you could destroy some signs." The man nodded vigorously, a sickly smile pasted on his greenish face. Tarondo glanced at his companion. Silrûth was pale but collected, and her eyes met his reassuringly.

Tarondo strode swiftly down the wagon road. He looked to make sure, but saw no signs that anyone had passed that way for several days. That was as he had expected; wherever the culprits had come from, the road from Staddle was their least likely route.

The farmyard itself was of hard-packed dirt and showed next to no sign. It was past midsummer, as well, and there had been no rain for a week. Nevertheless Tarondo carefully quartered every inch of the ground, searching for the tiny indications of the unusual. A small divot in the dirt, its edges clean and sharp, showed where something pointed had been driven in. A dark-colored smear stained the ground near one of the bodies.

Silrûth called him over to the house. "Look at how this whole corner is destroyed. It seems as if it was smashed at one blow. And over here," she continued, pointing to a pile of splintered timbers. "There are two men under there. Two men, crushed to death. The house itself has been ransacked but very little taken, from what I can tell. I cannot find any money, although there is a hidden nook in the floor that is empty."

Tarondo gazed unseeingly at the wreckage, thinking. Silrûth nudged him. "Have you found anything?"

"Very little." He turned back to the farmyard. "Come on, we need to finish here." Silrûth followed silently.

Fen was called down the hill and, for a fee, set to work digging the graves in an untrodden corner across from the house. One by one the bodies were recovered and wrapped in their own blankets. Altogether, thirteen men and one woman had died that night. Some were still in their nightshirts, some in trousers, a few more or less fully dressed.

Both Elves had been in many fights and were well acquainted with the many guises of death. But the sheer brutality of these deaths was nightmarish. The bodies were crushed and mangled with inhuman ferocity. A few had split skulls and a few were dismembered, while the rest had been battered and smashed.

Having found another shovel and a pick, both Elves assisted with the gravedigging. Except for the harsh cries of the ravens, disturbed but not dispersed, a heavy stillness lay all that long afternoon. Fen worked in disgruntled sulkiness, muttering words he did not dare voice before Silrûth. The grim-faced Elf worked with relentless energy, as if executing vengeance on those responsible. Tarondo dug steadily, thinking all the while.

The sun was still above the eastern hills when they finished. The farmyard, though strewn with wreckage, no longer resembled a ghastly unroofed charnel house. After a drink from the well, Tarondo set off around the perimeter of the farmyard. Where the ground was softer and vegetation grew, he was certain of finding tracks. He had an inkling of the force behind the devastation, and if he was right, it would certainly have left traces.

[Envinyatar]

Fen Shepherdspurse

The smell of death was unbearable. Fen bent his back to the shovel and buried the dead as he was bidden, grumbling all the while to himself that the coins he’d received could not cover the labor he felt forced to do. Finally finished, he threw the shovel down, wiping the greasy grime from his brow with an already stained shirtsleeve.

Fen left the Elves to their talk of further tasks, saying he would see to the horses. Gathering them from the oak tree where they’d been tethered, he took the horses as far as he could from the grisly scene, as much wanting to be away from it himself as to get them away from the lingering, disquieting stench. The two Elven mounts eyed him with a certain sense of superiority, or so he surmised, as he tied them to another tree’s branch on the far perimeter of the farm. ‘It’s not that I’ve no feelings,’ he rasped at them. ‘And my hand had no doing in the killings.’ One of them snorted at him, shaking his great head as if to disagree. Fen wiped his hands, grimy from grave digging, against his vest and backed away from the beasts. ‘Man’s got to look out for himself,’ he mumbled leading his rag-tag grey away from the tree.

Looking back toward the farm, he noted the two Elves had disappeared from view. ‘Investigating,’ he snorted at his own mount. ‘Fat lot of good that’ll do,’ he laughed quietly, wondering if those Elven ears heard as good as he’d been told. ‘Investigate all they want,’ he wheezed, pulling himself up onto the back of his mount. ‘The Boss and his boys’ll take care of ‘em - same’s they took care of old Whittleworth and his get.’

He kicked his horse lightly in the flanks, heading north east to where the Orcs could be found. He’d stuck around long enough to hear when the parties planned to meet at Weathertop. The Boss would want to know . . .

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

The scavengers had not left much of note to be seen when the three companions set out to have a look about the scene. Parts of the bodies from the shepherd and his dog were found scattered here and there, bones already cleaned of muscle and sinew by beak and tooth. ‘Interesting, though,’ remarked Veryadan as he held two gnawed pieces of the shepherd’s long thighbone up for inspection to Aidwain who was crouched down near him. ‘I can think of no animal large enough in these parts to have snapped the bone in two like this. Something with tremendous strength did this gruesome work.’

The Ranger frowned as he turned the cleanly fractured bone in his hands. ‘It couldn’t be . . .,’ he began. ‘Aidwain, have you ever been around the Troll lairs in the Angle? Seen the bones of big animals they’ve killed, broken neatly in two, the marrow sucked from them?’ He shook his head. ‘But there are no Trolls here, as I recall.’

‘There are those footprints I first found,’ Aidwain offered.

‘Too big even for a giant of a man,’ Veryadan agreed. He shook his head again. ‘Even if it were Trolls, I’ve never met one bright enough to plan and pull off raids as these seem to be doing.’

Aidwain pointed out that there was the matter of the other, smaller prints – booted and barefooted. ‘I’m certain those would be Orcs – saw enough of their trails in The War,’ the Elf went on.

Veryadan nodded at this. ‘Ugly, misshapen things - filled with shadow. But there were a number of them I had the misfortune to encounter who were as cunning as any man. Knew how to lay a plan and spring it.’

The day was growing toward evening. The two companions walked back toward their meager camp. Osric had gone off on his own; they were curious as to what he had found.

‘What I really would like to know is how big a group we’re dealing with,’ said Veryadan, as they reached the campsite. ‘Did your Elven eyes pick up any hint of this? The prints were too overrun by those of the scavengers for me to make any sense of them.’

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Arrald stood stock-still and raised his head into the air. Taking huge draughts in through his nose he sought to smell further and further afield. He closed his eyes to blot out the annoying lights and concentrated all of his attention on what came to his nose. Dim stood off to one side picking his teeth with a splinter. They had finished the last of the plunder from the farm and were on the hunt for more. Dim got the morsel free from between his teeth and pulled it out to inspect it before swallowing it. He dropped the splinter and scratched his head. “Oy, Arrald,” he called out. “Got wind of anything yet?”

Arrald opened his eyes and looked at his brother, and they were full of a dangerous cunning. Dim chuckled at the sight, for he knew this look of his brother’s and it meant fun of an especial kind. “I’ve smelt something I’ve not in a long time, my brother,” and Arrald’s face split into a hideous grin. “Can you smell it?”

Dim closed his eyes and smelt, but all he could find were wood smells and rock smells and the scent of rodents. His mouth watered at that, but he doubted he was smelling what his brother wanted him to. He opened his eyes and Arrald could tell from his expression that Dim was still clueless.

“It’s an old smell, brother,” Arrald explained. “One as I’ve not smelt in many’s the long year. It’s the smell of music and laughing and ‘orrible lights. The last time we smelt it, there was good sport though…”

The answer clawed its way through Dim’s mind. “Elves!” he chortled.

“Aye, Elves, my brother.”

“But where?” Dim cast about as though to find them in the instant.

“Not too far, but not too near either.” Arrald thought for a time. The night advanced. “I know!” he bellowed, awakening Dim. “We should head for that there great big hill with the view of all abouts. We can see where those Elves are from up there!”

“Oh, that’s a good plan,” said Dim. “But what if we run into the Elves before they run into us?”

That was a poser for Arrald. Tackling Elves who were unprepared for them was one thing, but being tackled unprepared was quite another. Arrald thought some more. The night advanced some more. “I know!” he bellowed, once more awakening Dim. “Let’s get them other two, Grimm and Broga. They’re good in a fight, and can help up with the Elves if we find them before they find us.”

Dim nodded happily at his brother. “Oh, now that’s another good plan!”

[Primrose Bolger]

Broga was hunkered down by the fire. It had burnt down with only a few blue flames licking up now and then. It was the sizzling coals that had him fascinated. He poked at them with a charred stick, watching the small sparks carry up into the night air. ‘Brother!’ he shouted, sending another shower of glittery embers toward the overhanging branches of the trees about the camp. ‘Pretty fireflies! Ain’t they something?’ He stirred the fire again, smiling as Grimm approached.

‘Somethin’ alright,’ growled Grimm, snatching the stick from Broga’s hand. ‘You get any more of them sparks caught in the leaves and we’ll be burnt outta this nice little place we got goin’ here. Be lookin’ for another place to stash our goods. Hate to think what the Orcs’d think if they saw us hauling a coupla bags a coins around.’ He crouched down beside his frowning brother. ‘Might think we been dippin’ into what’s theirs, holdin’ back.’ Broga shook his head slowly. ‘Gotta nice little thing going here,’ Grimm went on, nudging his brother. ‘Let’s not mess it up.’

Crack! . . . snap! . . . twigs breaking . . . varied mutterings from large beings unseen as yet in the darkness . . .

Grimm stood up from the fire, muttering himself. ‘Looks like the neighbors have arrived,’ he whispered to Broga, giving him a hand up. ‘Wonder what they want?’ Broga whispered back. Grimm’s eyes were on the large rock across the little clearing. He could just see two lumbering figures moving into the moonlight.

-o-o-o-o-

The fire had been stirred up and chunks of wood added to it. The four Trolls sat on the large, flat topped rocks they’d rolled near the flames, talking about the talented nose of Arald and what had been sussed out through its olfactory prowess. ‘Elves, eh?’ reflected Grimm, taking a long look at the vaunted honker.

Dim shook his head enthusiastically. ‘So what do ya think, you two,’ he chortled. His meaty fist slapped against the flat of the other hand. ‘Bet you two would like to do a little Elf bashin.’ ‘Come on, now,’ he went on, winking at Broga. ‘You know we’d have fun!’

Broga was starting to nod his head as Dim spoke, a leering smile cracking the leathery planes of his face. Grimm, however, was less eager to latch onto the plan. He stood up, a gruesome frown crackling his brow.

‘Not to rain on your little plan and all. Elf-bashing’s something me ‘n’ my brother happen to excel at . . . BUT.’ The others looked up at him, muttering already at what was coming next. ‘I’m gonna bet,’ he went on, ‘that the chief knows about these Elves and such. He’s got spies out – you seen that maggoty looking creature comes round ever so often. Fen, somethin’ or other.’

‘Yeah . . . and so?’ one of the others asked.

‘And so . . . like I told my brother a little earlier,’ Grimm said, planting his thick hands on his hips. ‘We gotta good thing goin’ here with the Orcs. What say we tell ‘em what your nose tells you? Tell ‘em we want to be in on it if they’re plannin’ something.’ He looked round the lumpish group. ‘Come on now,’ he said starting off toward the Orc camp. ‘Who’s with me?’

A short time later, the four Trolls stomped into the Orc camp demanding to see the chief. ‘Tell him there’s Elves about . . . and nothin’ good’ll come of it if they ain’t seen to!’

In the face of overwhelming trollishness, the scrawny Orc guard fled to deliver the message.

[Nuranar]

Esgallhugwen's post

As the group seperated into three the two Elves and Fen rode abreast, but as they drew further from the others Tarondo took the lead whilst Silrûth took the rear, keeping a lookout for trouble. The day passed soon enough and they made camp for the night, Fen had persuaded them to stay away from Whittleworth at dark, and the Elves were wise enough not to attempt the risk.

In the morning light they packed, eating a cold breakfast while on horseback. By well after noon they had reached their destination.

The stench was overwhelming for one not accustomed to such things, both Tarondo and Silrûth having seen much carnage in war had a better hold of their stomachs then Fen. The black carrion birds were swooping and pecking with ravenous speed, the ground seemed to move with a glistening black current of ebony feathers where the hapless bodies lay.

The two Elves collected themselves and began searching the area while Fen stayed behind watching the horses. Tarondo searched the ground, careful of his step.

Silrûth caught eye of the collapsed house and quickly paced the premises, her keen eyes catching every detail. "Look at how this whole corner is destroyed." she called to Tarondo, "It seems as if it was smashed at one blow. And over here," she turned and pointed next to her making sure not to step on the wood fall.

"There are two men under there. Two men, crushed to death. The house itself has been ransacked but very little taken, from what I can tell. I cannot find any money, although there is a hidden nook in the floor that is empty."

She looked at her companion who seemed to be transfixed in thought, with a gently nudge she eyed him knowingly asking "Have you found anything?"

He shook his head and frowned.

These bodies cannot be left to be shredded by the birds she thought sadly, Tarondo seemed to be thinking the same thing for Fen was soon fetched and was set to work digging graves for the deceased. The Elves pitched in, Silrûth striking the earth with the pick while Tarondo dug away steadily at the loosened soil.

The gruesome work was done with the sun still above the eastern hills. Tarondo set off around the perimeter of the farmyard, where the ground was softer and vegetation grew. Silrûth stayed awhile mouthing a silent Elvish prayer over the fresh graves.

Fen had wandered off back towards the horses.

The golden haired Elf drew near to her companion, he was kneeling down and glaring curiously at some wilted vegetation. It was impacted into the dirt with frayed edges clinging to the sides of the oversized print.

With a displeased sound she knelt down beside him inspecting the track, it looked far too familiar for her liking. She stood looking in the direction of the giant gait, North East, "towards the marshes", Tarondo nodded a sneer on his lips.

She could have sworn there was the faint reek of Troll in the air, she scrunched her nose up in disgust, and began to follow the tracks. After a few moments, Tarondo took her kindly by the arm, "we have no time to linger, the sun is setting soon and we must be back on our way to the others"

Silrûth nodded solemnly. "Yes we must tell the others what we have found"

They were once again among the decimated ruins of Whittleworth, they walked to their horses noticing the absence of Fen. "Seems Master Sheperdspurse has left us", Tarondo's horse snorted in distaste, Falma nodded her head in agreement.

Turning the direction they had come with the sun fading, the horses started at a trot.

"To Weathertop it is then" Silrûth looked over at her partner, "to Weathertop it is" Tarondo replied.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain,Veryadan scanned the place full of bodies of the shepherd and dog ,the bodies seemed to be torn apart by some force which Aidwain thought could only exist in a troll,in the war Aidwain had seen his elven brothers being ripped apart by the same breed within seconds as they tried to kill them .

While Aidwain thought of the war , ‘Interesting, though,’ remarked Veryadan as he held two gnawed pieces of the shepherd’s long thighbone up for inspection to Aidwain who was crouched down near him. ‘I can think of no animal large enough in these parts to have snapped the bone in two like this. Something with tremendous strength did this gruesome work.’

‘It couldn’t be . . .,’ he began. ‘Aidwain, have you ever been around the Troll lairs in the Angle? Seen the bones of big animals they’ve killed, broken neatly in two, the marrow sucked from them?’ He shook his head. ‘But there are no Trolls here, as I recall.’

‘There are those footprints I first found,’ Aidwain offered.

‘Too big even for a giant of a man,’ Veryadan agreed. He shook his head again. ‘Even if it were Trolls, I’ve never met one bright enough to plan and pull off raids as these seem to be doing.’

"The footprints I discovered seemed of orcs to me",replied Aidwain.
"Yes,Indeed ,but What I really would like to know is how big a group we’re dealing with,’ said Veryadan, as they reached the campsite. ‘Did your Elven eyes pick up any hint of this? The prints were too overrun by those of the scavengers for me to make any sense of them.’

The day was growing toward evening. The two companions walked back toward their meager camp. Osric had gone off on his own; they were curious as to what he had found.

"Well I think there must have been trolls as well as orcs in this place,the orc's number I cannot tell but I seem to find that their are four set of prints of trolls.
.I thought your skills as a ranger would be handy in here,but for now we can only say that the orcs and trolls were here and they killed the shepherd and took all his sheep .Let us return to camp for the day wanes and we better not roam alone in this place . Come let us find Osric for I fear for his safety .",replied Aidwain and then leaving the place of murder they returned to camp .....

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

. . . moving toward Weathertop from the marshes; making camp the evening before meeting the other groups atop the hill . . .

Veryadan had taken the last watch for the night. No signs of activity save the occasional passing of some small animal in the darkness were noted by him and he was glad of it. There were only three in this little company, and though they were all skilled warriors, still two blades and a bow would not stand against the numbers of foul creatures they had surmised had recently been in the area.

His companions and he had talked long into the night about what they had found that day and what it might mean. They were concerned about the thought of Orcs and Trolls having banded together to maraud the northwestern reaches of the kingdom. Left unchecked they had fears of the Orcs becoming bandit-lords - laying claim to ‘territory’ and placing sections of the King’s free subjects under their domination and tyranny. It would be a long and tiresome war with many losses if the Orcs were not stopped now while their numbers were small, their organization less developed.

As soon as first light broke to the east, Veryadan stirred the few embers of their little fire and called to his companions who were already stirring from their blankets. Once Aidwain was up, he filled their small pot with water from a nearby creek and set it to boil for tea. ‘We should set out toward Weathertop as soon as we’ve broken our fast,’ the Elf said, kneeling down to roll his blankets and tie them. Veryadan nodded, fetching his pack and handing round a few handfuls of sweet oats for the horses who were trying to make do with the sparse, coarse clumps of grass that grew in this area.

Meal done, fire out, coals scattered, the three took to their mounts and headed south a short ways, then turned east. They were in no hurry; their meeting with the other two groups would not be until tomorrow. It was early evening still when they reached the southern foot of Weathertop at the point nearest the Great East Road. Veryadan looked up toward the plateau. ‘Well, there’s a small track I can see winding it’s way up,’ he said pointing toward a broken line zig-zagging up the hill. Looks like we’ll have to lead the horses up.’

He was just about to dismount when Aidwain spoke up. ‘Amon Sûl, you know, is what we Elves named your Weathertop.’ He laughed as he spoke. ‘And a fitting name it is. Hill of the Wind! Let’s save being blown about for tomorrow. It shouldn’t take that long to climb up.’ The Elf pointed to an area across the road – a small clearing with some trees to shelter under.

Veryadan laughed also, seeing the wisdom of the Elf’s choice of camp. ‘Now all we need is something tasty and hot for dinner! I, for one, am tired of dried meats and fruits. It’s still light out, anyone have an idea?’

[Kransha]

When there was nothing to kill, maim, devour, annihilate, or ‘play with,’ life got very boring for orcs. Bâzzog was pacing, in the center of his camp, probably thinking, though it was hard to tell when one looked at him. He would crouch down; squatting, every now and then, and survey the land to some extent, but all exercises were designed merely to occupy him. Nearby, Búbkûr sat, letting sparkling golden coins, which he had clutched in his hand, drip through his fingers and watching the sunny waterfall fall onto an ever-growing pile arranged in the dirt. Gráthgrob was also squatting, and sketching an illegible series of drawing in the moister dirt with his sharpest claw, that tipped his stubbly forefinger. Kransha, as mute as ever, stood in the distance, looking over the camp in silence, while other orcs busied themselves with counting their respective shares from the spoils of the Whittleworth Farm raid. At last, the steady tedium was disrupted by distant sounds of horse hooves, and the approach of the hunched over, wretched shadow called Fen Sheperdspurse. At his arrival, Búbkûr leapt to his feet, but Bâzzog was unfazed, and only nodded to acknowledge the man’s arrival.

“Bâzzog.” He said quickly, “I bring word of the interlopers.”

“Not ill news, again, is it.” Búbkûr growled, his grimy teeth poking out of his continuously blood-stained mouth. He growled, a deep, throaty noise that swelled and gasped in his throat, and Fen flinched visibly, but did not waver otherwise, and managed to continue, despite the residue of Búbkûr’s unsatisfied sounds. “No, not ill at all.” He said; grinning like a devil, all wrapped up in his villainous cloak, “I know of where they will meet, on the morrow. Upon the hill of Weathertop they will be meeting;” he pointed a slightly quivering finger, bony and gnarled like detestable tree branch, in the direction of the ruined watch-tower of Amon Sûl, “a more than perfect opportunity for you to ‘make their acquaintance,’ yes?” He chuckled under his breath, thinking that the orcs might join in with raucous guffaws, but they did not.

“Roight.” muttered Bâzzog, scratching himself. Fen looked repulsed, but Bâzzog and his cohorts ignored the disgusted look. “Whadda we do, then?” interjected Búbkûr loudly, his boor voice filling the area and shattering the illusion of silence. Bâzzog looked back at him, his beady eyes narrowed in a dank scowl, and he responded in a terse fashion, as was customary for terse orcs. “Kill ‘em.” He said, “Simple enough.” The other orcs did not entirely comprehend, especially the duller lieutenant. “Just…kill ‘em?” Búbkûr looked confused, his thick, jutting brow wiggling in bewilderment, “Just like that?” Bâzzog looked sourly at him, and responded, “Of course ‘just like that.’ Whaddja think we were gonna do.”

Gráthgrob’s voice was heard next, meek at first, but then strangely confident as its volume rose. “Well,” he said, “…we don’t ‘ave ta kill ‘em.” Bâzzog and Búbkûr glowered back at him, both confused and slightly insulted by this questioning of Bâzzog’s authoritative power to have the last word. “What’s ‘at supposed ta mean?” shot back the chief orc angrily, rising swiftly to his feet, his shadow falling over the smaller figure of Gráthgrob, who immediately cowered, but spread his arms and attempted to calm Bâzzog. The chief was half-enraged, but knew Gráthgrob to be a decent, respectable, and intelligent uruk, and moved back, allowing the sniveling orc to waddle forward and make his scheme known. “Maybe,” he began quietly, constantly looking to his captain for approval, “…We just kill some…I mean, there ain’t many of ‘em, right? So, we ambush ‘em at Weathertop, but not all of us; just a few o’ us. That way, we can still ‘ave our fun with ‘em, eh? Let the trolls have their gold. I say, we can take whatever the tarks and the Elfies got.” At this, he spat condemningly, upon the name of the Elves, and was joined by Búbkûr, who did the same.

Bâzzog, though, was busy nodding in agreement, and was joined shortly after by the other orc grunts crowded around, some of whom whispered and murmured to themselves or others. Without a single exchanged word between the whole band, the decision was made. They began to gather closer, and huddle, and speak more loudly, as Bâzzog and Bubkur considered quietly, and Kransha stood mutely by. Búbkûr broke the reign of hushed voices, by speaking with his usual oafish tone. “Wha’ about him?” he said, jerking a clawed thumb at the figure of Fen Sheperdspurse. Fen jumped, slightly ecstatic at the thought of gaining more riches for himself, and could not stop himself from blurting out, “Yes. What of my share?”

Bâzzog smiled evilly. “Ye want yer share, do ye?” He shot a glance at the thin, quiet orc lieutenant nearby. “Kransha?”

Suddenly, the narrow, emaciated arm of the silent orc shot forward at lightning speed, and the orc’s icy fingers, closing like a mighty vice, wrapped around Fen’s scrawny neck and hoisted him speedily off his feet. Confused and horrified, Fen squirmed about as a caught fish might out of water, but to no avail. Kransha’s hold on his needed throat constricted and tightened, though the uruk himself bore a completely unemotional expression on his face, one of utter, incomprehensible bemusement. Behind the hovering man and orc, other orcs, licking their lips ferociously, wormed forward, forming a voracious semicircle just behind Fen. Bâzzog took a step forward, grinning maliciously. Fen had outlived his usefulness – though not entirely. Quietly, he spoke. “We orcs don’t really like sharin’.” He said, sardonic and cold, “But, I think we can manage it, just this once.” He looked past the dangling Bree man, to the orcs under his command, whose eyes were glowing horrifically, and whose mouths were hanging open. “Boys:” he cried, “‘e’s all yours – and don’t ferget ta share.”

The orc threw Fen backward…and he never hit the ground. As he fell, the orcs swarmed over him, growling and roaring.

Giggling sadistically to himself, Bâzzog turned around and, in one sweeping motion, pulled his weapon from its place in his belt, hanging in neglect at his side. He drew it forth, and held it up. “C’mon, you maggots!” he cried, hearing his lieutenants and the other orcs (those who were not currently “busy”) begin to sidle around him, “We’re goin’ ta Weathertop!” The orcs slowly drew all their weapons, many laughing and hooting in mad anticipation. Soon, a mild uproar had sprung up. Bâzzog laughed deeply, and Bubkur joined like a good thrall, laughing stupidly, but also considering the benefits, and the fun to be had, from Grathgrob’s ingenious plan. The uruk troops began to ready themselves, gathering what they required for the hunt ahead, but their murderous jollity was interrupted by a breathless goblin messenger, who dashed into the area, panting furiously, and addressed Bâzzog as soon as he was near him.

“Cap’n.” said the messenger, in between sharp breaths, “The trolls are here. They say Elves are about, and they wanna speak with you.”

“Sha!” cursed Bâzzog, a sentiment seconded by many other orcs in far more obscene ways, “That means they’ll want a piece of the action, they will.” He paused, looking to Gráthgrob, Kransha, and Búbkûr. They did not reply to his gaze, looking, instead, to him for leadership, and a decision, despite the fact that most other uruks in the camp were too wrapped up in the business of preparation to notice what was occurring. Finally, Bâzzog begrudgingly shrugged. Best that we let ‘em tag along” he said, half in defeat, and then considered what might come of such an action. “…They ain’t bad in a fight, fer sure.” Búbkûr nodded heartily.

And so the matter was settled. The trolls, still thinking that they were the ones that had alerted the orcs to the Elves’ presence, and a band of selected orcs under Bâzzog, as well as his chief lieutenants, set off for the hill called Amon Sûl, to wreak havoc on their foes.