5
The reactions to the sound of Alaesia's screams were as varied as the residents of the keep. Some orcs became worked up and enraged at her cries, others annoyed. Vezhir, in particular, listened intently from his chambers at the delicious pain of his war-dog's new toy that rang through the stone hallways. Inflicting pain upon others was a pleasure for the uruk; he found a hint of jealousy creeping into his mind, that Ar-Tashk was enjoying tormenting the slave, while he was busy with the orders of the Dark Lord.
The voice of the Dark Lord whispered in his ears at all hours of the day, even when he was sleeping or wherever he went. It wasn't the kind of whispers that could be blocked by plugging his ears either. It was always there, uttering commands, urging bloodlust, and rewarding obedience. Obedience to the Voice had been a key in Vezhir's rise to power and it was that Voice which ensured Vezhir was able to retain his power and control at the fortress in Nurn; it promised him everything he could want, as long as he was faithful in his duties.
Even still, he knew other orcs and uruks heard the Voice as well; a disappointing overlord was easily replaceable with any number of ambitious upstarts who would chomp at the bit to take Vezhir's place. So the overlord was intent on doing whatever he must in order to maintain the Voice's favor.
Even before he had fought tooth and claw to get to his rank, the voice had accompanied him, from the moment of his creation to the present moment; it only became clearer and stronger as he cut through his enemies and achieved his goals. Its sweet power became intoxicating, goading him until Vezhir felt like he was a titan among worms. The Dark Lord's voice had been quieter of late, making the uruk feel a sense of urgency to do whatever he could to please it, to hear it more often, to ensure it didn't abandon him. That singular goal had consumed his efforts for months now.
Since becoming overlord, Vezhir put little time into seeking out humans to torture for his own enjoyment. Slaves rarely lasted long within the walls of the fort, and moreover they were relatively useless to the Voice. Even so, the human slave's cries were particularly enticing as they broke the dull silence that often filled the keep.
Perhaps I ought to pay the Reaper's slave a little visit, he mused while biting the edge of his nail. It wouldn't be hard to convince the olog to undertake another raid, to get him out of the way; after all, the brute clearly lived for the chance to kill. The idea of digging his bird-like talons into a slave's flesh was enticing; he rather enjoyed the vibrant red blood of humans. In a fortress of black and shadow, it was an alluring color. But as overlord, he couldn't just go tramping off to find humans to torture. No, if he wanted to slake his bloodlust, it'd be easier just to get at slaves within the walls of the fort, but how to get his war dog to let go of its bone.
Vezhir looked over his war table. A great, patchwork sheet of parchment served as a map detailing the movements of various tribes, captains, and orcs of interest. Beyond his own desires, Vezhir needed a way back into the graces of the Voice. Just keeping the fortress and region under his thumb seemed to not be enough to feed his need to hear the Dark Lord. There had to be something that would get the Dark Lord's attention again, something that perhaps would suit both his own, and the Dark Lord's needs.
He flicked the figurine representing Ku'Gohn the Gourmet on its side, then traced his claws across the tattered map. The region along the Sea of Nurnen had been easily conquered; the orcs there were hardly greater than pinkskins. The green lands at the edge of the sea made for soft warriors who grew lazy and fat for the abundance of hunting grounds. The orcs of Nurn would never make for a suitable army. Another scream interrupted Vezhir's thoughts, but struck him with a familiar realization.
As an uruk, Vezhir had been created and created amongst such horrific screams; it had been the sickeningly sweet music that echoed across the barracks, rising from deep pits full of human chattel. If the white wizard was able bring orcish males and the females of men together to create the ultimate warriors, greater than even Morgoth's orcs, Vezhir thought back to the imposing visage of his creator robed in white, then perhaps I could begin raising my own army of uruks for the Dark Lord.
The Voice's order was to solidify the grip of Mordor's upper command in the region; if that meant replacing the orc populace with uruk blood, Vezhir planned on seeing it done. He raked his claws across the parchment of the map. The grease of his hand stained a mark as he drew a mark through a number of known encampments, both of enemies and sworn allies alike.
He swept a number of figurines into strategic positions around the marks; the points he had selected were the entrance points to the multi-tunnel networks and cave entrances that littered the region. They would make for the perfect location to contain human females. He paused for a moment, thinking back to his own origin. It had been a brief experience. Some sort of wicked sorcery had twisted time around uruks born in the pits of Mordor, to ensure its army was quick to get on its feet.
Vezhir snarled and threw open his chamber doors, bellowing for a goblin servant. As though summoned by lightning, an oil-skinned goblin skittered to the overlord's side. Vezhir snapped at the goblin, through a half-grin, "There are those among your people who work in majick, yes?"
The goblin nodded, "Some o' the cursed ones still live, my lord."
"And tell me," Vezhir placed a goblet of wine on the table, just out of the goblin's reach, "Are the rumors of wyrd goblin majick, to bind souls and time, just rumors?" The goblin's eyes were pinned on the goblet, and he licked his lips, hoping for a taste. As he leaned to reach for it, Vezhir pulled it away, waiting for the goblin to answer.
"Nah, that ain't just a rumor, sire. What you're looking for is a dum-shatraug, a witch of fates," He leered eagerly as the overlord brought the goblet closer, only to have it pulled out of reach once again.
Vezhir leaned close to the goblin, "And you know how to find this… dum-shatraug?"
The goblin met the overlord's gaze, and broke into a broad, toothy grin, "Aye. I can find you a dum-shatraugh."
"Then you leave tonight," Vezhir shoved the goblet into the goblin's hands and watched him eagerly guzzle down every drop of the wine.
****Translations****br /
Tark - Humanbr /
Snaga - Slavebr /
Majick - A mispronunciation of magicbr /
Dum-shatraug - Fate Witch