Oh yeah! I should've mentioned, I've done a couple drawings for this:
morgulmotel . tumblr post / 82355846965 /
morgulmotel . tumblr post / 81022493203 /
"You're lucky I'm too petrified to slap you," said Razashûk.
"Great, you're terrified. That's a big help. See if you can piss yourself and maybe it won't want to get its boots soiled."
"I didn't say scared," he hissed through his clenched teeth, "I mean I can't fucking move."
Durgrat took a sharp breath and tried to hurl himself sideways, but it was as if his limbs were made of stone.
Razashûk sneered. "What were you going to do, kill it?"
"Enough," the unearthly presence wheezed as it glided across the floor, sputtering in and out of perception. It gave the impression of a tall, skeletal figure sheathed in some sort of elaborate raiment, but was too indistinct to reveal anything for certain. "You disappoint me," it said, glancing downward. "Long have I awaited a living champion to release me from my bonds, and instead I get a couple of smelly vagrant Orcs looking for a secluded place to jerk each other off."
"Well, the world has changed," said Durgrat.
It sighed, letting out a burst of freezing air. "Nothing changes for me. I hunger and suffer. All who face me must answer the curse's demands. If they succeed, my torment is ended. If they fail, I drain their very life force from their bodies, savoring their agony, and gain their power."
"That sounds like an awful lot of work for the likes of us. Why couldn't you just stay hidden and enjoy the show?" Razashûk asked.
"Perhaps if you were less ugly," it said.
"I'm not ugly," said Durgrat. "And Raz isn't either, he's charming, really. See, still has all his fingers and most of his teeth, and that's pretty good all things considered."
Razashûk ignored what he wasn't sure was a compliment or not, and looked over the blank walls. "Must be boring here. I assume your curse involves not being able to leave, or you would've gotten out of this dump ages ago."
"How perceptive of you," it said. Durgrat could've sworn it rolled whatever was left of its eyes.
Razashûk would've squirmed if he could have. "Let's get it over with, then." He hoped to come up with some clever maneuver to outsmart the thing or catch it off its guard once the big fight was underway. It always seemed to work out like that in the tales he'd heard.
"Only an enchanted weapon of astounding power can even hope to strike me."
"Oh. Well, we haven't got anything that impressive," said Razashûk, mentally adding "...yet," and trying not to think about the possibility that they'd never reach that leg of the journey thanks to their ungracious host. So much for fancy footwork saving the day.
"You cannot leave without facing me in battle, whatever form that battle may take."
Razashûk frowned. "Can we at least move our arms and legs again? Like you said, it's not as if we can hit you."
The spirit sighed and made an odd wavering motion, and the Orcs' limbs went slack. Durgrat kneaded at a kink in his arm and cursed under his breath.
"It rarely comes to this, as I'm accustomed to a certain quality of challenger. But," it made a sad crackle, "I suppose I should be used to disappointment by now. You may test me by solving a series of riddles to prove your worth."
"Really? Riddles? That's a bit of a letdown for me, too," said Durgrat.
"Do you want a chance at leaving alive or not?"
"Fine," said Razashûk. "We'll play your lousy game."
The spirit braced itself and made a noise that sounded like a winter wind ripping through bare-branched trees. "All right, here comes a good one. What stands on four legs in the morning, two legs in the aftern..."
"It's a person," Razashûk butted in. "A child crawls, an adult stands, an old fart needs a stick to lean on, and a dead one needs to try a little harder at this."
"Hnnnrh. Fine, get a load of this: What goes into the water red and comes out black?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Durgrat. "Even I know that one. It's hot iron."
The spirit pressed on. "What is it that you can keep after giving it to someone else?"
"Lice," said Razashûk after deliberating for a moment.
"Or an itchy rash!" Durgrat chimed in.
The spirit froze in place a minute, then began flickering back into motion. "Ehh, I suppose. But you only got that one on a technicality," it grumbled. "Those weren't the answers I was looking for."
"Nobody looks for those, they just sort of happen," said Razashûk.
"The point is it doesn't really count!" A circle of frost burst around the spirit, then dissipated as quickly as it came. Their challenger continued undeterred. It uttered various old saws about death, stars, time, love, silence, and potatoes, then finally gave up when "What belongs to you, but others use it more than you do?" sent both Orcs into a fit of snorting laughter (and a mutter of "I wish" from Razashûk).
"You two think you're awfully funny, don't you? Well, guess what? You're not." It crossed its spectral arms.
"Hey, wait! This stupid curse doesn't even make sense," said Durgrat, who had managed to calm down despite Razashûk's pointy claws grabbing at his shoulder in an attempt to push himself back upright. The smaller Orc flailed and fell again, still clutching at his stomach. "Why not just throw the fight if you hate it so much here? Being dead has got to be better than this."
"And you didn't make up any rules for solving the riddles, not even weird bullshit ones," added Razashûk. "You're just stalling until we starve or something, aren't you? Then you'll pick our pockets and put our bodies in embarrassing positions."
"Nonsense. My liege, the Lord Sauron, would be most displeased if I were to give anything less than my utmost effort."
"I, uh, have some bad news about your liege," said Razashûk, whose laughter had died down for good now.
The spirit glided closer, radiating a strange force as it got uncomfortably close to Razashûk. "Tell me."
"That is, there was a war on, and see, what happened was. Uh. We lost." He flinched as if the presence would take it out on him personally upon hearing that.
"Ah, but such trials have befallen my master before..."
"No, he's gone," said Razashûk. "I felt it."
"Son of a wagon wheel," it sort-of swore.
"So really, the important part is we're all on the same team here." Razashûk nodded and smiled a little too wide.
"Don't push it," said the spirit. "A curse is a curse. I may not have to try all that hard anymore, but I've got to take something from you, at the very least. Picking your pockets doesn't sound like a bad idea all of a sudden."
"Don't," said Durgrat. "Your hands look really cold."
"How about you simply give me something for my treasure hoard? It could use some improvement, as you can see." It gestured at an empty corner. "There are rules this time. No stones. It makes no difference how beautiful or shiny or strangely-colored they are. Stone surrounds me on all sides and I am weary of looking at it. No earthly weapons, as I have no need of them. And none of that metaphorical tripe, either. The game of riddles is over. I don't want your word or your forgiveness or any of that worthless crap."
The Orcs looked baffled. Durgrat glanced up at the spirit and down at the bag next to him several times as if it would magically know what was in it and tell him what to rummage for. Razashûk drummed his fingers on the wall and squinted.
The spirit regained a bit of its regal bearing. "You must have something," it said. "Preferably a keepsake quite dear to you, so that I may bask in the wounding of your soul. But I'll settle for something that'll stave off a little tedium once in a while."
"Wait. I've got something that's both, I think," said Durgrat after a moment. He grabbed his pack and dug out a slender book with a dark red cover, most of its embossed detail worn away long ago. He handed it over, looking as reluctant and mournful as a mother sending her firstborn into exile in the wilderness.
The spirit flipped through a few pages and made a loud inward hiss. "Where did you even find this?"
"From some creepy old bastard, where else?" said Durgrat.
"What is it?" asked Razashûk.
"It's a book of poems," said the spirit.
"Pfft! How is that 'quite dear' to you? Even ignoring that you don't exactly strike me as the poetical type, you can't read."
"It's got pictures, and from what I gather from those, they're all poems about fucking," said Durgrat.
"What?!"
"Well, I guess not all of them. I'm pretty sure some of them are about sucking and licking, or using your fingers to..."
Razashûk lunged at the spirit. "Let me see!" The Orc went right through its ethereal form and thudded to the floor. "Please," he said, craning his neck up. The word came out more like an angry wad of spit than like a polite request.
The spirit waited a moment, motioning as if stroking its chin in deep thought. Razashûk's eyes were twitching in impatience. It finally bent down and lowered its blurry face to meet his gaze. "No." It righted itself and made a show of slowly turning the pages while holding it up just out of Razashûk's reach. "Oh, she's going to be sore in the morning. I didn't know you could even do that."
"Do what? What?"
It ignored him and let out an eardrum-piercing whistle as it continued with its art appreciation. "My, but those are some hefty spears those soldiers are polishing."
"I knooow. That's my favorite," said Durgrat. He stared off at nothing with a big dopey grin on his face, which only aggravated Razashûk further.
"Well I'm glad someone gets to enjoy it!"
"You don't look glad." The presence shut the book. "You do, however, look defeated. It does me good to feel such frustration and pain swirling through the very air around you. Not to mention seeing you fall and smack your head. This tragic new world is not completely ruined and hollow after all." The center of its chest lit up with a soft, sickly glow, which brightened when Razashûk took a swing at it. The foggy borders of its form moved in tiny ripples, almost as if it was laughing. "Consider your obligation to me fulfilled."
"So we can go?" said Durgrat.
"Yes, you twits. Now do exactly that, because I need to study this artifact."
They exited the burial chamber and left the spirit to its devices, murmurs of its hissing voice still echoing off the walls. "...a horse, really?"
And so the Orcs left the haunted tomb behind, and decided to seal the door back shut behind them, piling a few more big rocks in front of it for good measure. Whether it was to keep the mysterious being inside or prevent anyone else from having to deal with its time-wasting malarkey, neither of them was certain.
"Why didn't you tell me you had a book like that? And if you say 'You didn't ask', I will cut you."
"Right then, I won't say it."
Razashûk growled.
"But the fact you never got to see it saved us from...I don't know, listening to that thing whine some more. You wouldn't have gotten as angry."
"I suppose. Though it's kind of shit that you keep losing things as we go along. Next time we have to fork something over, I'll do it." He didn't mention that this was mainly because he suspected Durgrat had much better stuff than him. Better to give up something he wouldn't miss, or could easily replace.
"It's all right," said Durgrat. "I didn't mind how it all turned out."
"Having it around would've just made me look like crap in comparison anyway," Razashûk said. "I mean, not that I wouldn't have eventually botched it back there if we'd kept uh, going."
Durgrat stopped in his tracks. "Aren't you tired?" he asked, with an exasperated look.
"Nah. I can keep walking for a good ten miles, at least."
"No, I mean of that thing you're always doing."
"What, swearing at the sun?"
"No, you have to add something shitty on to everything you say. Like you've got to ruin a good thing before anything else even gets a chance to. 'Oh, I'm going to go shoot that bird. Not that I'm a real great hunter or anything. If I hit it, it'll be by accident.' Wouldn't it be easier to just shut up and kill it?"
They went on in silence. Razashûk's attempts at smoothing things over when they stopped to rest sank like a corpse in a bog.
He tried telling a joke. Durgrat furrowed his brow. "Why didn't they just explain that the guy's name has two meanings? None of that pointless trouble would've happened."
He tried seductively sucking on Durgrat's fingers when they ate. "That's my squirrel blood, you little shit," he said, and shoved Razashûk aside.
He tried offering his extra blanket, threadbare as it was, when they settled down to sleep. "You think I can't take care of myself?" Durgrat said.
After all that Razashûk was particularly cross, even without the pebbles in his boots and the lumps under his head. He felt cheated that they'd already started squabbling before even getting a wedding night, as it were, and now assumed that they'd just skipped the fun part and gone straight into the resentment at being stuck with each other until one of them died or got bored. Then he berated himself for being that presumptuous in the first place. Nothing had really happened between them anyway.
But he couldn't very well cut him loose, since he knew what Razashûk was up to, and Razashûk wouldn't put it past him to blab about it to the first shifty cutpurse he ran into after being ditched. Better to have the Uruk close enough to keep an eye on.
The surroundings were unsettlingly quiet, and he slept fitfully, tormented by the worst kind of dreams: the slow, mundane ones that were just boring enough to seem absolutely real, yet were too good to be true. He dreamed that he wandered home and all was as it had been before. Sauron's gaze enveloped the mountain as he sat in front of the fire and ate part of the boar he'd slain and brought back, while contented voices burbled around him.
He stirred awake and could almost feel the hot fat trickling down his fingers. The hunger was real enough. He gathered his bow and arrows and squinted upwards. For once, he hoped the sky would soon be full of stupid, cackling birds, flying low.
The trees continued to thin out and the trail they'd been following joined up with another one when they reached a fairly large clearing. This path was well-trodden too, but unlike the one winding through the depths of the forest, it was wide and there were obvious signs that the dirt on it was recently stirred up by boots, hooves, and wheels alike.
Durgrat surveyed the layout. "This looks like a real road, that real people use."
"Well, if we're going anywhere near respectable civilized folk, might as well freshen up and slightly decrease our chances of getting murdered. You may want to try and do something about that rat's nest on your head." He nodded towards a small stream that looped out into the clearing and ran back into the trees. It was a little cruddier and more bug-infested than the one they'd found back in the middle of the woods, and lined with slimy silt at the bottom, but still clear and stench-free.
The Uruk stepped into the water and untied his tangle of hair and combed through it with his fingers, doing his best to undo the knots and pick out the dust and dirt. After a few minutes, he lost patience with it and wound up tearing off the ends of several strands that felt beyond salvaging. He found himself wishing he'd pilfered a comb at some point. Not that there'd been a ton of those lying around back in Isengard, but still.
A sudden splash made him jolt, and he turned to see Razashûk pop up out of the water, scratching at his long limbs with a unpleasant-looking scrap of rough cloth. He'd apparently shrugged off his clothes quicker than a greased weasel, and the sheen of wetness made him look even more sinewy than usual. An impressive pair of deep, ridged scars on his upper arm stood out especially well. Durgrat decided he would have to ask him about it on a less peeved and soggy occasion.
Razashûk made his way back towards the bank and dug a thick knife from his pack and gave the blade a cursory examination, running a finger along the slightly nicked edge. He dunked it in the stream and scraped it against the sides of his head, missing only a few stubbly spots. After he ran his hands along his skull and was apparently satisfied, he bit at his claws with his crooked teeth and returned the clippings to nature from whence they came, spitting a bit louder than he probably needed to. His pale eyes reflected the surface of the water and the slits of his pupils shrunk in the light, low as it was.
Durgrat told the ghost the truth. Razashûk wasn't ugly.
After figuring they were as clean as they were going to get, they rested on the bank, waiting to dry off a bit more before stabbing onward. Razashûk couldn't let that happen in peace and quiet, and began whistling, which he wasn't particularly good at. A monotonous, deflated-sounding tune whooshed out of his mouth while he tied his hair back in place.
"Razashûk."
"What?"
"Just because I don't really like slugging people doesn't mean I won't do it."
"Before you punch my head off, can I at least put the rest of my clothes back on? I already had one utterly humiliating defeat only yesterday, and I'd like to space them out a bit." He fiddled with the various fastenings on his worn garments. "Look, is there anything that would make you less annoyed with me right now, short of me actually fucking off and dying?"
Durgrat narrowed his eyes and glared at the smaller Orc, who cringed and shrunk away. "Tell me another story."
Razashûk gathered all his strength to keep from bursting out laughing. Durgrat made an offended little grunt that didn't help with that, but fell quiet as Razashûk began. "A long time ago in a forgotten corner of the world, there was an old woodcutter whose only son ran away from home. The woodcutter wasn't bothered by it that much, since the guy was sort of a lazy pillock anyway, except he'd taken Dad's axe with him and he'd a be a pretty fucking lousy woodcutter without it..."