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“Cirith Gorgor, the Haunted Pass, the entrance to the land of the Enemy. High cliffs lowered upon either side, and thrust forward from its mouth were two sheer hills, black-boned and bare. Upon them stood the Teeth of Mordor, two towers strong and tall. In days long past they were built by the Men of Gondor in their pride and power…Now the watch-towers, which had fallen into decay, were repaired, and filled with arms, and garrisoned with ceaseless vigilance. Stoney-faced they were, with dark window-holes staring north and east and west, and each window was full of sleepless eyes.
Across the mouth of the pass, from cliff to cliff, the Dark Lord had built a rampart of stone. In it there was a single gate of iron, and upon its battlement sentinels paced unceasingly…None could pass the Teeth of Mordor and not feel their bite, unless they were summoned by Sauron, or knew the secret passwords that would open the Morannon, the black gate to his land.” (The Two Towers, The Black Gate is Closed)

The Morannon is the name for the rampart across Cirith Gorgor and is an impregnable black stone and iron wall that stretches from the Ered Lithui in the north to the Ephel Duath in the west. The wall stands some sixty feet in height, and measures over two hundred and fifty feet in length with each half of the great gate being ninety feet wide and set on large stone wheels. Behind the gate are gigantic circular stone ramparts, and when the gate needs to be opened, two pairs of Mountain-trolls tethered to gigantic beams push their way around their rampart's track, gradually levering open the gate and allowing for the incoming or outgoing of Mordor’s armies.

Within the wall myriad archers, spearmen, bowmen, ballistae, and hundreds of thousands of Orc troops stand ready to defend Mordor. Their purpose is to protect and guard the northern entrance into Mordor and to prevent invasion at the gap between the Ash Mountains and the Mountains of Shadow.

In Gondor's early days, when it was building towers and cities such as Minas Ithil and Cirith Ungol close to Mordor's border, it raised the two great Towers of the Teeth, Narchost and Carchost, which were built on either side of the gap where the wall now known as the Morannon stands and these towers are tall enough to overlook the defences.


Training missions for Conscripts of the Black Host will take place here. This will be a unique way of training, that can later be changed to having an actual trainer in charge of the conscripts and I have a whole system for earning ranks and GM'ing other scenario's. But for now, while we find our feet, you alone will be in charge of your training. 1 post over 300 words = 1 Renown. Renown has been adjusted to reflect the current situation where we just want to post, this can also be altered later. However, if you find someone you would like to train you, then by all means do so. Though the one training you should have earned a high rank from the former Army.
You may also post in other threads with the character you are training with. Make sure it is army related and that you state in the top of the post so it can be counted towards your total.

Once you attain 5 points of Renown you progress from Conscripted to Soldier in the Black Host. You continue to gain Renown throughout your Host career and each post will score you a Renown. The more Renown the faster you will progress through the rank echelon, and the more well known and feared your character is for his deeds.

Locations for the Thread:

Carchost, Chambers of the High Command, The War Room: New soldiers sent from Carach Angren need to report to the Chamber of the High Command for assignment (You think one up). The main entrance is a gate on the ground level, which leads into a large hall filled with new soldiers, young and old, waiting to earn an appointment to a division or further their progress within their division. On the far side there is a stairwell and a barrier behind which are several men keeping track of all the recruits and records of who applied for which division.

Narchost, Officers’ Quarters & Guard Posts: The officers have established their chambers high in the Tower of Narchost. Though there is soldiery garrisoned both above and below them, the private chambers of the rannking officers of the divisions are here. The entrance to the tower, a narrow stairway creeping along the side of the tower to a door on the third level, is guarded by elite sentinels, and admittance to these chambers is under strict watch.

The Orc-holds, Under the Mountains, the Barracks: The mountains on either side of the Cirith Gorgor are riddled with passages and halls delved deep. An entire host could be garrisoned, and exit at a moments notice from the countless tunnels, hidden amongst the niches in the cliff walls. Here the soldiery of the Dark Lord has a sort of home, if that it can be called. There can always be found here numerous troops off-duty, up to any sort of activity their mind has wandered to.

Armory and Smithy: The army maintains a stock of weapons, for when the supply of weapons issued to soldiers begins to grow thin. The smiths there are able to perform minor repairs and sharpening, but they have neither the means nor the skill to operate a full forge such as the one at Ostigurth, which is regularly commissioned to stock the army. This is located in a small building set back from the Black Gate, near where some sparring and other forms of competition occur in a near-constant fashion.

Mess Hall: Next to the Armory is a low building with a trail of smoke ever rising from its roof, like its neighbor. With a large army comes the need to feed them all. Minions are ever present here to collect their rations, mostly hard bread and dried meats, though on occasion there is some more attractive fare, and for the higher ranking soldiers thes tidbits are treats for services rendered. Expecting a lavish cuisine? Tough, this is Mordor, be lucky if your meal doesn't fight back.

The Ring: Not far from the smithy is a ring, not twenty feet in diameter. It is known simply as ‘The Ring’, and there is often times a fight going on there, two at a time only, and always there is a large crowd cheering or jeering each combatant as the fight progresses. (Feel free to fight someone else in the Ring)

The Black Gate and tower battlements: Except on occasions when the entire army is ordered to assemble in Udûn, there is always a legion of solders patrolling and keeping watch from the massive fortifications which make up The Morannon. Many are those on guard duty, and never is there a time when innumerable eyes are not watching.

Division: As you progress through the ranks you must choose a desired division. This will specialise your character within the army. And this role you choose is simply one to show your personal tastes and better define your character's appearance.

Assassins - Vras - Assassins are trained in stealth, they strike from the shadows unseen and disappear back into them leaving no trace of their passage.

Infantry - Kambasor - The light infantry, typically lightly armoured foot soldiers, from Khandese warriors to orc patrols. Armed with sword and spear.

Heavy Infantry - Rand Kambasor - The heavy infantry, tend to wear plate armour and carry pikes or halbards, armed with falchions or greatswords.

Cavalry - Kalors - Lightly armed riders, who wear simple armour and carry composite shortbows, or spears, and wicked scimitars.

Heavy Cavalry - Rand Kalors - Heavily armoured riders, these typically ride warhorses and wear plate armour, carrying lances, and swords, and shield.

Marksmen - Pushaktar - These archers carry the bows, and their multitude means that many enemies don't get near the forward ranks of the army.

Siege-engineers - Shatorothaum-zongot - Usually comprised of Mountain Trolls and the like, the siege-engineers are involved both in defence of the Morannon or Minas Morgul and attack, when the army is on the move towing their weapons of war.

Ranks: The ranks of the Divisions begin once a member who is conscripted has scored 5 points of Renown. That is when you choose a Division. At the beginning you are simply a Conscript of the Black Host. If you have earned an old rank in the old Mordor Army and you want to keep it, then feel free to use the equivalent here, just make a note in your post how you got your rank. If you earned I really high rank that none of these ranks reflect, then feel free to keep that rank name, however in this thread no one else can gain that rank now. So if you see a rank not on the list, these were earned in the old Mordor Army and all were higher ranked than what is listed here.

Make sure to post your Rank and Name in the top of your post.

Ranks:

Division of Assassins - Vras

Hidoram - Shadowhand - 5 - 10 Renown
Eiturgoth - Poison Master - 11 - 16 Renown
Hisharbtur - Shadow Servant - 17 - 22 Renown
Hirendas - Nightrunner - 23 - 29 Renown
Hidraugur - Shadow Ghost - 30 - 35 Renown
Vajodharfrum - Spirit Thief 36 - 41 Renown
Vadokburzum - Death-bringer 42 - 50 Renown
Vrasgoth - Master Assassin 51+ Renown

Division of Infantry - Kambasor

Kambasor Voshatraum - Infantry Look-out - 5 - 10 Renown
Snaga of the Kambasor - Slave of the Infantry - 11 - 16 Renown
Sharbtur of the Kambasor - Servant of the Infantry -17 - 22 Renown
Kambasorog - Guard of the Infantry - 23 - 29 Renown
Kambasorgirmus - Infantry Scout - 30 - 35 Renown
Ushatar of the Kambasor - Soldier of the Infantry 36 - 41 Renown
Kordatar of the Kambasor - Swordsman of the Infantry 42 - 50 Renown
Drartul of the Kambasor - Sergeant of the Infantry 51+ Renown

Division of Heavy Infantry - Rand Kambasor

Rand Kambasor Voshatraum - Heavy Infantry Look-out - 5 - 10 Renown
Snaga of the Rand Kambasor - Slave of the Heavy Infantry - 11 - 16 Renown
Sharbtur of the Rand Kambasor - Servant of the Heavy Infantry - 17 - 22 Renown
Rogtar of the Rand Kambasor - Guard of the Heavy Infantry - 23 - 29 Renown
Burzkasnok of the Rand Kambasor - Herald of the Heavy Infantry - 30 - 35 Renown
Ushatar of the Rand Kambasor - Soldier of the Heavy Infantry 36 - 41 Renown
Kordatar of the Rand Kambasor - Swordsman of the Heavy Infantry 42 - 50 Renown
Drartul of the Rand Kambasor - Sergeant of the Heavy Infantry 51+ Renown

Division of Cavalry - Kalors

Snaga of the Kalors - Slave of the Cavalry 5 - 10 Renown
Sharbtur of the Kalors - Servant of the Cavalry - 11 - 16 Renown
Kasnok of the Kalord - Herald of the Cavalry - 17 - 22 Renown
Jashatbartomum of the Kalors - Outrider of the Cavalry - 23 - 29 Renown
Bartomum of the Kalors - Rider of the Cavalry - 30 - 35 Renown
Zibartomum of the Kalors - Black Rider of the Cavalry - 36 - 41 Renown
Drubartomum of the Kalors - Dread Rider of the Cavalry - 42 - 50, Renown
Drartul of the Kalors - Sergeant of the Cavalry - 51 + Renown

Division of Heavy Cavalry - Rand Kalors

Prerequisite: Must have earned 51 Renown working with the Kalors.

Bartomum of the Rand Kalors - Rider of the Heavy Cavalry - 51 - 60 Renown
Shatauzur of the Rand Kalors - Lancer of the Heavy Cavalry - 61 - 70 Renown

Hibujar of the Rand Kalors - Shadow Knight of the Heavy Cavalry - 71 - 80 Renown
Drartul of the Hibujar - Sergeant of the Shadow Knights - 81 - 90 Renown
Kritar of the Hibujar - Captain of the Shadow Knights - 91+ Renown

Dagulbujar of the Rand Kalors - Demon Knight of the Heavy Cavalry - 71 - 80 Renown
Drartul of the Dagulbujar - Sergeant of the Demon Knights - 81 - 90 Renown
Kritar of the Dagulbujar - Captain of the Demon Knights - 91+ Renown

Division of Marksmen - Pushaktar

Pushaktar Voshatraum - Marksman Look-out - 5 - 10 Renown
Pushaktar Snaga - Marksman Slave - 11 - 16 Renown
Pushaktar Sharbtur - Marksman Servant - 17 - 22 Renown
Rogtar Pushaktar - Guard of the Marksmen - 23 - 29 Renown
Pushaktar Ushatar - Marksman Soldier 30 - 35 Renown
Pushaktar Kalus - Marksman Archer 36 - 41 Renown
Drartul of the Pushaktar- Sergeant of the Marksmen 42+ Renown

Division of Siege-engineers - Shatorothaum-zongot

Shatorothaum-zongot Shakamubgazogur - Siege-engineer Rockwielder 5 - 10 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongot Voshatraum - Siege-engineer look-out 11 - 16 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongotrog - Siege-engineer Guard 17 - 22 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongot ushatar - Siege-engineer Soldier 23 - 29 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongotzot - Siege-engineer Master 30 - 35 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongot Drartul - Siege-engineer Sergeant 36 - 41 Renown
Shatorothaum-zongot Kritar - Siege-engineer Captain - 42+ Renown



Note: This version of the Mordor Army called the Black Host is new to the plaza, however aspects of this Morannon thread are not. We give our thanks to Turin, for some of the descriptive work locationally, and for finding the top quote which appeared in an archived Morannon thread he created. We give our thanks to Tzu, for some of the descriptive work regarding the Towers of the Teeth and their purpose organisationally. That work appeared in the Narchost and Carchost threads created for the SL forum which are now obselete. And of course a Big thanks to Naith for working on this with me. And thanks to LoTR Wiki for the pic.

There were times when Swiltang hated being in charge. True, his chambers near the top of Narchost were a distinct benefit to the situation, but they didn’t make up for the constant annoyances that came with command. The chambers were large and, as the Black Land went, richly furnished; their light came from braziers, rather than torches or candles, creating a steadier glow and a less constant need for replenishment. Swiltang currently occupied the large front room which comprised study, training area, and a large, rough table and chairs. The orc swordmaster paced this room with disgruntled intent, reading an ash-stained letter. He was uncommonly tall for an orc, lean, and twisted. The hand of fate that had deformed his spine caused one shoulder to slightly precede the other, and tugged the right side of his discolored face into a permanent sneer, showing several pointed teeth. It was only the foolish or ignorant that would take the twisted spine and uneven gait for weakness, however: from the earliest days of his youth long ages ago, Swiltang had driven relentlessly against these hinderances, demanding that his body be as ruthless and cunning as his mind.

Yarltang had always been jealous of his brother’s intelligence. The younger of the two sons of Ziltang was taller and broader, a huge, burly specimen of an orc- far smarter than an ordinary orc, and plenty smart enough to realize that Swiltang outstripped him in every way but bulk. Neither of them would ever forget the few years Yarltang was able to use his size against his brother, but for very different reasons. Swiltang’s red eyes- his gift from their boldog father- swept up from the parchment he had been reading, to the table and chairs. They were too large for him, left over from when this chamber had been his father’s, and Ziltang the Maugân of the Black Host. He resolved to have them chopped to kindling at the first opportunity, as he had so many times before. Burning eyes dropped to the parchment once more, and he considered its contents. And its character- though it had picked up a dusting of ash on its journey here from Minas Morgul, the paper itself was remarkably supple, of a quality virtually unknown in the Black Land. The writing that covered it was that of an elegant spider, all loops and eloquence to cover the biting words. And, yes, Swiltang determined as he raised the letter closer to his face and sniffed, carrying the faint aroma of anise.

That wench, Sombelenë, playing games as usual! With a growl of irritation, Swiltang tossed the letter onto a brazier where it flared and curled, and his hand followed through to complete the gesture by fisting in the coarse black hair that sprouted from his scalp, beginning near his crown and confining itself to the shape of an unkempt mane down the back of his head and neck. He rubbed the hand up and down, as though by stimulating the follicles he might inspire a solution to all the problems the letter- and the arrogant, treacherous Avar herself- posed. Unfortunately, no miraculous answers to this ongoing quandary presented themselves, and Swiltang resolved the put it out of his mind for the moment. Striding towards the door, he caught up his sword, already scabbarded and fixed to its baldric, and buckled it about his torso. The resounding slam of the door behind him rattled the torches outside it in their brackets, and sounded the death knell of what might have been a peaceful day.


On his way down from the height of Narchost, Swiltang’s mood had not been improved by the necessity of breaking up a fight between three of the more junior officers who were allocated barracks near the bottom of the tower. Apparently being billeted in the tower had given each an overinflated sense of self importance, which each was absolutely sure only he had a right to, and he absolutely must beat out of his fellows. Unfortunately for them, their Maugân had happened to pass by at exactly the wrong moment. After knocking the several heads together, Swiltang had reminded them that the ring existed if they really needed to settle their differences with blood, but it would have to wait until after they had finished cleaning every corridor on their entire floor with the tiny, bristly brushes that the armorers used for removing stubborn grit from the better blades in the armory. At the entrance to the tower, Swiltang had commanded one of the elite sentinels who guarded it to stand relieved from his post, and instead supervise the cleaning efforts- and not to be stingy with the lash. The guard, who had been standing in a slack sort of manner that to the untrained eye would have indicated inattention, immediately straightened with a grin and trotted off to his new task. At least someone around the place was going to have a good day.

Swiltang passed by the smithy. Under normal circumstances he might have paused there to check in on the work being performed, not only because he was interested, but because the smiths of Ostigurth were some of the few beings around here he actually enjoyed talking to. His gaze passed over the various soldiers scattered about the place, training and sparring, though non currently occupied the ring. He could feel them shift and stiffen under his eyes, even those who postured and shouted boastfully even as he passed- a visceral reaction to the Maugân was not to be denied by the rank and file, particularly when he was clearly in a towering temper. But none of them was doing anything overtly wrong and so Swiltang passed them by also. Beyond the ring was a flat, arid length of land, stretching out to the far side of the Black Gate, a space into which training could overflow when many troops were at work. But for the moment, Swiltang had it to himself.

Reaching over his right shoulder to grasp the protruding hilt, the swordmaster drew his blade. It was no crude orc-sword, but a find weapon of folded steel, its blade longer than a man’s arm and tapering outward from the hilt before hooking to a lethal point. While its weight and length garnered a two-handed hilt, long ages of experience made it light and nimble in Swiltang’s hands. He began to move through the basic exercises that were, even now, paramount to training. Blade on the right shoulder, extended diagonal cut down, cross hands into tail guard, rising cut up on the same diagonal, drop hands to hip in tail guard on the right, rising cut on the opposite diagonal, cross the hands, falling strike. Infinite cut. Next. Begin in tail guard on the left, rising diagonal cut, cross hands at the top of the strike describing a horizontal arc above the head, diagonal cut on the opposite line, cross hands, rising cut on the same line, repeat the motion at the top and continue. Ribbon cut. Next. Blade on the right shoulder, center cut down, feint into thrust, launching the blade forward with a lunging step, recover to the left hip, en guard to the left shoulder, repeat on the other side. Cut of wrath. Change sword hand and repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Sweat gathered in all the crinkles and corners of Swiltang’s skin and drenched his hair but he paid it no mind, droplets whipping off to turn to steam in the acrid air as he moved, transitioning from basic drills into more complex forms of his own invention. With a grace uncommon to orc-kind he moved, limbs supple and agile as he engaged in the complex dance of the sword. None watching the crouching, leaping, striking, coiling, whiplike arms and body of the swordmaster would ever guess there had once been days any voice dared to call him cripple.



((OOC: Feel free to approach Swiltang for interaction or training if you want!))

Úrgarlach
Just Outside the Black Gates
No Renown

The skies overhead rumbled, an ominous, if not distant, threat. Úrgarlach watched the fetid clouds move back and forth. He could see shapes inside them, horrid screaming mouths whose agony was eternal. They stretched and thunder erupted from the clouds as the mouths were torn apart, blow asunder by a fetid eastern wind. The orc took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The smell of the rank bog was behind him, yet it seemed to cling to him, wispy tendrils of rot curling it’s fingers around him, begging him not to go, to stay and decay. He had camped out in the Dead Marshes for two weeks, waiting for a contact that now seemed unlikely to come. Had he been swallowed up by the swamp? Gotten lost in the maze of pools only to be swallowed up and add his corpse candle to the choir? Úrgarlach thought that very likely. He had almost gotten lost himself, and he had grown up in this land.

He followed the tracks deftly, remembering for a misspent youth were not to put his feet lest he get sucked down into frozen mud. A Will-o’-the-wisp had distracted him though, a pale flash of blue fire wandering deeper into the more dangerous parts of the Dead Marshes. He knew better than to follow, more than one companion had been lost to the foolish whimsy of following the lights. Legends said if you caught it, you would be rich beyond your wildest dreams. Úrgarlach had only seen dreams eviscerated and torn apart. Screams of his friends now littered his own dreams. In that moment of distraction, Úrgarlach had watched as the landscape itself seemed to shift and roll about, closing off safe pathways and opening new, portentously quiet ones. That he managed to get out was a minor miracle, he had closed his eyes and used his muscle memory, stepping exactly where he had been stepping ten years. Whatever illusion the swamp had created to trap him had broken that way.

He was out now. A strange feeling of regret and nostalgia washed over him, a longing to go back into the Dead Marshes and hide. But he couldn’t do that, not anymore. There was no life for him in the Dead Marshes. Whatever life awaited him, waited for him through the towers in front of him, the dreadful spikes of obsidian that torn through the dying earth.

“Now or never,” he muttered to himself, and put a foot forward, leaving behind his old life and starting it anew as a soldier.

Borfang and Mord
Conscripts - 1 Renown

Borfang was huge. He was literally as tall as any Uruk and about as muscled as them as well. However he was not an Uruk, he was merely a man, though no one knew where he was from, his dark hair and dark skin, as well as his size, often had people guessing. His size and strength had obviously gotten him into many fights, just to test his strength or at times to win a prize. Something that Mord often took advantage of. Mord was the businessman of the two, where Borfang was tall, he was average height. Where Borfang was well muscled and huge, Mord was thin but wiry. Borfang carried with him a huge mace that Mord could barely lift with one hand, though Mord's preferred weapon was his poisoned daggers and his beloved recurve bow. Where Borfang earned a reputation for his strenth and winning fights, Mord earned his with his marksmanship. He could send an arrow right through an apple perched on someones head, while they were riding a horse. Where Borfang won by crushing skulls with his fists, Mord won them with his aim. That and stabbing them with his poisoned daggers.

The pair had just arrived the night before, the shear magnitude of the huge gate not really visible in the dark, though the thundering they had heard when they opened should have been an indication. They could not help but watch with fascination as the trolls pulled the chains to open the gate again, both of them pausing in their tracks. "You sure you want to do this?" Borfang grumbled, scratching at his long lanky black hair on his head. "Yes!" hissed Mord in response. "We have no choice, we have been over this already!" Annoyed at being questioned about his intentions, again, Mord turned and began walking away only to realise he had no idea where to go. "Oi you! Yes, you!" he snapped at a nearby orc who was carrying a dozen swords. "Where do you go to sign up?" The question was followed by a glare, one he could easily afford given that he had Borfang towering over him like some kind of guard and it worked as the orc only took one glance at the huge man before nodding his head towards a long table over one end of the yard with a long line already building up next to it, before scuttling off in a hurry.

Seeing the line Mord growled with annoyance, stalking over to it with Borfang in tow. Mord was not particularly patient, nor was he really ever in a good mood, so instead of heading to the back of the line, he made his way to the front. Without pause, he shoved the first in line aside and gave him an angry glare that all but begged the man to retaliate, however yet again it proved invaluable to have Borfang with him as Borfang stepped up next to him. Furious, but knowing not to pick a fight with a man that size, the man that had been shoved from the line skulked off to go to the back while cursing the two under his breath.

The man behind the table slapped two pieces of paper down in front of them. "Sign! You will train for a week, prove yourself worthy of joining or die. Your choice." He gave them both a hard impatient stare as he waited for them to scratch their mark on the paper. Once done, he whipped the papers away and turned to point out several locations such as the mess hall and where they could get weapons if needed. Lastly he pointed in the direction of where the barracks were, adding "Men tend to stick together with other men, orcs with orcs if you know what I mean. Find a spot to sleep where you can. NEXT!"

"Well there you have it Bor.. we are now in the greatest army Middle Earth has ever seen, if you are to believe what that guy in Umbar was saying. What do you think?" Borfang looked around at the thousands of men, orc, trolls and goblins as they headed in the direction of the mess hall, scratching at his black beard. "I don't know Mord.. this looks a bit out of our league.."
"Nonsense! Out of our league.. PSSSH! This is our opportunity! Our chance at something great! You'll see.."

Úrgarlach
Around the Sea or Nurnen
2 Renown

Úrgarlach wanted to collapse. His lungs burned and his muscles felt like lead. He had been running at a near full sprinting pace for six hours now. Úrgarlach was slipping, losing his footing, sliding and nearly crashing to the ground at least once every mile. How long was he going to have to keep this up?
He had managed to get inside the Black Gates and had been rushed along, getting poked, stabbed, prodded, and pushed. A beady eyed goblin had taken his name down and told him he’d be joining a new group of recruits that had just been assembled. The nasty little creature then giggled as he told the orc that he was going to have to shave his head to join.
His scalp still burned from the knife scraps and the razorblades. Before he had had a chance to recover though, he was laden with a pack that weighed nearly as much as he did, and ordered to run around the Sea of Nurnen until he was told to stop.
Before he set out, he heard some of the higher ranking orcs taking bets as to which one of the new recruits would die first. He heard his name mentioned along with the price of 50 fifty gold pieces. The initial anger had fueled his endurance for the first three hours, but now he was lagging, his legs were turning to jelly.
He took a deep breath, feeling the air slice into him as he did, but suddenly he was without pain. He could feel himself moving but the pain had vanished. He felt distant from himself, like he was so deep inside his own head he had vacated his physical body. The sensation would have been more welcome if it had not been so abrupt. He could breathe here, wherever that was.
Then, with the same rapidity that it had come, it vanished and Úrgarlach back in the world of pain. His breathing was easier though, and his muscles weren’t so knotted and sore.
Somewhere, up ahead, the leader called a halt. Everyone, Úrgarlach included, suddenly stopped and fell to group, gasping for air like fish.
He did it. He finished whatever sort of test or hazing ritual they had planned and had lived to tell about. At least twelve of the company that set out on the run had not made it, falling down dead in their tracks along the way. It was a brutal reminder to Úrgarlach about what exactly he was doing. He was not joining a social group or a band of scholars. He was in the Black Host now. Weakness of any kind would not be tolerated.
An idea began forming in his head as he watched the superior walking by, inspecting the troops. They capered and japed with each other, looking at the runners with disdain and disappointment. He searched out the voice that had made a wager on his death. It was a squat faced, puke green skinned orc with a squashed nose and fat lip. Úrgarlach stood up and used his remaining strength and resolve to slam his fist as hard as he could into the bastard’s face. He might end up in the Pits for this, but he would be damned if he was going let some pissy little puke faced orc make a profit off of him.

Úrgarlach
Smithy
3 Renown

An orc with pale blue skin pushed him forward with the head of a spear poking into the center of his back. There was a stream of blood flowing from that spot already, the spearhead glistened with thick black ichor.
“Move!” The voice was high pitched and grating, there was a satisfaction in that voice too. A hidden challenge. Úrgarlach trudged forward, every muscle fiber in his body was on fire. He wanted to turn around, push the spearhead away, and strangle the little wretch, but he could barely move at this point. There was only the fresh wound on his back now but there circular scabs up and down his forearms and legs where they had exorcised skin off him, and a series of angry red scars where they branded him. He was now clad in a urine-stained shirt and horsehair leggings. Ankle and wrist cuffs, at least two stones in weight each, completed the outfit.
The spear pricked his back again, another bolt of pain directly into his spine. His anger and defiance was the only thing keeping him upright. He stood as tall as he could, towering over his jailer by nearly two feet, despite the pain in his legs.
“You’re in for it now boy,” the orc behind him tittered. “You pissed off the wrong officer. If you thought that your little vacation the last few days was irksome in any way, you’ll soon be groveling at my feet to back to the pokers. Do you even know who we’re giving you to?”
Úrgarlach remained sullenly silent, glaring ahead and breathing haggardly through chipped teeth.
“Answer me, swine!” The spear dug into this back.
Úrgarlach bit down on his tongue so hard he was afraid he was bite through. He spot blood.
“No, I don’t,” his voice was ragged.
The blue skinned torturer giggled. “You’re in a for a treat then! Not many come back from this one alive.”
Another jab and they were moving again. They moved through the prison and barracks at as fast a pace as Úrgarlach could muster. Finally, they arrived at the weapon smithy. The heat was almost unbearable. Instead of making him sweat, the heat just seemed to suck the life out of him. They moved through it until they came on a figure dancing and darting back and forth with a wicked looking blade. Úrgarlach’s eyes were so dry he could barely see.
“Hey, Swiltang, up high has a new project for ya. Yeah, says they don’t care what you do with him. Turn ‘im to ash, to puddin’ or one o’ yer special soldiers, don’t matter. Consider it a gift from the head office.”
Úrgarlach gulped painfully. He knew who this was now.

“A gift?” Swiltang flowed through the final moves of the form he had been working before being so rudely interrupted by the blue-skinned orc and his prisoner. The swordmaster straightened from his final crouch, and turned to face the ill-begotten pair. The messenger looked entirely too gleeful, and the prisoner looked as if he had been run nearly to death, not to mention the abominable smell. Not that either of these things were exactly unusual in the Black Land, but Swiltang preferred not to have his own training disrupted with trash. “A gift?” he repeated raising his sword arm. The blade he held in reverse grip hissed as he threw it down, its keen point burying itself in the ashy desert ground in perfect alignment, so that it stood of its own accord. With an outward curling movement of his arm, a twist of the waist, and as little effort as crushing an ant, Swiltang ripped the spear out of the orcs’s hands and pivoted around so that the shaft swept his legs from beneath him. The blue skinned orc hit the ground with a cry and a thud, the breath knocked out of him. “Take the cuffs off him,” Swiltang ordered casually, his eyes fixed on the recruit (Úrgarlach), planting the butt of the spear on the ground at his side, “how is he supposed to be of any use to me in this state with those on? Pathetic.” The blue orc complied, wheezing and whining, grumbling as he took the weight of the cuffs upon himself. He opened his mouth to say something, but Swiltang cut him off. “Get out of my sight, and be grateful that’s all.” Not one to push his luck, the blue orc scuttled away. “So,” Swiltang jiggled the spearshaft idly in his hand, looking away from the recruit to study the smoke patterns rising from Orodruin. “Tell me your name, your rank, and what you’ve done to be thrown to the wargs.”

Úrgarlach
Smithy/Ring Area
6 Renown (Combined from Tower of Might)

Suddenly without the heavy weight of the manacles, Úrgarlach found his strength again. It took a few breaths before he was able to speak, regain the moisture in his mouth in all this heat.
“My name is Úrgarlach. As far as I am aware, I don’t have much of a rank outside of prisoner,” he paused a moment, relishing the memory of the smashed puke green face of the orc captain. “They gave me to you because I punched a superior officer for trying to profit off my death. They tried to say I punched his jaw off but that’s only half true. I broke his jaw, aye, but the infection that set in later was what ripped it off.”
It suddenly dawned on him that maybe laughing about it was a bad idea. He had heard rumors about the orc before him. A legendary fighter, a brutal commander, and one with no tolerance for fools. Úrgarlach desperately wanted to train under him. He was the best, simple as that. Looking at him now, the legend of Swiltang had been entirely accurate. He was lean and muscled, as tall as Úrgarlach but carried himself better, he was light and swift of foot. His eyes, when they had been cast on Úrgarlach for that brief moment, filled him with both terror and excitement.

His heartbeat slowed after a moment. Swiltang was watching the smoke rising from the mountain. He wondered what his commander saw in the smoke. Úrgarlach had always been told while living in the Dead Marshes that the best commanders could see the future in those wisps of ash and smoke. He stood silently, not daring to move. His muscles screamed for a respite, aching from the torture and the march over here. Yet he stood. His knees tried to lock several times, trying on their own to lessen the torture but he shifted each time. Sweat dripped off his forehead, casting rivulets of dust and ash down his face. One drop made its way to his eye and stung. He remained, though, as still as he could. He needed to make a good impression on his new commander, or his new commander might turn out to be his executioner.

It was hardly a new story, but the original part was that Úrgarlach had survived to tell it. Assaulting a superior officer (to a certain level of superiority, anyway) was standard fare around here, a convenient way of moving up the ranks. But seldom did fresh meat such as this one succeed at their assault and not immediately face execution, whether casual (likely) or formal. “Hmmm.” Swiltang considered, scraping his fingernails up and down the shaft of the spear with a thing, grating sound. “Infection, eh? Ripped his jaw off, you say? Not likely to last long around here in that state. So what you’re really saying is that your murdered a superior officer, for trying to profit off your death. As was his right, dealing with a filthy snaga like you.” Still gazing at the eddies of ash upon the air, Swiltang grasped the spear firmly, raised it to his shoulder, pointed it at Úrgarlach, and threw it with a whiplike motion. SsssTHUNK! the spearhead buried itself in the ground between the recruit’s feet, the shaft quivering at an angle in the air before him. “You have one chance,” Swiltang turned his head to look at Úrgarlach again at last, his permanently curled lip curling yet further as he pronounced the recruit’s fate, “to replace the office you stole from the Dark Lord. If he was so weak as to succumb to a blow from you, this may be our gain. We shall see.” The lean, twisted orc paced deliberately around the recruit, examining him more thoroughly as he went on, “Should you prove yourself worthy, you will have to choose which division of His host to join. There are the infantry and heavy infantry of course… the cavalry, the siege engineers; the marksmen, whre you would be serving beneath my brother, and” here Swiltang’s red eyes narrowed as he returned to face Úrgarlach again, though it was not clear whether this was due to what he had said, or was about to say, “the Vras- the assassins. Each has their purpose, and you will serve where you are most useful. But for now,” Swiltang turned on his heel and as he paced away from the recruit, grasped the grip of his sword, the motion of his body pulling it free of the ground. With several meters of space between them, he turned again to face the other orc. The sword hung easily in his hand, his limbs loose, at east. The swordmaster pointed at the spear, then at Úrgarlach, and made a beckoning gesture.

“Come.”

Úrgarlach
Smithy/Ring area
10 Renown

Fear made his gorge rise in his throat as the Maugân dictated what very well could have been a death sentence for him. Nothing had gone according to plan since he joined. What was he expecting though, a cakewalk? This was the Black Host! He bit down on his tongue and pushed the fear back down where it went from a roiling thunderstorm to a drizzle.

When the spear came hurtling out of Swiltang’s hand, he nearly jumped back, the lizard hindbrain told him to run, to hide under a rock and wait for it all to pass, but he stilled that voice with a violent, low growl. Something else came over him, a violent, atavist urge. He could taste the blood in the air. The forges roared and the harsh ding of the hammers filled his ears, exciting him. Off in a distance he could hear the unforgiving voices of drill sergeants, the crack of whips, and the clash of steel on steel. It was musical in it’s own way. He took in a deep, slow breath. His eyes darting back and forth, doing the best he could to familiarize himself with his surroundings. The Maugân beckoned him, sword already in his hand.

“Come.” The challenge rang out and filled Úrgarlach’s ears. His fingers tingled with excitement.

Úrgarlach gripped the spear haft, the wood was rough and coarse, but it was well balanced enough. A flexed hand ripped it from the earth and a twist of his wrist brought the spear over and around in an arc, the blade point forward. He fixed his grip, grabbing the spear shaft around the midpoint with his left hand and placing his right near his hip to help steer the spear. He crouched low, building up potential energy in his legs before he leapt and dashed into action, half feinting to his left before pivoting and pushing his weight onto his right side, thrusting the spear in a straight upward motion.

He was not unfamiliar with the spear, Swiltang would give him that. He would even have called Úrgarlach’s movements confident, if not for the initial burst of fear that had radiated off the orc like an acrid wave. Such fear was not unnatural, and could at times be useful, but it was not the first thing Swiltang wanted to feel from a conscript. If Úrgarlach wanted to amount to a soldier of any consequence, he would have to master his fear. The swordmaster stood relaxed still as his trainee grasped the spear and hefted it into a short-form guard, his crouch showing that he did at least recognize the value of a low stance, and Swiltang wondered idly just how long Úrgarlach could hold such a stance in the blistering head of Orodruin’s slopes. The feint was an interesting choice, if perfectly obvious to Swiltang’s eyes. He shifted to his right as if deceived, but kept his sword low rather than attempting to commit to the parry which would have spelled his doom, so that when the thrust came to his left, he was in position to act. As the spear extended towards his abdomen, Swiltang twisted the right side of his body towards Úrgarlach, allowing the wicked point to slide harmlessly by, simultaneously with the checking motion of his left arm against the upper part of the spearshaft to ensure it continued in that direction. The twisting motion of his body continued into a long step, bringing Swiltang well inside Úrgarlach’s guard, taking advantage of the orc’s charge to close the distance as he himself shifted through the low stance, throwing most of his weight into his front leg as he arose from it. Swiltang’s right arm was folded so that his elbow protruded and it connected with stunning force to the underside of th trainee’s chin. A second twist of the body and a second step took Swiltang behind Úrgarlach, where he lashed the orc across the lower back with his sword as his own body unwound- not with the edge, but the flat. A third step, and Swiltang resumed his relaxed posture, blade all but dangling from his hand, as if the instants of violent action had never occurred.

“You’re dead.” The swordmaster stated flatly, studying Úrgarlach’s reactions. “Again. Come.”

Úrgarlach
Smithy/Ring Area
16 Renown

His thrust failed. It was inevitable that it would fail though. Deep down, Úrgarlach knew that this fight would go exactly the way it was going, but that knowledge didn’t lessen the sting he was feeling. His thrust went wide, Swiltang lazily dodged the effort, then used a series of quick steps to get within the spear’s reach, keep it moving forward so Úrgarlach was defenseless against the armored elbow that slammed him hard in the chin. The blunt force sent him back a step. He had had no time to prepare for the attack, his reflexes hadn’t been fast enough to evade or deflect the blow. The ugly sound of cracking bone rung in his ears. He was seeing stars for a second, tiny points of flittering light. He was distracted momentarily, the speed of his opponent had caught him completely off guard. He tried to take a step back, regroup and get back into a stance but it was too late. Swiltang’s footwork was masterful; Úrglarlach lost sight of him, he was about to turn when he felt the slash across the middle of his back. Thank to night it had been with the flat side of the blade or the pain he was feeling would have been increased ten fold and Swlitang’s words would have rung more true.

“You’re dead. Again. Come.”

Úrgarlach rubbed his chin, the pain splintered through his jaw and deep into his skull. He cupped it with a dirty hand and snapped it back into place. He would have grunted if he were alone, but he was well aware the he was being watched and being evaluated. His kept his face placid and his expression neutral. Still, for a second he wondered what exactly he had expected. It had been a life long dream to join the Host, but the more he thought about it now, the more he realized there was no substance behind his desire, it was just that, a desire to join the Host. He had hinged his life on joining, set his ambitions and goals on it but the more he thought, the less he understood why he wanted it. Orcs were just supposed to want to join. That was their lot in life, wasn’t it? That’s how most of them ended up dead. They had no reason to want to live, to want to fight other than the idea that it was what they were supposed to do. If he continued, Úrgarlach knew he was going to need to find a reason to survive. What was that reason going to be? Right now, all he could think about was lasting more than five seconds in a fight with Swiltang.

None of this played out over his face, the brief moment of introspection and debate played out behind expressionless eyes, eyes fixed on their target. With a deep, rib cracking breath, Úrgarlach reset himself. He bent at the knees, feeling the muscles contract. It was hot, the ashy air was alive and throbbing with residual heat. There was something beautiful in that. He fixed his grip, opting to keep his hands shoulder length apart near the bottom half of the spear. He tightened his grip and dashed forward. Instead of a feinting thrust like the one that had failed so miserably last time, he tried a sweeping blow, swinging the spear out just above Swiltang’s thighs at a right to left angle. Knowing Swiltang would see it coming and evade, Úrgarlach leapt backward, holding the spear out as he landed on his back foot. He immediately went back into a crouch, holding the spear out in front of him at a slight upward angle. He leapt again, using his powerful thighs and calves to carry him into air. At the aphelion of his leapt, he switched the grip in the spear, relaxing his hands of a heartbeat so his hands slid down to the bottom of the spear, giving him better reach. He thrust hard at Swiltang but instead of aiming for the orc himself, struck out at the Maugân’s blade, aiming the spearhead to push the blade away from his body. He landed, but used the remaining momentum to slam his body into Swiltang’s. The commander was much bigger than Úrgarlach but he hoped the force of his momentum would be enough to push him back a step. He lunged backward, not allowing himself to be left open to an attack at close range where his spear would be useless. He danced back several steps, the balls of his feet barely touching the ground. He ended several paces away, his chest heaving from the burst of energy. He brought the spear back up and crouched in a defensive position, turning his body to present less of a target with his right foot forward and the spear held in both hands across his body at an angle.

Úrgarlach chose a slash with his spear to begin this time, an unwise choice given his inexpertise and the grip he had chosen- if it had been a real attack. This was a chief failing of so many beginners in the art of combat, particularly with weapons to which they were unused: the telegraphing of feints. Swiltang scarcely bothered to respond, merely taking a step back and raising his fist to bring the sword up in a point-down parry to defend his leg, on the off chance the other orc changed his mind and followed through. Such was not the case of course, and Úrgarlach bounded back the way he had come- he was not unagile, Swiltang would give him that. Almost as soon as he had gathered himself back into the crouch Úrgarlach sprang forward, propelling himself into a leap that allowed him to gain and advantageous angle with the spear. It came directly at Swiltang’s center, directed at his blade. With a twist from the shoulder, the swordmaster performed a swift counterparry, knocking the spearhead harmlessly to the outside of his body.

As Úrgarlach’s body descended onto Swiltang’s, he allowed his free arm to arise and his knees to bend, rounding his upper body and sinking his center, so that the earth absorbed the brunt of the impact. The twisted orc compressed under the weight of his trainee, and then straightened explosively, propelling Úrgarlach from him. As the spear, trailing behind the orc, passed overhead, Swiltang reached out to grasp its shaft, just below the head. Continuing the momentum of his movement and taking advantage of Úrgarlach’s on the other end of the spear, he twisted to follow it, traveling with the other orc, dancing along with him, so that when he ended in his defensive crouch Swiltang was right there with him- inside the guard of the spear. But the Maugân did not halt, stepping low towards Úrgarlach, turning his body as he did so so his chest faced the shaft of the spear. With a sharp, outward rotation of his body Swiltang arced his sword up from below to chop at the spearshaft with its false edge, while simultaneously pressing down with his grasping hand, a lever that ripped the weapon out of Úrgarlach’s hands. Lifting his front foot to extend the lunge, Swiltang thrust to the center of Úrgarlach’s throat with his sword. But he diverted its energy at the last moment, so that the blade lay along the side of the orc’s throat, having sheared a razor-thin cut in the skin. It took a moment for the cut to part and bleed.

Swiltang stepped back, lowering his blade. “You’re dead. Again.” He drove the butt of the spear into the ground and resumed his former posture, jiggling it idly in his free hand. Red eyes fell on Úrgarlach, considering him in the same manner they had considered the ashen clouds of Orodruin moments before. “But you are not completely incompetent, though you clearly have little skill with the spear. Tell me, Úrgarlach: should I decide to let you live, what division of our Master’s host would you most desire to join?”

Maegwath
Where Conscripts Go
1 Renown

There was a call. It had echoed across the bare places, taken up by many voices, sung through the hills and the plains and the copses. Under the moon it was sung, in the night winds, and even into the broad of day. Maegwath had heard it and rejoiced. He was alone when the call reached him, and this was good, for he did not have to share. Not with his brothers, as he ran to a large stone shelf free to the words on the air. Not with his sisters, as he listened carefully to each note, each rise and fall, devouring the message. He danced under the stars and wept, and then he gave his voice to the call, sending it on, ever, deeper into the hard-cut valleys, over the mountains proud and tall. There was a call, and it was for him, and in him, and of him. And for one triumphant moment, he was for it, and in it, and of it, and then it passed. The emptiness had been both pain and relief.

And so he heeded the call, as did the others. Many had gone to the place beneath the shadow of the eaves, to the hill where nothing grew in the midst of the great forest. There had they been bid, in the service of the Great Lord, as they had before, in the days of their sires and dams. And as they slunk beside each other on the trails, paths converging in two and threes and packs entire, they had shouted in their terrible joy. Old grudges were set aside that day. Foes who had moons before been at each other's throat over a scrap of hare padded along, if not side by side, then with less space between their hides than they would see on a skinner's racks. It was a glorious display, Maegwath had known. And he could have been content, had the Great Lord been there, in his haunt of old.

Now the trees and the forest were gone, days and days and more past, and he missed them, and so the hills, and the mountains as well. There were mountains here, it was true, but they were hateful things, small and more hideous, yet cruel. The ground was hard like it was long since it had felt the softening touch of rain. The air held a dry wind, and it was dust and a heat with bitter, foul taste. Surely this was not the home of the Great Lord, who had fashioned Maegwath's kind out of dumb beast and high thought? Surely not.

Finding his place was simple enough. There was a set of doors, propped open, into a chamber of a flanking tower where many stood about in lines. These amassed folk were less strong than those who ran about outside the tower, out on the wide plain. They had worse gear, or less gear, or no gear to speak of. And they smelled more of piss and fear. Yes, the wolf had found the proper place. He took his place at the end of a line and waited. For the Great Lord, he could do such things.

It was a long while before he made it to the front of his line. Shadows waxed as the sun cut her dim arc across the sky outside. One less faithful than he might have chosen not to wait. One less faithful might have pushed ahead. Oh, one less faithful may have lied to themself, taking in mind that service to the Great Lord could not wait. That the Great Lord sought the strong and the forceful, and the weaklings may be cast aside, the line a test to be overcome. And indeed, Maegwath saw a test, but a test of patience. And he could be patient. Had he not, for years? He had. Yes, he had. He plodded forward.

'Hail, Taker of Names,' he said.

'What's this, then?' The orc behind the slab of rock looked down at him. Eyes narrowing, the clerk raised off his seat and peered over at the massive creature. He was scrawnier than he had seemed, fully sitting, oddly proportioned as so many of the glamhoth were. He was missing a finger on his left hand. A hideous smile broke over his face. 'Is this a joke? Whose beast is this?'

'Beast?' Maegwath snarled. Patience was one matter; disrespect was entirely another. 'I have more wits than you, spindle-legs.'

'Shoo!' The clerk waved him off. He addressed the crowded lines. 'If this is your hound, take it!'

Hound? Worse than beast, hound was. With another flailing shoo, the orc brought a hand too far out from the safety of his perch. He screamed as he clutched it back. Maegwath chewed thoroughly and spat the ruined finger out. It had been the smallest digit left on the hand; by the clerk's protestations, one would almost think he was dying. Maegwath left him to it and stepped out of line.

'Hey, you. Wolf,' came a voice. A different clerk, from a neighboring line, beckoned him over. Another orc, but this one with a more familiar accent. 'You do that every time someone around here doesn't understand your language, you'll blunt your teeth.'

'It was the disrespect that owed me his blood, not his ignorance.'

'Don't care. Name?'

'Maegwath. I have come to heed the call of the Great Lo-'

'Don't. Care.' He scratched something down. 'You're in the army now. Go out and impress someone. Don't bite too many people. Not a rule, just advice.'

'Is that-' Maegwath looked down the line, out to the open fields. What did that mean, impress someone? Impress who? He flicked his attention back to the clerk. 'What-?'

'Next!' the Orc yelled.

Úrgarlach
Smithy/Ring Area
17 Renown

Even as Úrgarlach moved backward to move into a defensive position, Swiltang was on him. The orc tried to hide his dismay as he tried to shuffle backward, away from the blade that Swiltang skillfully wielded. The actual movements did not take him long, but Úrgarlach felt like he was watching the attack in slow motion. Fatigue hit him as Swiltang swirled around, ripped the spear from his grasp and took a slice at his neck. He felt the pressure of the slice long before he felt any of the pain. Pain was a distant thing. He could feel it, but at the same time he couldn’t. The associations that pain brought with it, the stink of fear, the knot in the gut, the desire to escape, to run away, were all missing. What did that mean. He stood there, wavering, his body limp but unwilling to topple over. There was still some strength within his limbs. He reached up to his neck and felt the cut. It was superficial, barely a scratch, but there was a thin trickle of blood nonetheless. The wound stung and itched, but still there was no pain. He heard the Maugân speak, but he might as well have been a hundred miles away. The orc could not hear him. Vaguely, he felt frustration, a sense of failure and impending doom, but those sensations, too, felt far away. There was a sense of triumph too, a bright light in contrast to the darkness that was creeping in on the edges of his mind, he had succeeded in not falling to Swiltang so quickly. He had been able to hold his own, if only for a brief heartbeat. Despite the myriad advantages Swiltang was able to employ against him, he had not fallen, not physically at least. Swiltang was hundreds, if no thousands of years old, well trained, and well fed. Úrgarlach had not eaten in seven day, had spent the same amount of time chained to wall, and before today had never truly picked up a spear with the intention of fighting with it. Swiltang had taught him more than one lesson it would seem: in Mordor, press every single advantage you have, no matter how unnecessary it is to do so.

He turned is attention the spear. He sneered at it. It was a stupid weapon. How could he be expected to wield such an unwieldy weapon. It was naught but a stick with a pointy end. Sure enough, there are those in the host that could employ such a device, but he was not and likely would not be among them. For better or for worse, Úrgarlach decided that he hated the spear. Then again, maybe it wasn’t all spears he hated, maybe it was just this particular one. The point of the fiendish object had already been coated in his blood before the combat even began. It was bad luck to carry blade into battle that had already tasted your blood. Perhaps then, he mused, he had been the bearer of his own misfortune, knowing trying to wield a serpent that was more interested in him than his opponent.

He cast off these thoughts and looked straight forward. His limbs ached, his joints were stiff and screamed at him in protest with every minor movement down. His muscles threatened to spasm and contort beyond his control at the barest hint of weight. He felt like he was going to pass out, he could even see the black spots flash across his vision, crowding around the edges until his sight was full of flies. Yet he remained still, showing none of fatigue or consternation that plagued his exhausted mind.

“Should you let me live,” he began with a hint of sarcasm, “I had thought to join the infantry, but it seems that my spearcraft is not up to snuff. If it is all the same to you, Maugân, I would chose the assassins.”

Borfang and Mord
The Ring
Conscripts
Renown: 2

The sickening crunch of the skull imploding filled the air moments before the jubilant cries and the jeering ragefilled insults took over, the outcome of this fight definitely clear. Wiping away some of the brain matter from his face, Borfang stepped over the corpse of his opponent and headed straight for the giant mug of ale that was his reward, Mord already collecting his winnings and stuffing them away deep in his vest under the hatefilled gazes of those that had lost to him. Though they were still earning with these fights, their winnings were definitely decreasing as word got around. Downside to being as notorius as Borfang now was. But when it came to hand to hand combat, there really was no winning over him, his brute strength easily and quickly disposing of any and all opponents, even Uruks fell against him. He was also smart enough to not take on the challenges that involved weapons or animals, knowing that those fights were harder to win.

Shoving an orc back who did not like losing all his earnings, Mord stuffed the coins into his coin purse deep in his vest and turned to his partner, raising his own beer in a silent toast. This was likely the last fight for a while as tomorrow after dusk they were going on their first excursion. Having been here a week already, he knew it was time to get going before too many were ired by their loss of funds and thought to team up and take them out in a cowardly manner and he had therefore quickly volunteered them both for this mission, thinking it would allow for those who were angered to cool off.

"Where did you say we are going again?" Borfang grumbled, hating any kind of change.

"I already told you! A raiding mission! We are being sent out to cause some fear and chaos. Apparently we get to keep what we find, unless it is weapons. They want all the weapons. And the women, we get to keep those as well.." Mord leered wickedly at his partner, who frowned and instead chugged the last of the ale, letting out a mighty burp as he finished.

"What!? You don't want a woman!? We haven't had any for over a week now!"

"They will not be willing if we are raiding.." Borfang grumbled as he looked around for another ale.

"So!? That's the beauty of raiding, you just take what you want!" Slapping his large friend on the heavily muscled arm, Mord let out a leery chuckle as he gave his friend a look and a waggle of his eyebrows.

A flinch of disgust passed over Borfang's features, but he was luckily faced away from his partner and thereby avoided the insults and ridicule that look would have elicited. Not for the first time in knowing Mord did he want to do to him what he had just done to the stupid fool whos skull he had just crushed, his meaty fists clenching.

"Here! Drink up! We got a long trek ahead of us tomorrow!" Laughing Mord passed another ale to Borfang, who reluctantly took it and drank it in one gulp, tossing the mug aside, heading off to get cleaned up first.

"Don't you worry Borfang! I will make sure to find you a nice big fat woman you can romp around with!" Mord shot after his partner, missing the glare the large man sent his way as he turned back to continue drinking with the few croonies that always seemed to hang around Mord in hopes of free drinks.

Graznikh
1 renown

On the road towards Udûn

Graznikh could easily recall the last time he had been this angry, because the higher ups seemed bent on pissing him off at every turn lately. Now they had yanked him up by the neck hairs and sent him packing to the Teeth for a, as they called it, 'training assignment'. Training? He? This had to be a set up, and whoever had tripped him would answer to his knives once he returned. But for now he had no choice; when the Tower commanded, you obeyed, there was no way around it unless you were willing to take a lashing and more.

The troop had been marching hard throughout the night. Once they reached the gate at Isenmouthe, the grunts were given a brief rest while the taskmaster worked out some detail or other with the guard. Graznikh took the opportunity to grab the gorget of the soldier behind him and pull him close. "Keep trodding on my heels and I'll be using your tongue to clean my boots when we stop next! Without your head attached!"
"Then march faster so your dainty little heels don't get chafed!"
That would have been enough to start a proper fight; both Orcs began to snarl and shove each other to test the other's strength before the first blow.
"Oi!! Break it up and get a move on; we march!" A few cracks of the Uruk's whip over his head and the shoving of the other soldiers was enough to make Graznikh swallow his fury for now. I can wait, he thought. After all, he has to sleep at some point.

Orc-holds

In through the Isenmouthe they marched, then they turned right and followed one of the many paths up the mountainside until a large cave opening became visible around a bend. Here the path sloped down into the Orc-holds where they would get their lodgings.
"This here cavern's where you'll stay," the taskmaster barked. "And I'll have none of your bickering tonight! This isn't Morgai where you lot can run willynilly as you please!" Then he looked around. Graznikh crouched near the entrance and waited patiently for him to take note. The sulphur-like yellow eyes narrowed as they tried to focus on him. "You there. Get over here!"
He stood and took the time to stretch before sauntering over. "Aye? Out with it."
"Don't get cute with me. You're to report to the War Room, so hop to it! Further orders await you there."
"Of course they do. It's not like I take orders from you, you Top Ones' lickspittle!"

The Uruk looked like he was going to have an apoplectic fit. Graznikh suppressed a grin; fielding the subsequent lambasting was almost exhilarating after the monotony of the road, even more so because he knew that he was in the right and the threats were toothless.

Borfang and Mord
Inside the Gates
Conscripts
Renown: 3

It had annoyed Mord to no end that their departure had been delayed until the evening as half their raiding party now consisted of orcs. Why were they even taking the stupid things if they couldn't move during the day he grumbled for umpteenth time to Borfang, who yet again ignored him. Patience was definitely not a virtue of his, but then he did not have many virtues, if any at all.

He had been pacing around the area where they had been waiting since morning, constantly returning to where Borfang sat calmly sharpening the edge of his axe. Of course there was no point in sharpening the edge of his huge mace, it lying on the ground next to him. The axe he would keep strapped to his back when they set off. Unlike Mord, Borfang was not looking forward to this mission, his partner's words still ringing in his head. He had done many despicable things, most of them since he joined up with Mord, but they had never forced themselves on women. At least not that he knew of. He was pretty sure all the women they had, had been paid prostitutes. Though he had left the payment to Mord as he was the one that took care of their finances. His thick brows knit tightly and the strokes of the whetstone became more angry as he began to doubt whether or not Mord had actually paid them. While he never noticed any angry complaints when they left a place, that did not mean there weren't any. Afterall Mord often used Borfang's physique to silence complaints.

Brows still knitted tightly together, Borfang shot Mord a glare as the wiry man yet again stalked past, still grumbling about having to wait. All any of them had been told was that it was a raiding party, needing to sow some dissent and create some fear and chaos. Though it was also a for reconnaissance to see how well equipped and how quickly the smaller villages could muster. The actual orders kept changing. First they were to collect all weapons, then it included bringing back slaves. All old and infirm were to be destroyed. And then they were to be left alive as apparently that would then tax the nearby villages when they sought refuge. Whatever it ended up being before they left, Borfang knew there was going to be a lot of innocent blood spilled.

He was by no means an angel himself, he had definitely earned his reputation as a ruthless killer. Though more and more lately he found he tried avoid random killing and stuck with just killing those that were foolish enough to try and kill him. However working with Mord, that seemed almost impossible as he had a knack for finding the most gruesome and violent missions he could. Where Borfang only killed when he had to, Mord on the other hand loved killing. It did not matter if it was someone trying to kill them or just some innocent bystander, he lived for the thrill of taking someone's life. He was mostly a ranged killer, though at times he felt the need to see the light go out of his victims eyes or watch as they died in horrific agony of the poison he always coated his daggers with. The thought of being stuck with one of the daggers made him shiver, having seen even huge Uruks succumb to the poison. Once cut, you were as good as dead. And not a quick one..

A loud trumpet blare yanked Borfang out of his morose reverie, the sound of footfalls growing louder as a large group of orcs could be seen heading their way. "Finally" Mord cried out and grabbed his bedroll and slung it over one shoulder. Quiver full and bow slung across his back, he was already ready to head out. With a sigh Borfang strapped his axe to his back and picked up the huge mace and rested it over one shoulder. He did not bring any comforts, other than a long cloak made especially for his hulking frame, one he would remove before the fighting began so that it could not be used to hinder him.

OOC ALL: Feel free to join! Don't have much planned other than raiding either a smallish Gondorian or Rohirric village. Lots of killing and enslaving though! Will be doing this in the free rp thread: The Lands of Shadow. You will earn renown for posts! Also let me know if you want to rp the other side!

Naelia
Inside the Gates
Renown: 1

Naelia often thought of rejoining Mordor's Army, but didn't think this was the time to do it, but once she heard that a bunch of minions were getting together to raid a couple of villages in Gondor and Rohan, she thought that she might as well take part. After all, it may give her the incentive to want to enlist again. "I just have to remember not to take on too many responsibilities." the minioness thought to herself as she viewed the minions that have already answered the call (or heard word, such as Naelia had) and were already gathering outside the gates. Naelia noticed that there were many Orcs there, and wished she could have talked her very own Orcish helper, Orngor, to accompany her. Not that she needed protection or anything like that (though she might have at one time, but the minioness was trying to put those days behind her), but she was often confused as to why Orngor refused to enlist, even though it had been suggested to him many times over. True, one of his Orcish brethen managed to get himself killed during a previous raid, but when did any of Orcish origin cop out when there was a battle to be fought?

Orngor claimed he didn't want to enlist because unlike Naelia, who hailed from the Dark Tower of Barad-dur, he didn't have a "home base", since he often divided his time between the Dark Tower of Barad-dur, Minas Morgul, and more recently, the northern kingdom of Angmar, but Naelia just thought that was some sort of ruse as to why he really refused to enlist. "Is he afraid of being thrown out?" the minioness often wondered, since she herself had been thrown out a few times (mostly due to neglect, since Naelia had a habit of taking on too many responsibilities at once, which meant that one of her duties often got overlooked, and it just so happened to be her Army responsibilities, which she was trying to rectify with this mission), but she kept trying to improve each time she re-enlisted.

"Can I be of service?" the minioness began. "I know I haven't been exactly loyal to the Black Guard in the past, but I'm trying to rectify this." Naelia concluded, hoping she didn't sound too desperate. "I would have brought Orngor along with me, but he's busy elsewhere." which wasn't that far from the truth.

OOC: I can bring in Talina for Gondor, if need be (she's a Ranger in training).

((Úrgarlach = Sarghêst now, for anyone watching!))

Though pain, frustration, and exhaustion clouded Sarghêst’s eyes, there was still a glimmer of fire, even intelligence, in his countenance. The last was an uncommon trait among the legions of orcs over whom Swiltang ruled. Not that orcs were, as a general rule, stupid- they were simply bred to obey and be expended, and a high degree of critical thinking was not required of the majority. Sarghêst had not exhibited much skill, but he had displayed reasoning superior to many of his fellows. Skill could be taught. Potential could not. And one of Swiltang’s duties as Maugân was identifying those with potential from among the general fodder, for they could be useful to the Eye in days to come. “You would not be speaking if I had not decided to let you live,” the twisted swordmaster’s response was equally wry, as he thumped the butt of the spear down onto the hard ground. This application of force caused the weapon to bounce into the air, and Swiltang caught it, whipping it swiftly to shoulder height, before snapping his arm forward to launch it at Sarghêst. As it had prior to his trial, the spear stuck, quivering, in the ground at the orc’s feet. “And you will have to improve with the spear if you wish to rise through the Kambasor. I grant you the rank of Sharbtur, and remember that you are just that- a servant to the Dark Lord. Draw a sword from the armory. There is a raiding party setting out from the gates on the morrow. You will join them, and should you return, we may have further use of you.”

Sarghêst breathed a heavy sigh of relief but remained silent. It was done. He was in. The goal he had set for himself had been achieved. Other than a sense of belonging though, the orc felt no different than he had a moment again, no less exhausted, no less drained, no less hungry or thirsty. He saluted the Maugân and made his exit. He could feel his strength ebbing from him with every step he took but he remained upright, pressing his shoulders back so that he walked as tall as he could.

“Sharbtur,” he said aloud as soon as he was alone, letting the word roll off his lips like honeyed wine. It didn’t have the greatest of flavors, this wine, but it was better than the bitter, sour dregs he had been forced to endure for most of his life. The word tasted like a beginning, like a foundation. He would not remain in this rank for long, he assured himself. It would only be a matter of time.

A wicked smile formed at the corners of his lips. His incisors peaked over his gums like razor sharp tusks. Absently, he rubbed the corner of his mouth. He’d managed to keep all his teeth through his torture and through Maugân’s test. He spat out a globule of blood. It landed with a hard thunk. He closed his pale eyes, savoring the small moment before he moved off. His first task, as the commander had said, was to get a sword and get ready for a raid tomorrow. He would have preferred rest, but this would be an opportunity to show off exactly how capable he was.

He made his way through darkened, mold encrusted tunnels until he came to the barracks he had been assigned previously. The activity was like a kicked ant hive: troops came in and out, marching to the shouts of drill sergeants and officers, roving groups of orcs looked Sarghêst up and down appraisingly, but each time they moved on. He wasn’t going to be a part of their little gangs and they could see it in his eyes. He was making enemies in here hand over fist, he knew. A refusal to join in with any of the gangs would mark him as prey for all of them. He welcomed a shot to prove to all of them they were his prey, not the other way around.

“If some animals are good at hunting and others are suitable for hunting, then the Eye must clearly smile on hunting,” he said to himself, staring down a trio of limber, sinewy, but smaller orcs. Their leader looked like he was about to start a scuffle with Sarghêst, but realized to his peril, that he was the only one of them stepping forward. He spat, snarled and turned away.

“You’re lucky, scum. I’ve got better things to do than paint to floor a new shade of red.” He and his fellows hurried off.

Sarghêst breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been bluffing. He was still in so much pain that it would not have taken more than a few blows to knock him over. He snorted a laugh. If he was this intimidating to these coal biting lay abouts in his current state, he would dominate them when he was at his full strength.

He landed hard on his cot, nothing more than rotting animal hide stretched over a large, smooth stone. It was hard and uncomfortable, but in that moment he didn’t care. Rest came quickly to him. He closed his eyes and opened them an hour or so later. He didn’t remember falling asleep, or dreaming, but he felt more refreshed.

Not wasting time, the orc changed out of his bloody, ripping clothes, and made his way to the armory where he was fitting with the bits and pieces of armor. There were a dozen or so different styles represented from breastplate to greaves to pauldrons but at least it fit. He could scavenge some better material on the raid and make a better fitting, more cohesive suit when he returned. What he really needed was a sword.

There were dozens of styles and scores of blades in various states of decay and disrepair. Sarghêst tested them all, moving through several different guard positions, thrusting, swinging, and stabbing the empty air. Ultimately, he found a sword with just a few spots of rust near the top of the blade, a massive two-handed thing with a broad fuller cross section. The blade itself was not overly wide, barely wider than the grip (bound in leather that was beginning to rot away). On short notice, it was a good blade.

He found a scabbard that fit it and made his way to the mess hall where he ate something that looked like it could have been stew. It reeked something foul. There was a thick greasy film that covered the top. He ate it quickly so as not to taste whatever it was, then made his trek to the gates.

“I assume this is the place we’re meeting for the raid?”

Borfang and Mord
Inside the Gates
Conscripts
Renown: 4

Mord stopped in his tracks as he saw the woman approach him. A woman? In the Army? A goodlooking woman? In the Army? A slimy sneer lifted his lips as he openly and rudely ogled Naelia. "Be of service? Well I am sure a pretty little thing like you can service us!" He chuckled out harshly, turning to those around him, who immediately joined in.

"So, how would you like to service us then? One at a time or all at once?" Again he turned to those next to him, sniggering rudely as he elbowed the one next to him knowingly. Several of the men shared Mord's disgusting disposition and moved in closer in hopes of getting in on some of the action as well, though Borfang growled and remained in the background with a disgusted grimace on his face.

"You can service this!" One of the men said as he cupped his crotch lewdly while aiming at Naelia and sending the gathered men into a raucous laughter.

"ENOUGH!! GET BACK IN LINE AND MOVE OUT!"

The voice boomed through the group, several of the men looking up in surprise tinged with a healthy dose of fear. The huge Uruk stalked over to the gathered men and eyeballed them all, daring each one of them to disobey his order.

"GET. IN. LINE!"

Scrambling the men moved away from Naelia and did as they were ordered, though Mord shot the Uruk an evil eye for the disruption, giving Naelia another lewd look before he slid into his spot. There would be a stop at some point. He would make sure to visit her then.

“I assume this is the place we’re meeting for the raid?”

"Aren't you the clever one?!" The Uruk bellowed, his patience ending. "Get in line or suffer the whip!"

Stalking off the Uruk yelled out "MOVE OUT YOU FILTHY MAGGOTS!" briefly eyeing Borfang and his massive hulking form before sending the whip cracking into the group to get them moving.

@Lady of Shadow ooc: I tried to find you on discord to ask you first, but couldnt see you there?? If their reaction to you is too much, then let me know and I will remove it! If you are ok with it, feel feel to kick the shire out of them (you are even welcome to kill the really offensive one) or just ignore them. If you have any questions or want me to remove/change something feel free to use the OOC thread or find me on discord #Tanae9119 <3

Naelia
Inside the Gates
Renown: 2

It didn't surprise Naelia how some of the men in the army responded to her, since this wasn't the first time she was ridiculed (though it may have been one of the first times within her native homeland that she could recall). She may be the daughter of one of Barad-dur's greatest lieutenant's and highly respected by those that knew her, but every once in a while, one tried to mock her, especially if she was the only female member that answered the call to a particular raid.

Going over to the worst of the scum, she grabbed him by the throat and threatened him: "Watch who you insult, you scum, or else I'll have you fed as food or fodder to one of the Fell Beasts, or even my pet dragon, who goes by the name of Drinch, that I often like to use in interrogations when prisoners don't tell me what I want to hear. I even tortured my very own half-sister that goes by the name of Lathana, that is now living the rest of her born days in the Pits! You have my permission to make her life miserable, but you don't want to get on my bad side, since the last person that did that came to a very bad end!" the minioness sneered at him before throwing him back down next to his companion. "Does anybody else have a problem with me being the only female minion to answer the call?" Naelia challenged, putting on the face she liked to wear when she was interrogating prisoners, which even caused some minions to shudder, and she hoped the same would be the case here. She would have gave them more of a lecture, but didn't think the minions that were trying to give her a hard time were worth the effort.

Deciding to ignore any more ridicule directed towards her, the minioness got in line with the others, but made sure she put quite a bit of distance between herself and the minions that thought that they could get away with making her life more miserable than it was already. If word got back to her father about what they were doing, they would possibly be getting a talking to anyways, so that was another reason that Naelia wanted to keep her response to their reaction to her presence at a minimum, since the last time that happened, those that were responsible were probably dealt with in a similar fashion as to what happened to her mother (who was later killed for her misdeeds). If the minioness wanted to pick a fight with someone, she would simply torment Lathana further, since at least that's something she enjoys doing, which proves to that nuisance Elven half-sister of hers that she should have been allowed to stay in Northern Mirkwood rather than being sent to live with her only surviving family member (that she knew of, at least) in the Land of Shadow (which would only end up getting herself killed or captured, especially if she tried to escape, which is exactly what happened).

OOC: I'm not on Discord (since I rarely use any kind of messaging service on any email service, so I don't see the point of joining up. I kind of wish we had PM service on the NuPlaza, since I'm more familiar with that), so feel free to tag me in the OOC thread. Don't worry about any of your characters not treating Naelia the way she might expect, since this isn't the first time that someone has tried to make her life miserable (the "rogue" Elves as she likes to call them in Northern Mirkwood come to mind). Last time I enlisted in the Army, there were a few more female minions, so they were probably targeted instead of mine, so let's see how Naelia deals with this kind of discrimination (which she hasn't had to deal with much, often coming late to the party, due to the fact that she often takes on too many responsibilities at once).

Borfang and Mord
Several long horrible miles away from the Gates
Conscripts
Renown: 5

"Garrrgh!" Belak gurgled as the grip around his throat was tightened. His hand instinctively went to grab at the arm that held him, his eyes bulging as his breathing was cut off. His face began to take on a blueish tint as the woman before him yelled in his face, panic beginning to rise in his mind as he slowly began to realise he was being strangled. However before he could lash or kick out to free himself, he was shoved backwards into one of the other men who had been standing around watching this go down and both of them stumbled to the ground.

Sneering at the woman angrily, he hissed out a venemous curse at her retreating form, though for some reason kept it quiet enough that she would not hear. Slapping away the offered hand and staring down the men that were left laughing at the two who had been taken down by a woman, he angrily moved into the line and started marching. His narrowed eyes were locked to the woman who was a few bodies ahead of him and he hissed out under his breath "I will make you pay for that.." as he ducked the incoming whip, barely avoiding having the thick leather rip his face open.

A small grin played on Borfang's lips, quite satisfied with how the woman had stood up for herself, though quickly hid it as Mord stalked over and began to rant under his breath as well. Mord only spoke loud enough for Borfang to hear, but the human giant was ignoring the rant. "We will see how able she is to defend herself when there is not an Uruk with a whip to aid her!" Borfang rolled his eyes at the comment, knowing the Uruk had nothing to do with it, though also knowing Mord he was not going to let this go. Sighing softly, he rubbed at his temple and for not the first time wished he had never met Mord.

The large group of men and orcs moved at a frantic pace, harrowed forward unrelentingly by the Uruk with the whip. The pace was enough to steal any residule anger from those that still harboured it and left most of them huffing and puffing as they struggled to keep up. It felt like years to Mord before the call for rest was finally made and with an exhausted sigh he dropped down and leaned against a large rock as he tried to catch his breath. Borfang, despite his large body, seemed unperturbed by the rigorous pace and found a spot a litte away from Mord, knowing Mord would just follow him eventually if he went too far. He left the cave they had reached to the orcs, knowing they would need the shelter from the rising sun and instead took off his cloak and laid it on the ground.

For some the rest was not imminent as the whip-wielding Uruk pointed out several to set up campfires and start making dinner, though as he reached Borfang he stepped past the huge man with nothing but a sneer. They were still far enough away from any settlements that the fires would not attract attention, though this was going to be the only night they would be getting a hot meal as another march like the one today would quickly bring them to the borders where the settlements were scattered around.

As the meal was finally prepared, Borfang got his bowl before returning to his chosen spot, that the other men had steered clear of. Of course at the insistance of a glare. It only took three huge mouthfulls before Borfang had emptied his bowl and with a loud belch he lay down on the cloak, one huge arm slung over his face to hide the sun from his eyes.

"Where is that witch?" Borfang did not stir at the whispered words, pretending to be asleep and hoping Mord would leave him be.

Hidraugur - Shadow Ghost - 30 Renown
Draugan Nuruhuine
Training Area

Draugan grasped his composite bow as he strode towards the training area. His face wore a neutral expression, although it may be due to not wanting the disgusting ash-laden air. As he walked resolutely towards the training area, his light leather armour swayed slightly with the movement, as did the various pouches containing all the things he felt necessary to teach the new "maggots" the art of assassination and stealth.

He was told by Maugan to train some new recruits in the art of marksmanship. He was deemed worthy enough to teach the "maggots", as the Maugan put it nicely. Indeed, Draugan's skills with the bow were not to be trifled at, nor his skills in moving about unnoticed. His knowledge of various poisons, and survival in the wild was strong as well.

As he entered the training fields, the dust and heat of Mordor hit him. Sure, he came to Mordor years back, yet he still remained an elf, although a corrupted elf. Even though he was mentally indifferent to the air he was breathing in, yet it was still smoke, ash and dust. His elven physiognomy still revolted at them. As he walked swiftly now, the various sounds of training increased to a crescendo. Beings like orcs, goblins and even some trolls were in some form of training or another. Some were working with bows and arrows, their marks either falling wide lifelessly away from the mark, while some did hit the mark perfectly. Others were training with variously bladed weapons. Others yet were busy murdering each other, even though the training was for unarmed combat.

Sure enough, he found his group: a mix of swarthy goblins and broad-shouldered orcs.

Draugan took one look at the group and sighed. That one look was enough to tell him how much experience they had. If some of them had a thread of prior knowledge, they just might survive. If they fall behind, only death is the reward. And the Mordor is never short of recruits.

Mauren - Shadowhand - 1 Renown
Carchost

At the discretion of his Mother, Mauren sought to train to hone his skills as a scout. Uthurg, is orc companion by default escorted him into to the main door. Uthurg knocked thrice on the door and two large uruks greeted him.

"He is here!" Uthurg glanced aside, revealing the young Proclaimer behind him, dressed in his cloak. The boy looked upward to the meet the gaze of the tall, broad black uruks, who stared at him with grimace while the boy's face lacked any sort of definitive emotion. "Is this Galuren's lad?" One of the big orcs asked "Aye" Uthurg answered "His mother, Morlreth gave the pardon to let him come here." "To train?!" one of the big orcs questioned "He's a midge, he looks like he can barely hold his own against sprite, not much moreso." Mauren nudges Uthurg a side and answered with a stern but calm voice "If it doesn't look like I can fight then why do you think I came all this way here?

One of the orcs suddenly was tempted to engage the boy physically, gripping an axe by his side. Mauren focused his gaze on the large orcs still, and Uthurg stood wincing his eyes between them.

Mauren swayed back his hair under his cloak. "Not that I can't fight of course, but it it would do me wonders to improve."

The two big orcs glanced at each other... then sure enough they gave Mauren his way.

Hidraugur - Shadow Ghost - 31 Renown
Draugan Nuruhuine
Training Area with Mauren @Troygan

"So you lot want to become assassins. You want to be one that strikes from the shadows unseen, one who moves unseen. You want to be the elite of the Army. For that, you'll need a whole lot of discipline, courage, savagery, stealth and some luck. For that, you maggot" he turned on one of the orcs "you need to stop picking your nose when I talk. Am I clear?"

There was some mumbling amongst the group. Sometimes, orcs and trolls need to be shouted at a bit to be heard and understood. Without that happening, they just shift around nervously, or pace impatiently like beasts, or just stand there mumbling to themselves.

Draugan raised his voice, understanding this.

"Today you'll learn discipline…the hard way. If you learn the lesson, you can escape with your slimy hides. Not learn the lesson, and you may not."

This was when a boy came up to him and saluted him curtly.

"My name is Mauren. I want to join the training."

Draugan took a brief glance at him and nodded. Well, this one was just a boy, but if the higher-ups have picked him to be trained, he'll have no truck with their decision.

"Now then, let your first lesson begin. You must learn Discipline, no matter in which branch of the army you are in. I have in my hand a bow and arrow. I will shoot it straight up at an angle, and it will come down to you. If you run too early, you fail the test. If you stay too late you may die. But if you obey my command to know exactly when to move away, you'll pass. Because when you are an assassin, you need to know when to keep still, and when to move at a moment's notice."

With a smirk on his face, the elf said "Now, let the games begin. Come forward one by one!"

Mauren and Uthurg
Training Area with Draugan @Draugän Nuruhuinë

After having presented himself, Mauren watched Draugän as he addressed his lesson, eying his bow and arrow. He knew he had to time it just right if he wanted to pass.

Mauren was the first to volunteer, making himself known he flung back his cloak revealing a mop of dark raven hair, some of which covered his left eye. "I'll go!" the boy said; and sure enough he stood front and center before the rest.

Some of the orcs laughed, perplexed at the boy's tenacity. "Oi! What's his deal? Who is this Morgul brat?" someone asked to which Uthurg replied "That's Mauren, son of Galuren! I knew his father." Another orc asked "Was his pa a black captain?" Just the same!" Uthurg replied. "His mother Morlreth was the one who pardoned him to train here." That little fool is gonna get himself killed!" One orc said "Mordor is no place for morgul rats, not much less a human child." Mauren can look out for himself just fine!" Uthurg grunted "He's the Proclaimer, the heir to his father's sword." Which he will have to earn... if he can!" One orc added.

Mauren stood front and center, his eyes fixed on the elf and his bow, never heading the commentary of the orc grunts in the background. "I'm ready!"