Wolves of Mirkwood - [Adanedhel]
Oct 5, 2017 9:35:33 GMT -5
Post by Captains on Oct 5, 2017 9:35:33 GMT -5
Dol Guldur had been abandoned by the Dark Lord for the safer halls of Mordor, but Gorgul was not born to stay in safe walls.
Scattered around the ruins of a once-proud fortress of man, fires burned against the chill that settled over the Mirkwood evening, and Gorgul listened to the grunts, growls, and speech as those under his command divided their stale bread and tainted meats amongst themselves.
"Hands off," one of them growled.
"What are you gonna do to stop me, eh?" Another retorted, voice thin and as crooked as the creature's nose.
Gorgul snorted through his wide nostrils, taking his bone-hilted dagger and cutting a sliver of raw meat to toss to his warg. He never understood why human leaders cared so much for morale and togetherness. He had seen it when he had passed through the lands of the Steward and came across patrols of Gondorian men. Weakness is what they promoted. Under his fist, only the strong survived, and his work was better for it.
He could hear an uproar; shouts, cheers, nightmareish trills, grunts and growls spread loudly out below him, and Gorgul could hear the battle song of iron on iron between them. Gorgul stood, tucking his knife back at his belt and walking over to a crumbled, ruined wall to watch with gold eyes as two of the snivelling maggots carved at each other with cerrated and chipped blades. His warg growled behind him. "Mangy beast," he grumbled, tossing the rest of the raw meat back over his shoulder. It never touched the ground; a snap like a beartrap echoed through the air as the warg claimed its meal right from the air.
He heard a scream before he turned around, and the cheers below rose higher and fiercer. The more wiry of the two orcs was yowling, the sound enough to curdle fresh milk, holding the nub where his arm used to be. The stouter orc watched him squirm with black, bleak eyes before lifting them to mark his captain on the ruined parapet. He waited.
Gorgul nodded.
The cheers grew even louder, and the orc turned, and with a mighty heave cleaved the mutilated head from the loser’s scrawny soldiers, a scream still frozen on his gnarled features.
Weakness had no place in an army.
“Finish up, boys,” he called from his perch. All of the eyes turned upward, including those of the wargs. “Tonight, we head north!”
More cheers, and Gorgul turned back to his mount. “Let’s hunt elf,” he declared.
Scattered around the ruins of a once-proud fortress of man, fires burned against the chill that settled over the Mirkwood evening, and Gorgul listened to the grunts, growls, and speech as those under his command divided their stale bread and tainted meats amongst themselves.
"Hands off," one of them growled.
"What are you gonna do to stop me, eh?" Another retorted, voice thin and as crooked as the creature's nose.
Gorgul snorted through his wide nostrils, taking his bone-hilted dagger and cutting a sliver of raw meat to toss to his warg. He never understood why human leaders cared so much for morale and togetherness. He had seen it when he had passed through the lands of the Steward and came across patrols of Gondorian men. Weakness is what they promoted. Under his fist, only the strong survived, and his work was better for it.
He could hear an uproar; shouts, cheers, nightmareish trills, grunts and growls spread loudly out below him, and Gorgul could hear the battle song of iron on iron between them. Gorgul stood, tucking his knife back at his belt and walking over to a crumbled, ruined wall to watch with gold eyes as two of the snivelling maggots carved at each other with cerrated and chipped blades. His warg growled behind him. "Mangy beast," he grumbled, tossing the rest of the raw meat back over his shoulder. It never touched the ground; a snap like a beartrap echoed through the air as the warg claimed its meal right from the air.
He heard a scream before he turned around, and the cheers below rose higher and fiercer. The more wiry of the two orcs was yowling, the sound enough to curdle fresh milk, holding the nub where his arm used to be. The stouter orc watched him squirm with black, bleak eyes before lifting them to mark his captain on the ruined parapet. He waited.
Gorgul nodded.
The cheers grew even louder, and the orc turned, and with a mighty heave cleaved the mutilated head from the loser’s scrawny soldiers, a scream still frozen on his gnarled features.
Weakness had no place in an army.
“Finish up, boys,” he called from his perch. All of the eyes turned upward, including those of the wargs. “Tonight, we head north!”
More cheers, and Gorgul turned back to his mount. “Let’s hunt elf,” he declared.