From Lord to Labor (February 3010) - [Gwathion]
Apr 7, 2018 17:16:38 GMT -5
Post by Captains on Apr 7, 2018 17:16:38 GMT -5
With a heave the body of the Gondorian, the manflesh they had stolen from the very front lines, was thrown forward into the dirt, the Taskmaster only a pace away from the volcanic soil Ghalrog had dropped him into. “Found one fer the farms,” Ghalrog said, a twist upward of his lip to convey a sick amusement.
Seven days had been all it took to get their ragged band of chieftains back to the Black Lands, the blood of some of Gondor’s sons not yet dried upon their blades. It was clear they had captured some pinkskin of import, for the soldier was clad in red cloak—a mark upon the field so that one could see their commander.
“A chief?” The Taskmaster growled in the guttural black-speech of Sauron’s lands. He stooped, large hand gripping at the back of Gwathion’s clothes and lifting him a few inches, squished face pressed inches from his in examination.
“Gondor offers them freely,” Ghalrog answered, also in the dark-tongue. He drew his dagger and cut the red cloth from the soldier’s shoulders and held it aloft. A wave of cheer and stomps resounded from the orc gathered.
“Strip him!” The Taskmaster roared in that strange tongue. The metal would be good quality, meltable by the smiths to improve the weapons they were able to form. At once the orc pressed inward, a swarm of grabbing hands and putrid stench, stripping each metal piece off the soldier one at a time until he was in naught but cloth. “He serves on the farm until he dies,” the orc added, this time in the common tongue of Westron, smirking down at the ugly, pink heap of flesh below as he stood and began to move away.
“Ya heard the Taskmaster,” Ghalrog said, and with a strong swing of his leg offered the solider a kick to stand and rise. “Get yerself to work, manflesh!”
Another orc stepped forward, a large sword in hand. “Mine,” he declared. He pointed the blade toward Gwathion, and nodded toward the meager rows of crop that were being tended to by wide-eyed and fearful humans. They were small, malnourished, and hunched in a way that spoke of harsh whips and heavy chains. Still, as they looked upon the fiery-haired man being brought forward their hands stilled and they stared. It was not often those from the Outside were brought in to serve. That meant trouble.
“Get back to work, you maggots!” The chieftain roared at the still hands and horrified faces. “You ain’t getting a break on account a’ the likes of him!” With a shove, the redhead was pushed toward the crops, various orcish enforcers eying him from about the farmstead. “Now get to work, manflesh.”
Seven days had been all it took to get their ragged band of chieftains back to the Black Lands, the blood of some of Gondor’s sons not yet dried upon their blades. It was clear they had captured some pinkskin of import, for the soldier was clad in red cloak—a mark upon the field so that one could see their commander.
“A chief?” The Taskmaster growled in the guttural black-speech of Sauron’s lands. He stooped, large hand gripping at the back of Gwathion’s clothes and lifting him a few inches, squished face pressed inches from his in examination.
“Gondor offers them freely,” Ghalrog answered, also in the dark-tongue. He drew his dagger and cut the red cloth from the soldier’s shoulders and held it aloft. A wave of cheer and stomps resounded from the orc gathered.
“Strip him!” The Taskmaster roared in that strange tongue. The metal would be good quality, meltable by the smiths to improve the weapons they were able to form. At once the orc pressed inward, a swarm of grabbing hands and putrid stench, stripping each metal piece off the soldier one at a time until he was in naught but cloth. “He serves on the farm until he dies,” the orc added, this time in the common tongue of Westron, smirking down at the ugly, pink heap of flesh below as he stood and began to move away.
“Ya heard the Taskmaster,” Ghalrog said, and with a strong swing of his leg offered the solider a kick to stand and rise. “Get yerself to work, manflesh!”
Another orc stepped forward, a large sword in hand. “Mine,” he declared. He pointed the blade toward Gwathion, and nodded toward the meager rows of crop that were being tended to by wide-eyed and fearful humans. They were small, malnourished, and hunched in a way that spoke of harsh whips and heavy chains. Still, as they looked upon the fiery-haired man being brought forward their hands stilled and they stared. It was not often those from the Outside were brought in to serve. That meant trouble.
“Get back to work, you maggots!” The chieftain roared at the still hands and horrified faces. “You ain’t getting a break on account a’ the likes of him!” With a shove, the redhead was pushed toward the crops, various orcish enforcers eying him from about the farmstead. “Now get to work, manflesh.”
