Vezhir licked the human blood from his fingers, in a trance of savoring the taste. He could swear it was sweeter whenever he made a point to play mind games with his victims. It wasn't always brute force that did the trick though. They had to be primed first, sure, but the real fun began afterwards. The stress of anticipation, keeping slaves in suspense, letting their imaginations run away with overwhelming, dark images of what tortures awaited them; now that was the best way to sweeten their blood.

All the while the Voice that so often guided his thoughts had urged him to bring the many human snaga at Vezhir's disposal as low as he could. It spoke to him of his darkest, most wretched desires, and spurred him to debase every tarkish sharlob he could get his claws into. When he had first taken the Reaper's snaga, his lack of practice had foiled exactly how much pleasure he could draw from her. After the caves, he was far more experienced.

Shortly after he had left for the caves, one of Vezhir's spies had tracked him down to inform the overlord of a goblin sneaking around the fight pits and causing a disturbance. At the time, Vezhir had commanded his spy to find out exactly what the goblin was doing. Goblins weren't the sort of fighters who would ever enter a pit fight, weak and pitiful as they were. It made the uruk suspicious, but not enough to care to investigate for himself.

It didn't take long for the spy to return, with word from the pitmaster. After all, the goblin had done a piss-poor job at covering his tracks. Upon learning that the little shrakh was trying to rig the fight roster, it had sparked a wicked scheme in the Overlord's mind. He had his spy pass along an order, compelling the pitmaster to accept the forged writ of challenge. Arranging for some pathetic opponents the goblin's master, the captain of the guard, to fight, was a simple matter, when left in the pitmaster's fat greedy claws; paying the fat swine in rations of grog and fine meat and he probably would have slit his own blood-brother's throat. But nothing Vezhir ever did was without a reason; and Qol'dra was perfectly expendable, when the right cause arose.

For the sake of bolstering Qol'dra's ego, Vezhir had the pitmaster throw him in the ring just as the goblin seemed to be trying to do. Giving the captain a number of weak opponents was the perfect way to make him just cocky enough, that when the overlord visited him the night before, the orc was entirely convinced that Vezhir had taken interest in him.

When the seeds had been planted, the overlord had given the pitmaster Ar-Tashk's writ, under the presumption it was genuine. Vezhir had no doubt, Ar-Tashk would survive the fight, but the olog needed to be brought to heel, and this was just the beginning of his punishments. With his plan had been executed flawlessly, Vezhir had granted himself access to the Reaper's slave once more. Plus he had the added bonus of finding the same, stupid little goblin perpetrator, a perfect scapegoat, in Ar-Tashk's quarters. The little shrakh's stunt, attempting to attack the slave, only increased the fear in her blood. It was sweeter than he could have hoped.

A clatter of a brazier being knocked over brought Vezhir's attention back to the present as the goblin witch stumbled into the throne room, clutching her dislocated arm and howling in pain. Vezhir crossed the throne room in a few strides, and pinned the witch to the floor by her mouth.

"Shut your sniveling trap, witch! What could you possibly be whinging about?" He hissed at her.

The witch's black eyes were arched wide in a scowl as she spat back at him, "You thick-skulled lap dog attacked me! I was treating that blasted bala like you ordered, but he was going to kill me if I so much as looked at her wrong. I'm finished with sticking my neck out for one stupid tark! I won't go back there. Not so long as that animal isn't muzzled."

Vezhir snorted and heaved the witch to her feet before the scattered coals of the brazier could set her cloaks on fire, "Oh really? You think you have any say in this?"

"Ah… Sire, be reasonable…" The witch's defiant gaze faltered, "I was the only dum-shatraug to answer your summons. You need me alive for your plan. Let the olog keep his snaga; he'll kill her soon enough with that uncontrollable temper. There are plenty more ghash-dorozgaim carrying your seed back at the caves…"

Vezhir scowled, reluctant to admit that the witch was right about anything, "You'd have me sacrifice my army if it meant saving your own neck."

"No, sire–"

He cut her off, "Shut your mouth, dum-shatraug. I'm thinking…" Tension pulled at the witch's chest as she sucked in an exasperated breath. Vezhir dumped her in front of his grand throne, before taking his place, perched among the towering spines of metal that made up the chair. From his vantage, he looked down on his goblin servant with a severe expression, "The Reaper has kept his snaga alive thus far, in spite of your misgivings. But the last thing I want is you provoking him into a blind rage, at the risk of crushing my spawn in her belly. Since you have failed to control him, I'll leave the slave to his care, and you will be assigned to the caves."

Vezhir failed to notice the sly relief on the witch's face as she bowed deeply and moved to back herself out of the throne room. She didn't care if the slave started popping out uruk brats left and right, she would never return so long as the olog was still around. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she could be long gone before the olog arrived to take his vengeance, since she had ratted out the overlord. Something was clearly wrong in that olog's head to be so obsessed with one measly slave woman. Nothing the overlord could offer or threaten was worth getting thrown around like a ragdoll by the brute. The witch thought to herself that she would be surprised if the overlord lived to see his spawn even be born.

Before she had quite made it across the threshold and out of the keep, Vezhir stopped her with a sharp bark, "Listen carefully, witch. You better pray she gives me the warrior you promised. You'll be escorted to the caves, and I will be summoning you when she shows signs of labor."

A pair of soldiers arrived almost immediately upon his call. "Take this goblin to the caverns on the far edge of the region. She is to tend to the pinkskins there until I give further orders. Now get her out of my sight!"

The witch hissed in pain as the orcs took her by the shoulders and marched her from the keep, foiling any hope she had for slipping away undetected. She spat on the ground, muttering a curse in Vezhir's direction, but low enough that her escorts wouldn't hear, "You dream of grandeur, of building an army all of your own, but you have flown far too high, Vezhir; may the sun burn your cursed wings and send you back to the depths of Mordor."

The overlord tapped a pensive claw on the edge of his throne, as he lounged back in his seat and watched the witch hobble from his presence. She was right, even if her defiance was unacceptable. His olog was getting far too bold lately. The pit fight was hardly enough of a punishment for his trespasses.

When Vezhir first found the Ar-Tashk, the olog was just a gaunt thing, hardly more than a leather bag of bones, on the verge of starving to death in the South Eastern wastelands. Back then, the olog was left for dead by a regiment of orcs who had used him for target practice. Vezhir happened to pass by the brute, when he was facedown in the sand, cooking alive in the heat of the desert sun. Buzzards circled overhead, waiting for the olog to give up his fight, and broken arrows littered the sand around him. Only a couple of the arrows had managed to pierce his thick hide, but with his limbs bound in iron chains, he couldn't free himself.

Vezhir, a lone uruk at the time, considered using him as target practice himself, but withheld upon remembering the purported loyalty of olog hai. After careful consideration, he freed Ar-Tashk of his bonds, only to have the olog charge off in a senseless, bloodlusting rage. When there was no other sign of him, Vezhir assumed the olog was simply gone for good. Yet, a few days on, the olog tracked down Vezhir and returned of his own volition. When Vezhir came upon the olog the second time, the pale troll was nearly unrecognizable for the coating of black blood he was covered in, as he devoured the dismembered bodies of the orcs who had left him for dead.

After disposing of his enemies, Ar-Tashk had approached Vezhir with gratitude for being released. All the while, Vezhir was careful to ingratiate the olog to himself. He recruited Ar-Tashk with his own advancement lingering at the back of his mind; after all, it didn't hurt to have a juggernaut to throw at one's enemies.

Back then, Ar-Tashk had come in real handy. Others were easily inspired to join the uruk and olog's crew when they saw the pair ravaging their encampments. It didn't take long for Vezhir to raise a small regiment of orcs that answered to him, and that was when the Voice began to speak to him personally. As though impressed by his rise, the Voice commended his efforts, and urged him to continue his destructive warpath.

Under the Voice's instruction, Vezshir's small clan of uruks raided and pillaged human settlements and orc camps alike. The reputation of the duo had begun to grow; one of the few growing things in the barrens of the south east, but it didn't take long for Vezhir to grow bored of the endless sand dunes, and he could never afford the resources to increase his pitiful army and satisfy the Voice.

One particularly lean season, the group was pushed to their breaking point by famine. Vezhir had awoken one night to the sounds of fighting, and when he exited his tent, he had witnessed his followers cannibalizing each other. They might have even killed Vezhir too, if Ar-Tashk hadn't slaughtered the lot of them before they got their chance. The bloodbath that ensued left the group entirely devastated by infighting.

When only the uruk and olog remained, Vezhir hatched a plan to leave the wastes, hoping it would satisfy the Voice that went silent at his failure. He became entranced with the idea of finding lands rich with game and taking it all for himself. Of course Ar-Tashk was instrumental in executing Vezhir's plan, but the uruk figured they both would have died if it weren't for the would-be overlord's ingenuity; Ar-Tashk owed everything to Vezhir.

The memories made the Overlord pause; that's right, Ar-Tashk would be dead if it weren't for Vezhir. Everything the olog had belonged to Vezhir! The uruk had every right to the olog's pet slave. As soon as the human woman gave birth, he knew he'd want to start the delicious, vicious process all over again.

It wouldn't do well to have Ar-Tashk getting in his way. Either he could confiscate the slave, or do away with the olog. He tapped his claws in deep thought. The former idea would likely be much less messy, like tricking a dog into trading a kill for a scrap of food. Vezhir would just have to devise the right kind of scrap to entice the olog with.

****Translations****

Tarkish sharlob - human-ish female

Snaga - slave

Bala - breeder

Tark - human

Dum-shatraug - fate witch

Ghash-Dorozgaim - test subjects (plural)

Pinkskins - humans