The Black Market

"Going to Mordor!" Cried Pippin. "I hope it won’t come to that!"
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The Black Market

Within Mordor’s dreaded Black Gates, the Morannon, lies the deep valley of Udun. Surrounded by saw-toothed mountains and overlooked by the orcish fortress of Durthang, it is not only a well-defended location, but ideally placed for trade—for those who dare to cross Mordor’s borders, that is. It is here that Mordor’s infamous Black Market is located. A merchant town of winding alleys and dead ends, the Black Market serves as a meeting place for hordes of orcs and the undead, who mingle with Easterlings, Haradrim, traveling Corsairs, and the people of Khand. Even an occasional member of the so-called “free peoples” of Middle Earth can be found wandering the Black Market, though they do so at their peril. In amongst the stalls can be found the following purveyors of gruesome and ghastly wares. Expect to be cheated—there may be honor among thieves, but there is certainly none to be found here.
*
Ushtarak Zogtar
(“Army Artisan”)
AVAILABLE
Basic army supplies
Here you can purchase blades and armor, all cheaply and poorly made. Ugly, functional, and useful for bludgeoning your enemies to death or cutting a few throats, but not much else.
*
Thaukim
(“Knives”)
AVAILABLE
Better weaponry than the “artisan” offers
This poetically-named stall ironically sells much finer weaponry than Ushtarak Zogtar. Here you can find well-crafted blades of all shapes and sizes, and a rare occasional Morgul blade on consignment, though for that you’ll pay a hefty price.
*
Pakon Stazim
(“Monstrous Beasts”)
Proprietor: @Lokktar Ogar
Creatures for sale or hire
Purchase or rent a variety of beasts—black horses, wargs, spiders, half-witted snagas and trolls for use in manual labor. Fell beasts and drakes are not available at this time, on account of many previous customers being eaten by them.
*
Buk, Zim, Maush
(“Bread, Brew, Meat”)
AVAILABLE
A food stall
Disgusting rations for the hungry shopper. Maggot-riddled bread, alcoholic sludge, and meat that’s been out in the sun for too long. Every day’s special is rat on a stick.
*
Kangtar’s Korner
(“Minstrel’s Corner”)
Proprietor: Khaulzîm (@Moriel )
This does not need to be explained further
An Easterling minstrel for hire, who will shout or sing insults at an individual of your choosing.
*
Fashot Kukumak
(“The Occult Owl”)
Proprietor: Kirrah (@Winddancer )
Fortunes, etc
A fortune-teller of dubious background and ill-repute, who will read cards, entrails or bones on your behalf. Immediate fortunes, long-term fortunes, or times of death predicted.
*
Plakaut Girdanim
(“The Pillager’s Necklace”)
Proprietor: Zarâm (@Dimcairien Luiniel )
A pawnshop, essentially
Stolen items from around Middle Earth can be fenced and resold here, no questions asked. You never know what interesting trinkets you might find, so come back often.
*
Balt Kjani
(“Food That Looks Like Mud”)
Proprietor: Toxius Fume (@Aerlinn)
Coffee & Chocolate
Cocoa powder, dark chocolate, warty chocolate toads, fudge flies, cockroach clusters! Do you have a rotting sweet tooth or a taste for tar? No matter, Balt Kjani caters to all* of Mordor's denizens! Merchandise sourced directly from Near Harad. (*Fume would like to make it clear that he offers no guarantees in the case of beings, such as the undead, who lack tastebuds.)
*
Afar Vadokanuk!
(“Buy All The Dead”)
Proprietor: Thalionwen (@Thalionwen )
A body farm
Corpses are sold here, whole or in parts, all of them 100% guaranteed dead. Should you want minor appendages attached on-site, the proprietress, Thalionwen of the Eastmark, is happy to do so. Major limb attachments or reattachments must be undertaken in Umbar, at the Slaughter House. Though Afar Vadokanuk abides by strict cleanliness protocols, no guarantee against infection or subsequent death is offered. What you do with bodies once purchased is your business. No returns, refunds, exchanges or store credit.
*
Mosnat Trog
(“The Midnight Market”)
Proprietor: Fleeg (@Frosty the Snowman)
Catering to the Black Market’s undead clientele
A winding alley of stalls dedicated to the tastes of the Market’s more ethereal patrons. Willing and unwilling victims for vampires, live bodies on offer for possession/inhabitation, exotic meats and organs of certified origin.
*
Waste Management: A Midnight Market Subsidiary
Crew Leader: Orco del Oro (@Rivvy Elf )
Orco and his garbage crew walk around collecting 'garbage' and bodies. If there is a lot of waste, expect to see a carriage with very pretty horses.
*
Eitur Shatamub
(“The Poison Pot”)
Proprietor: Zuleina (@Almarëa Mordollwen)
What it sounds like
A dizzying array of poisons for use in cookery, pest extermination, and experimentation. As always, no questions asked upon sale. Should you implicate this vendor in any criminal undertakings, you will swiftly find yourself upon the receiving end of one of the concoctions on offer.
*
Druviz Kadar
(“Dread-Insect Tent”)
Proprietor: Fleeg (@Mama's Murder Muffin)
An apiary...of sorts
Specializes in murder hornets and wasps for a variety of purposes from surveillance to assassinations. Special orders available upon request
*
Grijakeren
(“Blood Iron”)
Proprietor: Umoya (@Fuin Elda)
A tattoo parlor
Ink for your flesh, whether it be of the living or dead variety. Creative solutions available for the less corporeal of our undead clientele.
******
If a shop does not have a proprietor listed, feel free to create and godmode attendants, but keep their attitude, actions and origins realistic for residents or allies of Mordor. Members of ANY KINGDOM are welcome to roleplay within the thread. For clarity, include your character name and location at the head of each post (eg: "Thalionwen, The Streets") If you are interested in taking over an available shop or creating a new vendor or business of your own, tag Thalionwen in The Hall of Barad-Dur: Mordor OOC to make the request.


Go forth, and good luck. You’ll need it in this blighted place.
Last edited by Thalionwen Hunigfolm on Mon Sep 14, 2020 7:30 pm, edited 8 times in total.
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Bealdorhaelend
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Toxius Fume
Last week, in Harad


"Try this," the man snapped at him. He wore a long scarlet tunic and positively dripped with golden jewelry. Toxius smiled as best he could while keeping his lips firmly closed and attempted to shuffle backwards. He hadn't gotten this far by accepting suspicious, muddy-looking squares of...stuff...from threatening strangers. He felt something cold and narrow press against the back of his neck and froze.

"Eat the chocolate," a voice hissed behind him. The rest of the gang drew in closer around him, positively looming.

"The huh? Well, you see here," Toxius hedged, "it's my upbringing you know. Mama always told me to be wary. Tell you what? Why don't you break that thing in half and I'll take the small--"

The Haradrim shoved the offending item into his mouth. It tasted like soot scraped from the sides of Mount Doom. "Bleeech! Ergh, yech! Wretch! What are you playing at?" he spluttered. He couldn't even spit the stuff out, it had already half melted onto his tongue and to the back of his teeth. The tribesmen laughed.

"Now, try this."

"You can't be serious! That was--" No one had ever accused Toxius of being a quick learner. Another square of chocolate was forced between his teeth and he screwed up his face in anticipatory outrage, but..."oh."

***

The Black Market

Toxius had never moved so fast in his life. A hasty attempt at negotiations, a small sack of gold changing hands and then he was steering his humble caravan back over the southern passes towards the Morannon. He ground to a halt at the corner of a small intersection of the Black Market, not far from...oh dear, were those bodies?

But there was work to be done! He forced his rusty, creaking sideboards down with a breath full of curses and began to set out his trunk full of samples.There were tins of soul-suckingly astringent cocoa powder, slabs of sweetened dark chocolate squares, warty chocolate toads, black lumps of drinking chocolate that melted into the consistency of tar, fly-shaped bits off something the Haradrim had called 'fudge' and one very questionable bag labeled 'cockroach clusters'.

This was it, he was sure of it. The scheme that would bring him to riches. The coup that would see him to glory. The gentleman's business venture that would leave him drowning in gold. He stuck his head out into the street and cleared his throat.

"Chocolate, I've got chocolate! Come, have a nibble. What's chocolate, you say? Oh, dearest friends and dearer enemies, why, I simply can't put it into words! Just a taste, over here now. Chocolate, chocolate...

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Thalionwen, The Streets and Balt Kjani

Mordor in the morning smelled like sulfur, refuse, and potential. Or so Thalionwen thought. Truthfully, that last might have just been her projecting, but there was something exciting in the air here that other kingdoms lacked. Though maybe it was just all the angry shouting.

Either way, Thali was perfectly happy to be walking through the already-riotous streets of the Black Market, on her way to her very own stall. She'd shown up in Mordor only a few days ago and already managed to find herself not one, but three jobs. By nights, she did a bit of cooking at Irime the Easterling's pub, which wasn't exactly difficult--anything she made seemed to go down a treat here in Mordor, even if folk in Rohan would have turned up their noses at it. By afternoons, she was attempting to overhaul what passed for a local hospital--the aptly-named Slaughter House--and to teach the Uruk who ran things there that you couldn't just cut people open while they were fully conscious and expect them to live. And by mornings, she ran Afar Vadokanuk in the Black Market, where she sold the...unfortunate collateral damage in her quest to reform the hospital. She was sure it was morally alright to sell bodies (whole or in parts, no refunds, returns or exchanges) in Mordor, as no one seemed to care at all about proper cremations or burials. For the most part, dead things were just tossed into the streets, but one kingdom's trash was Thalionwen's treasure.

Admittedly, it was rather hot in Udun to be selling corpses, and no matter how hard she tried to keep everything on ice stocked from the surrounding mountains, some of her stock always ended up putrefying. The stalls immediately next to hers had relocated within a day, so it came as a great surprise to Thali to find, on this particular morning, that someone had occupied the vacant space immediately beside her.

"Food That Looks Like Mud?" she said slowly, frowning as she read the sign above the perplexing new stall. There must be some mistake--she wasn't Middle Earth's most accomplished reader, and her Black Speech was still even rougher than her reading. But, as she glanced at the stall's contents, all of the wares displayed did indeed look like mud.

Oh well. Must be yet another odd custom she needed to learn.

Smiling brightly, Thalionwen approached the shopkeeper.

"Hello! I'm Thalionwen of the Eastfold. I run the stall next to yours--Afar Vadokanuk, Buy all the Bodies. What, um. What is all of this?" She gestured doubtfully at the vendor's merchandise.
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Plakaut Girdanim
Zarâm


Zarâm took in the dank, musty smells of Mordor - a wonderful change from the vile clean air of Imaldris. As she began to set up the Black Market stall, she smelled something unusual, but still dark, like everything in Mordor. Laying out some shiny trinkets with her dirty, wrinkled fingers, Zarâm looked around her stall in satisfaction. Among the many items were a few barrels of pipeweed (thanks to the booming pipeweed business in Isengard), various jewels stolen from the halls of Imladris, and of course some delicious hallucinogenic mushrooms cultivated in the Shire.

She put out a sign that read "Other items pilfered upon consideration". Stealing items from Mordor and beyond was one of the more exhilarating activities Zarâm regularly partook in.

Stall set up, she trampled over to the one where the unusual dank smells were coming from. "What's this?" she snarled, at the business owner (Toxius), glancing at the sign which read "Balt Kjani." "What food doesn't look like mud?"

OOC: ( Going along with the hope that I somehow get through the maze and survive. How else would I have pilfered the Imladris elves?)
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Artanis / Éomund / Brandor / Zarâm

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Fleeg
Mosnat Trog


“Master will be very pleased with this,” the rat faced, green-skinned goblin gibbered to himself. The bottle was nearly full of a greenish, iridescent liquid. Fleeg watched it, half hypnotized. He shook himself a moment later, pulling his hand back and putting it in his pocket. This was for the Master, he would be very pleased with this, but Fleeg could not touch it, he was not worthy. Such a thing, such a magnificently malignant thing was not for the likes of Fleeg. He had procured it at the behest of his master and had been told that a buyer would be along soon. All he had to do was hand it over. He pulled his hand away again, it had unstuffed itself from his pocket and was reaching for the bottle again. He had no idea what was in the bottle, but he wanted it.

His hand darted out once more, but this time it grabbed a beetle that was making its way across the table. He snatched it up and ate it, all in one swift motion. The crunch was satisfying, the limbs wiggled between his teeth as the guts oozed out of the shell. A hint of spice in the umami innards. “MMMMMMM” Fleeg purred as he swallowed the treat.

He took one more look at the bottle the tore himself away. He needed to attend his wares now. He likely wouldn’t receive many customers today. The sun usually hampered the customers he attracted at Mosnat Trog and the sun was particularly troublesome today. He glared up at it. It was hidden by layers smoke, ash, and cloud, but he could still sense it, still feel it. It was a cursed thing. He hissed and spat. A few stray beetle legs flew to the ground.

Fleeg pulled his ragged brown cloak tighter about him. The wind was picking and that meant dust. Just as he pulled the cloak tight, a blast of dust blew around him, a maelstrom of dust and ash. He coughed and hacked until the air around him cleared.

But it didn’t clear completely. There was a faint outline, a shimmering aspect of a person in front of him. The air smelled cold, a sudden empty smell that made the goblin’s nose itch. The sun grew darker, shadows lengthened out of the alleyway, fingers of darkness twisting and creeping out like spiders. The sound seemed to die away too, the Black Market’s chaotic din suddenly felt very far away. He could still hear the cacophony, but there was nothing distinct about it, purely white noise. The air tasted electric and alive. The air felt the same way it did after a lightning strike, the potential energy made his skin prickle. Instinctively, the goblin fell to a knee, bowing his head in reverence. The Master often appeared like this, an echo across the vast distances.

“Master, you grace me with your presence today. I am honored.”

You will meet a woman today, she will ask strange things of you. You must comply with what she needs.

Fleeg looked up from his groveling at the ever changing outline of his Master. “Will she ask about the bottle?”

She will ask strange things of you his master repeated.

Fleeg nodded. “Of course. I live to serve you.”

You should hurry the voice almost sounded amused, a hint of sarcasm echoed in the goblin’s mind. You have a meeting with a new group of humans today. I’ve seen to it that they will be willing to provide you with the wares you need.

That was good news, Fleeg had been forced to pay his Black Market tax in organ last month, severally limiting the amount of hearts and lungs he could sell. And a new blood supply was always welcome. The image shimmered once more and the dust fell.

He stood up and dusted himself off. He was not wearing the same kind of finery his clientele would be wearing, opting for a simpler black tunic marked with a single red eye on his left shoulder. He walked barefoot through the market’s alleyways, deftly stepping in between bits of broken glass, shards of metal, and sharp stones until he found his way to his favorite stall. Who would this woman be? What was she going to ask of him? What did it have to do with his Master? A wasp floated in front of him and his right arm shot out. He stuffed the thing into his mouth and chewed. The stinger was alive and kicking, adding a fiery flavor as it went down.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Kangtar's Korner
Khaulzîm

In the scenic valley of Udûn lay the Black Market, its charming twisty alleys, shop of uncertain trustworthiness, and tantalizing perfumed upper windows such a change from… well, from the entire rest of Mordor. And aside from Dhâd Bûrz, it was Khaulzîm’s favorite place in the Black Land. From the wide warrior belt at his hips still dangled the cat-o’-nine tails that had been the symbol of his authority as Chamber Guard- though he was not currently serving in that capacity, the thing ahd grown on him, and as one does, he’d taken a souvenir on his last day on the job. And all things considered, it could be quite useful around the market too. Mordor was always so hot, even for a man such as he, and so Khaulzîm was habitually bare-chested, garbed only in a dark, baggy pair of trousers that cuffed snugly at the ankle above his black boots. His long, dark hair was braided here and there, and covered partially with a red headscarf. And today, as he was at his work in the market, a lute hung about his muscular torso, the leather strap that held it there elaborately tooled. His stall, the Kangtar’s Korner, was a luxurious thing, appearing as if it were created entirely of draperies of various bright silks, though there was more substantial framing beneath. Within, there were several low basket chair and chaises, for those who cared to linger, rather than simply paying in passing for a coupleted insult to be flung at their enemies. Dates, sweetmeats, and cool spring water aplenty (don’t ask how he keeps it cool) could be found within as well- for the right price. And of course, the devastatingly attractive Easterling minstrel himself. Business had been slow so far today, and in the hopes of attracting some pretty ladies (or not ladies, he wasn’t that picky), Khaulzîm stood just outside the entrance to his small pavilion, bronze coin-catcher at his feet, strumming at the lute and singing a crowd pleaser in his rich, growling voice,

”Toss a coin to your minstrel,
O valley of Udûn,
O valley of Udûn,
O-o-oh!
Toss a coin to your minstrel,
O valley of Udûn!”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Toxius Fume
Balt Kjani


Moldy teabags, still-squirming tadpoles and tufts of cat hair were thrown about as Toxius Fume rummaged through his bags. The rotten smell next door was getting quite out of hand...but aha! He sprang up from behind his counter wielding a set of perfumes he had once acquired in a losing bet and squinted at the peeling labels.

Essence of Cheveux Brûlés (de Glorfindel), Eau deAd Marshes, Goblin Socks. Well, the first one was looked quite elegant with that fancy curling script and foreign words. It would do. Toxius leaned back into the street, bottle raised, and nearly knocked it into the head of an approaching woman.

"Um, hello," he muttered, taken aback by her all-too-genuine smile. "Thalionwen, is it? Toxius Fume, at yer, eh, service." He tilted his head awkwardly and was almost relieved to see the orc (Zarâm) tramping towards them. Her rudeness was reassuringly normal.

"Ah, looks like mud, yes, but tastes tastes of stars! For you, my lovely ladies and orc-ettes," he began, comfortably anticipating his spiel, "I have a treat that will blow your ears off, figuratively, of course. Would you care for a mug of De(ad)cadent Hot Chocolate, dusted on top with the finest powdered ash? Or how about one of these charming Warty Chocolate Toads, guaranteed to raise bumps on your tongue! I have Cannibal's Best Cocoa Powder that will suck the soul from between your teeth and swarms of Fudge Flies perfect for your next Deathday Party or other happy occasion! Here, your first sample of Demonically Dark Chocolate on the house..."

But with his arms waving about in enthusiasm, Toxius lost his grip on the bottle of perfume and it flew right at the oddly friendly Thalionwen...

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The wind played gently with her long black hair, whipping it off to one side and reminding her why she should have tied it back in the first place. With a slow deliberate motion she moved a lock from her eyes, both locked on the view far beneath her. The market was a new version of the haphazard markets that had popped up through the many years, though you could hardly tell one from the other. They all seemed to sport the same kind of stalls that were quickly erected with whatever items that could be found or had been brought in, seeing as there were no trees anywhere in Udun.

Sliding down into a crouch, the wind now whipping her black cloak out behind her and snapping it sharply, she pulled the hood on the cloak up hiding her face within the darkness. Had she been closer, she would have ensured that the cloak and her hair would not draw any attention, however at the moment she was not trying to conceal her presence. Leaning one arm on her knee, she swept her blood red eyes over the stalls that she could make out at this distance.

She was down there. She could feel it in her bones. But even though she knew where the woman was, she remained where she was. At any given time she could have just headed down and grabbed the woman and killed her on the spot and most would not do anything to touch her, fearing their own safety. However this particular market place seemed to have filled quite quickly recently with newcomers. Newcomers that had yet to learn what would happen should you cross her. It was well know amongst the minions not to mess with anyone with a high rank in Mordor as they had gotten there for a reason, however newcomers always had to test the boundaries. More likely than not to their own detriment. And while she was sure that she had nothing to fear from any of the newcomers if she met them one at a time, sometimes the sheer amount of numbers of them could be a vast disadvantage.

But if there was one thing that she had it was patience. She could wait, let the woman think she was safe and then..

With just the merest suggestion of a grin showing deep inside the cowled hood, she slowly rose and took one last look at the market far below her before turning on her heels and stalking off.

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Thalionwen
Balt Kjani


"Oh yes pl--" Thalionwen began to say as Toxius Fume (@Aerlinn) offered her free food--yes, it looked like dirt, but Thali was not one to turn down something free and edible. But she was cut off as a bottle of perfume flew from his hand and smashed against her chest, soaking her with pungent scented oil that smelled of nothing so much as...burnt hair.

Fortunately, Thali was already wearing the capacious cured leather smock that protected her from the blood and viscera inherent in being both a healer and a purveyor of corpses. More fortunately still, she was always prepared with back-up smocks. Slipping out of hers, she balled it up and tossed it into a large barrel labelled FOR WASTE MANAGEMENT, and out of which poked several disembodied limbs in various stages of decay.

"There," Thalionwen said brightly. "No harm done. What were you saying about free food?"

She reached out for a bit of the proffered chocolate and popped it in her mouth, eyes widening. "Why Toxius, this doesn't taste like mud at all. Yes, it looks like it, but it's delicious. Can I buy some of that hot chocolate to serve at On the Rocks? Irime would love it and I'm always trying to impress her, to keep myself in better standing than that ridiculous bar wench, Frost."

As Thalionwen made her purchase, an orc she recognized came up next to her and asked Toxius about his wares, in the usual direct and impolite way of Mordorians.

"Hello, Zarâm,(@Dimcairien Luiniel)" Thali said with a smile. "It's a beautiful morning, isn't it? The sun is shining! The mountain's smoking! And you should absolutely try some of what Toxius here is serving--it's really very good. Much better than mud."

Thalionwen stepped back to make room for Zarâm to approach, and as she did, her smile dimmed. A chill washed over her, as if someone were watching her from a distance. Some malevolent presence, bent on her destruction (@Winddancer).

But no, that was silly. Thali shook off the strange premonition of doom. She was only feeling rattled because of that unsettling anonymous note she'd received recently. This was her home now, and she needed to keep reminding herself that she belonged in Mordor just as much as anyone else here did.

Nodding decidedly, Thalionwen backed away from Balt Kjani and its enticing mud-food. Today would be a good day to run an errand she'd been contemplating since coming to Mordor. Ducking down a side alley, she passed numerous dusty and disreputable vendors before coming to the fabled environs of

Mosnat Trog

Daylight was the only time Thali had yet dared brave the Midnight Market. Orco had warned her it was dangerous--he worked there much of the time himself. And Thalionwen knew that after nightfall, Mosnat Trog was haunted by the most sinister and vicious of Mordor's inhabitants. Now though, in early morning, with the bright sun shining down, the place was all but abandoned.

Still, one stall seemed open for business. A green-skinned goblin (Fleeg @Frostbite) who was chewing on something sat behind it looking anxious, as Mordor's weedier inhabitants tended to.

"Hello!" Thali said cheerfully, stepping up to the stall. "I was hoping I could buy some blood. It definitely has to be human, and quite fresh. The fresher the better. I don't need large quantities, just a bottle would do, but I'd like to buy bottles from as many different humans as possible. I know that's complicated, but can you help?"
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Pakon Stazim
Lokk
Goblin

Something was afoul on the wind (@Winddancer). Lokk couldn't sense it. But the 'yote pup sure could. Hackles all up. Just like a porcupine, that animal looked. The canine wasn't for sale. Not that Lokk wouldn't sell her if he could. Just no one would ever have need for a little 'yote. Runt of the litter. The thing was half wild.

"Settle down girl." Lokk ruffled the coyot's red brown fur. The Monstrous Beasts consisted of a humble tent. Inside, Lokk kept a variety of small beasts of the air (ravens, Mordor magpies, cages of bats, e.t.c.) and of the earth (little dragons, rats, pups half trained to hunt down rats, e.t.c).

The larger beasts, the horses and the wolves, were harder to come by. Lokk depended on highland trappers to bring him wolf pups. And he bought secondhand horse from the Haradrim and Easterlings. Many of these horses were pilfered from Mordor's own army stalls. These large black horses fetchec Lokk a hefty sum. A few stalls over, the market was being serenaded by the human Khaulzîm (@Moriel). And The new chocolate shop ran by Toxius (@Aerlinn ) seemed to be drawing a small crowd.

The coyote pup followed Lokk as he made his way through the Market to the Plakaut Girdanim, the famed Pillager's Necklace, where one could find procured oddities from all over the Midgard. Zarâm (@Dimcairien Luiniel) must've just returned from the cursed land of the elfkind. Lokk was a bit self conscious about his business at the Plakaut Girdanim. It was not the goblin way to keep pets. Especially small, cute, and useless animals such as the little coyote puppy. But he had heard that the elves were wont to fashion fine collars and leashes for their animal companions. The 'yote pup was not like most fell beasts of Mordor. She was kind hearted, sensitive, eager to please. A nice elfish collar would suite her well. And the only place in Mordor where one might be found would be at the Pillagers Necklace.
"Hallo Zarâm, returned from Elfland I see." Lokk side-eyed the magic mushrooms on display. "Say friend. Have you anything for my little coyote pup? Anything from the elfish lands? Maybe a nice collar or leash?"
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He/him

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Fleeg
Mosnat Trog


A customer! In the daylight! Master be praised! This was indeed a fortuitous and momentous occasion. Fleeg grinned widely, his pointy, needle-like goblin teeth jutting out in all directions. The customer was a woman (@Thalionwen), but her hair was blonde and her speak was strange. Fleeg narrowed his eyes, thoughtfully. Her request was strange too.

“You need human blood? But not your own?” He chewed his words, looking her over. Blood was not an unusual request. Far from it. It was the only thing he kept in stock on his actual booth, but normally he didn’t sell to humans. Humans tended to be more interested in the flesh, specifically their flesh. Humans would sell themselves to him for nights at a time, willing victims of the shadowy creatures he served. A beetle flew down landed the wooden counter of his booth with a hard thunk. His eyes grew wide with delight and nearly reached for, but as he did, he remembered where he was and who he was talking with. Humans were odd, they didn’t like eating bugs. They thought it was gross, but this woman was asking for as many vials of blood from as many different people as he could find so who was the odd one here? The whole inner debate became moot when the beetle lifted it’s wings and flew off. Fleeg couldn’t stop a whimper of sadness from escaping his lips as he watched his prize vanish in a cloud of ash.

“I can get you vials of blood. Many different kinds too. When do you need them?” He brought out a piece of bark and hunk of charcoal and began scribbling. Depending on how much the woman needed he might have to go into his reserves. On site, he had five bottles of human blood, but those were all for the same source and if this woman needed more he’d have to go to the warehouse and see if any of the humans were left from the night before. He chewed the end of the charcoal, eyeing the woman greedily. This could turn out to be very profitable for him. The Master would be pleased with him.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Zarâm
Plakaut Girdanim


She quickly accepted the offer to try the Demonically Dark Chocolate. She bit into it with her sharp, yellowed teeth and a grin spread across her face. "That is …" her voice trailed off, not having the vocabulary for such a taste, despite all of Thali's attempts to extend the orcish palette, her ability to describe flavours was severely lacking. "I will require some," she finally stated. Before she could say anything further, a chill ran down her spine. Something fouler than usual was afoot off in the distance. Her eyes darted around the market and noticed that someone was approaching her shop and he had a very unusual companion. "I must handle that disaster first," she said, jerking her head towards her shop and the approaching customer. "And Thali, that perfume suits you. Much better than anything you could find in Rohan."

She marched back to her stall just as @Lokktar Ogar arrived with a small … something. It didn't look like any four-legged creatures Zarâm would expect to see in the Black Lands. He approached her and asked about collars or leashes for the little pup, which she was informed as a coyote.

"I would have some items that may be of interest," Zarâm replied, "but it will cost ya. I risked my life trekking through that hideous maze fully of bloody sunshine to find my way to that Mongrel Elf Lord's so called "kingdom" in order to steal some of his treasures. And I don't go giving them away at low prices."

She reached down to pull out a gem-encrusted collar. "This may be of interest, but name your price and I will determine if it's agreeable or if we'll need to settle your purchase in another manner."
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Artanis / Éomund / Brandor / Zarâm

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Fleeg
Mosnat Trog


The little green goblin ran off to do his new patron’s bidding. She needed vials of blood, so vials of blood she would get. He knew were to get them. There was a not so abandoned warehouse a few blocks from here. It was a gathering place for, for them, but the sun was out (hidden by the clouds yes but still there) and they would be hiding themselves away in the shadows. Of all of them, only his Master seemed to be able to brave the light of day. Fleeg vaguely wandered why that was. Was his master that much more powerful than the rest of them? Probably. Was he older? Likely. He was the Master for a reason. It wasn’t just Fleeg that thought of him as the Master either. All of them did. Fleeg had never asked, talking to them could lead to trouble he didn’t need, but they all cowered in fear when he was present, they all made obeisance to him, making their strange bows and curtsies that Fleeg did no understand.

None of them were visible now though, Fleeg offered a wordless prayer of thanks to the master. He climbed into through the broken remnants of a window, pushing aside the dry wooden frame. It creaked unhappily as he passed over it.

Once he was inside, the air smelled musty and coppery. He avoided stepping on the dark stains on the stone floor, one never knew if they were dried yet or not. The place was filthy. A thick layer of dust covered nearly everything, broken bits of furniture, scrapes of shredded clothing, and rumble lay strewn haphazardly across the floor, some rounded into mounds of trash twice as tall as Fleeg. While there was no full skeleton, there were bits and pieces scattered about. A femur here, a few metatarsals there, a skull in the corner with a bit of the spine still attached. The was the sound of something dripping far in the interior of the warehouse. It was likely water. Bloody hand prints crawled up and down the walls. He shuddered. The walls were high and shadows crowned the top of them. They were up there. The vampires. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel them, a cold sense of dread fell over him as he looked up. He wondered, absently, what if one of them was awake right now, and staring down at him.

He came into an antechamber of a room that might have been on or served as one twenty years in the past. He found a few of those he sough then. Humans. None of them were tied up or restrained in any way. They were all half naked and lying on the floor. Most of them were asleep, exhausted for the activities of the night before. He walked up to one, a brown skinned man with glassy green eyes. The man’s mouth went slack and a thin line of drool dripped down his cheek as Fleeg pushed him over with a clawed foot. Fleeg took a knife out from his belt but saw soon it was not needed. There was still an open wound on his neck. The goblin slipped the knife back in his belt and uncorked one of the bottles he carried with him in a sack. He pressed it to the man’s wound until the blood started flowing again. The bottle was soon full and Fleeg corked it back and stuffed it in his sack. He went to the next body, a pale skinned woman, couldn’t much past the flowering of adulthood. She had a wound on her neck as well. He repeated the process and filled the bottle. He did this ten more times, all to bodies in various states of stupor and sleep. This place made him uncomfortable. He couldn’t understand why any human would voluntarily want this, to be fed on. The Master never fed on him, he didn’t need blood in the same way the others did, so he had said. Fleeg wanted to believe him, especially now as he surveyed the carnage.

He exited the building as quickly as he could, scrurrying through the broken window and back out into the open air. He raced back to his stall, running as fast as he little goblin legs would carry him. The warehouse gave him chills. He felt better the further he got from the place.

Near his stall, he saw a notice pinned to the announcement kiosk:
WORK NEEDED
BODYGUARD FOR HIRE
INQUIRE AFTER NYRRIGOS, RECENT CHAMPION OF THE TOWER OF MIGHT, AT ON THE ROCKS
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Outside Plakaut Girdanim (@Dimcairien Luiniel)

"Cluck!" A small white chicken stepped out hesitantly from between two buildings, scratched the floor with one of its clawed feet, pecked a little at a spot in the dirt that looked no different to any other, then cocked its head to eye the streets about it, little eyes blinking as its head shifted in that swift, twitch-like manner common to such birds. "Cluck cluck." It stepped a few steps out further into the street, then fluttered its wings to alight up on a windowsill as a small goblin creature (Fleeg) went sprinting past. On deciding the threat had disappeared, it shifted its head and caught sight of its own reflection in the glass behind it. With the soft sound of scratching claws it rotated slowly in place to get a closer look at itself. "Cluck?" It blinked, and pulled its head back when its reflection blinked as well. Then pecked at it. The glass made a soft 'ding'. It tilted its head, curious. "Cluck cluck?" Ding ding ding ding... the glass resounded with the sound of the creature repeatedly pecking at it, apparently oblivious to the fact that it might garner the attention of those inside the shop.

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Soreya, Streets to Kangtar’s Korner (@Moriel )
Soreya arrived at the market and just managed to conceal a sneer at the smell in the air and the orcs who scrambled around the place like rats. Their abundance in these parts reminded her just how far she was from home in the deserts of Harad. Still, she would be the first to admit their kind certainly had their uses.

Since one did not simply walk into Mordor unarmed, she wore a long knife at her belt even though her true weapon of choice was much more subtle and refined. The Haradrim woman was tall and lean, wearing her customary red silks which left her arms bare, revealing an array of tattoos that coiled around her arms like a snake choking its prey. She passed the pawnshop where a chicken was pecking at the window and had a mind to put it out of its misery. She was surprised it hadn’t met its end already, pecking away at the window like the dumb beast it was.

With slow, deliberate steps, she strode along the streets though she did not have any destination in mind. She was merely there in search of an amusing way to pass her time. The minstrel (Khaulzîm) caught her gaze and her ear. He was wailing some nonsense about the valley of Udun. Soreya paused but did not sit down.

“Do you know any songs of quality?” she challenged him. “Perhaps one telling of the great land of Harad?”

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Outside Plakaut Girdanim

"Cluck." The chicken, or perhaps more accurately the cockerel given its crest and plumed tail, seemed to grow bored of its game of window-pecking and turned back to regard the street with one of its beady eyes. It hopped down from the window sill, feathers flurrying only a moment until it had safely reached the security of the floor, and then began the process of stepping forward a little, scraping at a patch of dirt that looked no different to any other patch, pecking at it a couple of times, before repeating the whole process, every now and then pausing to consider the immediate vicinity with abrupt neck-movements and avian-sharp head motions that regarded the local citizens with neutral regard. "Cluck cluck."

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Grijakeren
Umoya


The young Haradrim woman scowled as she headed into the market a small hand cart behind her with the supplies she'd need. She pushed the cart in front of her, not wanting to deal with thieves that might steal her precious tools before she even managed to set up shop. More than one stranger took a good look at her but she did her best to ignore them. She came to the shop finally and pushed the cart into the stall and began setting up. Over head she replaced the tattered filthy dark rag with something brighter. Made of deep reds and rich golds woven with traditional Haradrim patterns often used on skin. she took a grass broom swept the floor and then laid out at clean straw mat, putting a table on once side of it before carefully laying out the tools of her trade.

Severals set of iron pins tied tightly together with sinew, each on their own handle, with another matching stick to go with them though this one she only had two of, to strike the back of the pins so that they would pierce the flesh to the proper depth; a candle, two large bottles of pure garlic oil and pure Thyme oil - to clean the pins between clients, a jug of water and another much smaller bottle of oil this one was not clearly labeled for anyone else to see this was the carrier of the pigments once they were mixed. And then several tins of fine powdered pigments, black, red, green, yellow, and blue. Happy with her set up she gave a small slightly dangerous looking smile. She slipped from her long dress exposing her arms and chest completely covered in intricate designs tattooed permanently into her flesh before heading to the front of her stall to call out that the denizens of the Black Market were welcome to come to her shop, where they would receive the finest ink in all of Middle Earth. A brazen claim but one she was confident in as the so called free peoples of Middle Earth to the west did not ink their skin, and she knew she was the best in all of Harad and Mordor.

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Wandering aimlessly away from Plakaut Girdanim, following after a random hand cart in search of seed

The trundling of wheels passed by, and the cockerel instinctively followed after, recognising carts as potential delivery methods for grain. It high-stepped along the road in its wake, pecking inquisitively at any patch of earth or speck of dust that was overset at its passing. "Cluck. Cluck cluck" it commented aloud to itself as the cart disappeared out of sight a little way away, pausing to momentarily eye cloths shifting in the air. "Cluck" it threatened the waving material confidently as it fluffed out its plumage and strutted up and down the street. "Cluck!" Then, feeling that the bright cloths catching the breeze like a banner had been effectively put in their place, it turned back to random picking at the dirt. A second later it was started as a heavily tattooed figure emerged suddenly from a shop and began cry out. In a flurry of startled feathers, it hastily retreated a distance away before at last smoothing out its plumage once again, pausing to scratch at its beak with a taloned foot as it enjoyed the shade in the opening of an alleyway, feigning disregard for the other denizens of the busy marketplace.

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Zarâm
Plakaut Girdanim


She thought she heard a strange sound just outside of her stall. It sounded like "cluck", but it wasn't the clink of any chains from a nearby snaga. It seemed to stop for a second and then start again. After determining that she was not in fact going crazy, Zarâm stepped away from her stall to investigate the strange sound. Odd noises rarely meant something good in Mordor.

As she stepped away from her stall, she saw a handcart go by. It looked like yet another unfortunate soul was about to set up shop in the Black Market. Hopefully it would be an interesting one. But then the strange noise-maker caught her attention. There was a chicken! "What in the name of all unholy things is that doing here?" she exclaimed, stepping towards the bird. With a swift motion, Zarâm reached down and attempted to snatch the bird away from whatever it was up to. How a chicken had found its way to Mordor was beyond her, but she blamed Thali … or perhaps Taeth. Both of the Rohir woman had associations with the Black Lands and with the greener country of Rohan, where such beasts lived.

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The streets, being bothered by an orc woman

There was a particular spot on the floor, seemingly no different to all the others, that had attracted the cockerel's focussed attention. It pecked at it repeatedly as though attempting to torture the patch of dirt into revealing its secrets, right up until a shadow of something large fell over both chicken and patch of ground. It paused, cocked its head and then peered up at the large orcen woman with one beady eye, blinking. "Cluck?" As Zarâm reached down to pick up the creature, with surprisingly casual alacrity and a strange intelligence, it side-stepped once, only a short distance but swift enough for Zarâm's hands to close on nothing. Then it fluffed up its feathers aggressively. "Cluck!" it declared almost by way of challenge.

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Umoya
Sitting watching from Grijakeren


She sat watching the goings on of the market itself, orcs and others milled, and apparently a chicken. She raised an eyebrow at the ongoings of the strange beast, she had half a mind to tell the orc if they caught it and cooked it and shared she'd give them some free ink, fresh unfouled meat in Mordor was a rarity. However the chicken was swifter than the orc and immediately fluffed up like it was about to fight the orc. This would be interesting she was sure, if not because of the fact the orc had missed because she had never seen an orc back down from a challenge. So she was either going to see an orc get it's arms pecked and clawed off by an unruly chicken. Or she was going to see cowardice from an orc. She vaguely wished she had something to drink while watching what was going to be the most entertaining event of the day she was sure.
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Fleeg, Businessgoblin Extraordinaire
Druviz Kadar

Ah! The air inside the tent was hot, stifling, and humid, but Fleeg could barely feel it. He was far, far too focused on his newest enterprise! The apiary was up and running at last. To christen his new venture, he bought a special bottle of grog from On the Rocks, a 2945 fermented mushroom grog. It was expensive but it was worth it. To be fair it was more expensive because he had made a fuss about it in the common room and Írimë upped the price because he wouldn’t stop screeching like a wet cat in his excitement. He had been banned for the day from the bar too. But it was worth it. Fermented mushroom grog was rare and wonderful. He looked at the bottle with a powerful thirst growing in the back of his throat. He smacked his green, speckled lips greedily. He wanted to drink it so bad. He could already taste the sour bubbles as the burst on his tongue. No. No. This was not for drinking. This bottle was for christening. Regdûsh, the Trollpuke Artist, was supposed to be here for this but he was over an hour late. What was that spider dung for brains doing that made him an hour late? Whatever, he was going to miss out on a beautiful ceremony. Khaulzîm was going to sing a ballad of… oh shire! Fleeg forgot to book the minstrel! This was turning out to be a disaster. At least he had the grog. Oh, the grog! No. He was not going to drink it. He was going to smash it against the wooden frame of his new apiary, a massive dodecahedronal shape filled with hexagonal windows. It had cost him nearly all his money but here it was! And it was glorious. He could hear the buzzing within. It was low at first, when he stepped into the tent, he was almost unaware of it, but as he came closer, he could hear the volume of the drone increase. Did they know he was here, his little beauties? His so called “murder hornets”? he tapped inquisitively on the glass of one of the enclosures. There was a drone housed within. It was massive, bigger than the goblin's hand. It was banded bright yellow and pure, shiny black. Antennae whirled and twitched and pivoted, centered on Fleeg. Angrily, the drone flew up to the glass and started to slam its stinger against the glass. Fleeg leapt back and screeched. He tumbled backward and slammed his head into a rock. He yowled in pain and let for a stream of goblin curses.

“Stupid drone, you’re in horny jail because you keep trying to jump the queen.” He brushed himself off and picked up the bottle again. Thank the dark powers it was still whole. With great agility, for a goblin, he whirled the bottle around his head and let it fly. The bottle, grey and unmarked, flew majestically through the air for a half a second before it crashed into the wooden frame, shattering instantly. The entire tent was suddenly suffused with the wonderfully foul odor of fermenting mushrooms. The bottle crashed with a high pitch CSHHHHK. Foamy liquid seeped down the wood like soap bubbles. A tear formed in Fleeg’s eye. He couldn’t tell if it was his emotions or the smell but it was a beautiful sight. The buzzing within grew louder and louder until he had to step out of the tent to think. Now that he had had his ceremony, sans ChAoS BrO and minstrel, it was time to start bringing in customers.

“Murder hornets! Get your Murder hornets here! Assassins, spies, cool accessories! Murder hornets get your murder hornets here! Get them while they’re angry!”


NPF Edit: Shut up and take my money
Last edited by Akhenanat on Tue Jan 19, 2021 9:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Regdûsh
Druviz Kadar

Regdûsh growled and groaned and rolled over in bed, muttering, "Just stay still so I can throttle yeh!" In his dream, he was just about to wrap his hairy hands around Fleeg's scrawny neck. The great green pile of fell beast bile had shot him with a poisoned arrow, and so it was time for their mutual murder pact to be put into action . . .

While Reg went on - still dreaming - about all the ways he'd like to off Fleeg, a raven with ruffled feathers and a weary expression paced at his bedside, chained down and forced into serving as a rudimentary kind of alarm clock, "rudimentary" because there really was no way to set it, in part because the raven hated Reg and refused to do his bidding. Also because the raven could not tell time. So it was purely at random that the raven squawked. At this sound, Reg shot up in bed, suddenly awake and blinking bleary eyes rapidly. "Whassat?!" he grumbled. "Ah, it's just you." With a massive fist, he punched the bird hard, and it fell dully to the floor. He didn't stop to check if it was dead or simply unconscious. He could always capture another if it didn't wake.

Regdûsh stretched widely and scratched a hairy armpit. He peered out his makeshift window (really, just a hole in the side of a cave) and noticed that the thick clouds of ash were slightly brighter than he'd hoped. "Ah shire!" he roared, leaping out of bed and into whatever clothes he could find. He was late, late for his cHaOs brO's stupid murder hornet apiary opening. He didn't want to go to any dumb event but he had promised Fleeg that he'd show up. What Fleeg didn't know was that Reg was planning to attend to ruin the event and hopefully drain Fleeg's financial resources in the process. He ran out of the cave and into the broken land beyond, toward the Black Market.

When he arrived in the market, he saw a new tent had been erected. A foul odor of grog permeated the place, and he wrinkled his nose appreciatively. Fleeg must have pulled out all the stops for this special day. Ha! Well, Reg wasn't about to let things go off without a hitch. Oh no. He unsheathed a small blade and held it concealed behind his forearm as he approached.

"Well, well, well, look what Shelob crapt in the market," he said, ambling into the tent casually. Fleeg was already flogging his deadly wares to the generally disinterested public. "A bit of green shire with arms and legs. Who taught you to talk, little spider turd? What's this? You actually got the funds to make this thing happen? How much did Mig have to lend you?" He gave a bark of laughter at the thought of Mig. What a boring dude. Say what you would about Reg's highly limited career prospects, but at least he wasn't a slave to the books at a stupid fighting pit. Reg was free to fight whoever he wanted whenever he wanted, thank you very much.

"Well, baggins, you'd best explain what's so special about these little bugs," he went on, stepping into the tent and putting the apiary between himself and Fleeg in order to conceal the movement of sticking his knife into a latch and flicking it open, then giving the apiary a sound kick without bothering to peer into the glass and see what was inside. Heehee! went Reg's inner monologue.

"And why in Melkor's sweet pits would you want to accessorize them? Are you dressing up your bugs like dolls now??"
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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The streets, running away from the orc woman (@Dimcairien Luiniel) and straight towards Grijakeren (@Fuin Elda)

The orc may have hesitated for a moment, or it may have looked like hesitation from the cockerel's perspective, bird's minds being able to process information so much swifter than humans and orcs. However long it was, the angry chicken re-evaluated the situation and decided that making challenge of this large, muscled woman might not be so wise after all. It suddenly dashed between her legs with a flurry of feathers and began darting swiftly down the street, its angry "Cluck cluck cluck!" declaring its retreat as it dashed in a zig-zag line that all the same looked set to make a beeline straight through the open door of the shop, or perhaps colliding outright with Umoya in the alternative.

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The streets, chasing a chicken @Allacan ob Burzum

Unfortunately, her swipe at the insufferable chicken was not as fast as she had expected. The fowl beast dashed right through her legs and made off towards another shop. For a brief moment, Zarâm saw the world from an upside down position as she looked at the street from between her legs, but a moment later she stood up and hurried after the creature. She was an orc and was not one to give up easily. And that chicken would make for a tasty dinner if she could catch it. She hurried after it in the direction of Grijakeren. The proprietor of said shop had been watching her and Zarâm was determined to make a good name for herself and for her business by not giving up on this feathery daemon.

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Fleeing with all due haste into Grijakeren(@Dimcairien Luiniel @Fuin Elda)

The chicken heard the pounding of feet hot on its feathered tail and hurried forwards even faster, cutting a zig-zag line away from the orc woman any time she threatened to get close enough to make a snatch at him. As it drew close to the shop, it allowed its little legs to slow just a touch, as though hesitant at drawing close to the other stranger, but in truth it was waiting and tempting the orc forward into a reckless lunge. Then, just when it looked like Zarâm looked like she was committed to make a dive for the cockerel, it made a sudden rush forward and scuttled swiftly between Umoya's legs, intentionally hoping to manufacture a collision between the two people in the hopes that it could use the distraction to manage an escape. It did not pause to see whether its plot had worked however, and continued on its swift little feet into the comparable sanctuary of Grijakeren, although only time would tell how safe an escape that place would prove to be.

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Umoya
Sitting watching from Grijakeren

@Allacan ob Burzum @Dimcairien Luiniel

She was almost disappointed that the chicken DIDN"T attack the orc and let out a sigh. However when it started running towards her shop she stood up wondering if she might catch the foul little beast and have it for her own dinner. The orc was in persuit as well and the Haradrim decided to stay put though she stood in the door of her little shop watching. The two of them were hilarious both orc and chicken and at least if she didn't have any costumers she had entertainment for the day so far.

Her entertainment was cut short when the feathery pest, the Poultrygeist as some might say cut hard for her shop. "No no no!" She shouted and waved her arms at the little beast, however it was far more intent on getting past her into her nice clean ship than her Zaram was at least far enough behind that an immanent collision was avoided as Umoya for her part spun around as swift as a balrogs whip out of the direct path of Zaram and grabbed for the chicken by it's neck not wanting the feathered beast to mess up her perfectly clean tattoo shop.
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Ducking and diving for cover in Grijakeren (@Fuin Elda)

The accursed shop-keeper was far too swift by half, and almost a fraction of an instant too late the cockerel saw her hand whip out towards its neck as it passed. Her fingers felt the touch of feather and closed around... mid-air, as she suddenly had the distinct impression of seeing a headless chicken disappearing into the confines of her shop. Even as the little legs continued their running, she spotted the chicken's beady eyed gaze eying her between its own legs as it fled, clearly having ducked its noggin at the last possible moment. "Cluck!" it declared angrily at her as it pulled its head back upright just in time to collide face on into a set of shelves. It stumbled for a moment, dazed at the impact, stunned for just a few seconds...

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Umoya
Chicken hunting in Grijakeren

@Allacan ob Burzum

She felt the feathers and then there was no chicken, she snarled angrily and lunged across her shop in as she heard the chickens head connect with the shelf, rattling about her ink colours and leaving a few tiny feathers behind meaning she would have to clean her shop again once she got the confounded chicken either out of her shop or into her little wagon so it can be cooked later she really didn't care as she grabbed this time for the stunned creatures legs as she did not want her hand connecting with the shelf in case the little beast dogged yet again as it stood stunned for a few seconds...

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Very unhappy and fighting back with surprising tenacity in Grijakeren (@Fuin Elda @Dimcairien Luiniel)

The moments of stumbling around dazed were all the time it too for Umoya to snatch at its legs. As her hands closed around its legs, the cockerel reacted instinctively by striking out with its spurs harsh enough to draw blood, but not enough to avoid being snatched up and pulled from its feet. However, whether upside down or not the cockerel refused to be defeated. Even as it was being lifted up it was beating its wings with powerful strokes that were enough to buffet and bludgeon many into submission, and it pecked angrily and aggressively at Umoya's fingers in an attempt to weaken her grip. If it were lucky, the arrival of Zarâm might even prove distraction enough to wheedle out of the woman's grip and slip away from its predatory assailants.

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Umoya
Holding onto the Devil in Grijakeren
@Allacan ob Burzum @Dimcairien Luiniel

She let out a cry of victory even as her hand was bleeding from the spur strike, the bird in hand she stood up and headed for the door. Her hands and fingers were being pecked ferociously but she had dealt with vipers before this thing wouldn't kill her it would hurt. A lot. And was doing so. She held it at arms length away from her body to make sure the flapping wouldn't hurt her it was a fortunate thing with chickens is they were generally small enough the worst she was getting was a few feathers brushing her from that portion of the bird.

"Blood bird.
" She muttered and headed outside of her small shop to see if Zaram would like the honors of cutting off the annoying things head and then they could both have a feast if they shared it since Umoya clearly was the one that had caught the bird.

"Ow, stop it you foul little beast." She said and gave the bird a bit of a shake her grip still fairly tight. It's spurs were now completely ineffective which was the far more dangerous part of the bird as far as she was concerned, though if it kept pecking she might just bludgeon it against the side of her shop.
Sereg a Dîn

Thain of The Mark
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Becoming very still and eyeing Umoya creepily, just outside Grijakeren (@CHAOS and @Dimcairien Luiniel)

The strikes from its spurs and its beak seemed to be futile in gaining its freedom, and although it was beating its wings powerfully, its captor was far too clever by half and instead held it at arm's length away, shaking it a moment. It buffeted at her arms a few more times, being sure to leave her plenty of scrapes and bruises, but then realising its assault was not having the desired effect it suddenly grew very still.

Its turned its head slightly, utilising its bendy-bird bones to force its gaze back at Umoya in an almost unnatural manner, and fixed its beady gaze on her. And then it stared. Unblinking, unflinching, otherwise limp in her arms but that look somehow still odd and menacing, like it was boring two dark holes into her soul. The two black pits of its eyes watched her, fixated, never leaving her face.

High Lord of Imladris
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Umoya
Holding onto the Devil in Grijakeren @Allacan ob Burzum


She held onto the bird even as it went still, and looked at her. It was- unnerving it's little beady eye looking at her but she had been raised in Harad and she was brave enough to not flinch away from the gaze of men, so a chicken was not something she was going to look away from. "You've messed up shop. You're going to make me money." She said and headed to the shelf that the chicken had run into before. And quickly pulled out a bit of black pigment and tapped some into a stone bowl and then added water and witch hazel to it before mixing it looking at the chicken for a moment.

She set up her entire kit with one hand the chicken still fixated on on her as she finished getting ready to tattoo the chicken that made a mess out of her shop. She sat down and looked at the chicken and took a deep breath. She reached out the bird flapped and crowed angrily as she reached out with her other hand grabbing it by it's neck. "OH calm down, this isn't going to kill you." SHe muttered and held the chickens head to the ground while it flapped and struggled, it's angry beady eye looking at her as she drew on his wattle and crest with a stick of charcoal. And then she dipped the pins, she hadn't put these on the handle because she would not be able to use both hands. And then she began to poke. The chicken half crowed half squawked in pain at first it's wings flapping but she had the birds neck well in hand and eventually it went still and after about fifteen minutes she was finished. The birds bright red crest now covered in swirls and sharp angled designs and dots simple haradrim tribal that any man of the east worth his salt should be able to read.

She poured a bit of water on the chicken washing away the extra ink and blood and then dabbing it with witch hazel and nodding approvingly giving the devil chicken a smirk of a smile. "There now you are a useful chicken."

She said scooping the chicken up carrying it nicely giving it's belly a little scratch through it's feathers and set it down outside her shop, casting a glare at the orc that looked like she wanted to eat the chicken, as if to say. 'This is my chicken now.' The tattoo on it's wattle and crest said as much.

I am braver than you, get your ink at Grijakeren is what it's crest and wattle said


She watched the chicken for a moment longer and then went to clean up the spur gash on her hand and clean up the mess of the feathers inside her shop from the previously struggling bird.

Thain of The Mark
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Leaving Grijakeren and deciding that he was victorious against Umoya and is now King Chicken of the Street (@CHAOS and @Dimcairien Luiniel)

The woman assaulted him, pinned him, and poked him with sharp teeth that were thin and not in her mouth. He had struggled for a bit, uttering profanities such as "Squark" and "Scraw", until he had realised that she seemed to be doing minimal harm. Then he had stared at her, trying not to make it clear that he thought she was an idiot and - putting aside his own priorities for a moment - clearly needed someone to show her how to beat someone in a fight. He held her in his eerie stare as she worked away at his ink, doing his best not to blink as though playing some kind of competitive game of chicken, or whatever the cockerel equivalent of that game might be. And at last, after a terribly conducted attempt to drown him in water simply had his shaking it off his feathers and rubbing some odd liquid on it that equally failed to subdue him, the woman seemed to accept defeat, or perhaps realise her complete incompetence, and finally let him go.

He hurried out of her hands with a flutter of feathers and scurrying legs, turning to eye her again disapprovingly, before turning away to disdainfully groom a few of his wing feathers back into place. Then he looked back to the orc woman Zarâm and ruffed up his crest - which unbeknownst to him now sported some fine black tattoos that were sure to impress the hens - and gave her a look and a
"Cluck" that seemed to say 'Yeah, see that?! You better stay back or I'll give you some of the same! Now beat it!' Then he began strutting up the street with all the arrogance and confidence as though he owned the place, full of cockish confidence at having beaten the tattooist and survived to face the next encounter.

Balrog
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Sarghêst
Walking the Streets with Hoppla

The markets were quiet today, barely more than a murmuring hum. That was a good for Hoppla, who was overstimulated enough as it was today. The orc had already had to grab the wargling by the scruff of his neck several times to keep him from running off and chasing after the dozens upon dozens of smells he encountered. Perhaps it was a mistake to take him into such an environment unprepared but the beast was going to have to learn how to handle noise and chaos at some point, better to start desensitizing him now. For now, the pair walked the streets in ease. Hoppla, with his eyes still crossed and his tongue lulling out to the side, seemed to begin to understand that he had to stay near Sarghêst. He was clearly uncertain as to why because when the orc snarled at him to come back the wargling yipped and bahred with a look of abject, utter sadness.

The first time it happened Hoppla was running after a chicken. The creature trilled and clucked and screamed as the wargling chased it down through the dusty, ashy streets. Sarghêst had been momentarily distracted and by the time he realized what was happening Hoppla was already out of reach. Despite the beast's lack of general intelligence and motor coordination, he managed to catch and kill the chicken before Sarghêst had a chance to stop him. Hoppla was very pleased with himself, muzzle covered in dark red chicken gore. Once Sarghêst caught up with him and called his name, Hoppla bounded into the orc’s unsuspecting arms and proceeded to lick his face. Sarghêst was not amused. Thankfully the chicken had been unattached or the owner hadn’t realized the obnoxious squawky bird was missing. All the better, he was going to pay for a chicken and he was in no mood to have to kil, someone over it. Hoppla had his victory meal, munching and slurping noisily until nothing remained.

Since then, Sarghêst get a much better eye on the pup, grabbing him quickly before the beast made off after anymore potential meals.

“I think it’s time we headed back to the Warg Pits, eh?” Hoppla tongue pulled out further, he sniffed as a line of reddish yellow drool plopped onto the ground. “Don’t give me that look. You knew we were going back.” Hoppla’s head tilted to the side and another line of drool splashed to the ground. “C'mon Hoppla. We have miles to go before we sleep, miles to go before we sleep.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Neithor the Liar
The Occult Owl:
Seeking the Future

Honesty was never really a trait that Neithor possessed. As a young child growing up in Pelargir he would always lie to his mother. It didn't matter what about, but odds were that whatever came out of his mouth was untruthful. As he got older he learned to be more subtle, and his lies grew more intricate and nuanced. It wasn't so much a lie as it was a false truth, a stretched fact, or a misrepresented idea. And as he aged he was caught less and less in his lies, though those who knew him had the tendency to assume he was lying about everything. And as a pile of fresh dung draws flies or a rotting corpse draws maggots, he was inevitably pulled into the field that all liars and treacherous wastes of life who prey upon the weak and seek sustenance in their decaying husks is pulled...he become a seller of goods. A merchant of ill-repute and dubiousness. His reputation was so stained in the city of Pelargir that none but the foulest of the city's criminals and scum of the underworld would deal with him. It was in fact through this degradation of his status as a merchant that he came into contact with a pirate of Umbar.

This pirate was first mate on a crew that would raid Gondorian ships and plunder their goods, and had sailed the waters of the coast for over twenty years. By chance they were introduced by a customer of Neithor's, a fence who often traded goods with him. In a backalley tavern filled with illegal gambling and criminals of all kinds, they shared a drink together. The pirate, Maziri was very interested in the connections that Neithor seemed to have with others in the city. But more so than that he was very interested indeed in the fact that he had access to the warehouses on the docks that many of the merchants kept their goods. Though the warehouses were individually locked, they were grouped together and if one had a key to the facility, they merely had to crack the locks on the other doors or cut them down. He proposed a scheme, one that would make them both rich, he said. Neithor would lend them his key, and under cover of darkness he and his crew would rob the warehouses, Neithor's included so as to avoid suspicion. Then they would lay low, waiting a few weeks, and travel to Umbar to sell the stolen goods.

The heist itself went off without a hitch, and to all Neithor played a convincing victim, though some had their doubts. It was not until all of the merchants would were robbed were gathered together by the city guard, and asked to show their keys. For you see Neithor's key was never returned to him. Whether by design of the pirates or a simple mistake, he no longer possessed it. He assured them all that he had most likely lost it somewhere and it would turn up soon, denying that he could be involved. How could anyone think that, he said to any that would listen. He himself was robbed of many of his most precious items, and would likely be destitute without them. It seemed that he might be able to convince them, but the guards were persistent in their investigation. While interrogating various criminals and their informants, one of the guards chanced upon a woman who had see Neithor not but a few days before drinking with a known fence and a man of Umbar. That testimony alone was enough to drag him before a local magistrate, who demanded he admit to his crimes. ButNeithor continued to plead his innocence, even though it fell on deaf ears. They could not definitively prove that he was involved, all of the evidence being circumstantial. The magistrate would not order his imprisonment and certainly not an execution on such little solid ground. And so he was allowed to live and go about his business, but people began to openly call him Neithor the Liar.

Wherever he went in the city that name followed him. For months and months it dogged him like a shadow, always at his heels. He began to openly denounce those who called him that, challenging them in the streets for besmirching his honor. Three men he killed over the course of these months, though again he was not charged. Now that it was known that he would kill any who dared call him that, his naysayers and neighbors avoided him altogether. Soon none spoke to him, and he was left penniless. All of his goods had been taken by the pirates and he had nothing left to sell but his horse, his sword, and the clothes on his back. So he resolved to change his fortunes and seek that which was promised to him. He set forth on horseback to the city of Umbar, the great port of pirates. For many weeks he traveled, barely eating and barely sleeping, a feverish anger pushing him ever onwards. He knew where in the city that crew berthed, where they took their drink, and where they often sailed to when not in the city. His friend the fence had been very talkative and quite forthcoming when a blade was at his throat. Neithor had thanked him for his kindness and for helping him, before barring his door from the outside and setting fire to his shop. With that loose end tied he was free to pursue the pirates and take what was his.

Umbar was vast, and it was unknown to him. Though he relatively knew where he was going, the winding streets of the city soon befuddled him. The locals seemed to know he was a man of Gondor. Some eyed him with disdain, others avoided him. One or two made their way towards him until he pulled back his cloak, revealing his longsword. He was no expert swordsman, that was for certain, but he was a killer and would fight like a dog backed into a corner if he had to. He found a local inn and used the last of his coin to purchase a room and board for a few days, hiding himself away in the upper floor and laying out his plans. This crew, the pirates of the ship The Orange Serpent, had themselves a warehouse on the docks. He surveyed them for many days, hidden in corners and crouched behind barrels and boxes, watching their movements. They seemed very self-assured, never posting more than two guards at the door, while the rest of the crew ate and drank more than three blocks away at a inn that served as their land-based headquarters.

One night he took a chance and dove into the bay, swimming as silently as he could to the underside of the docks. He carefully made his way towards their warehouse, and found a pleasant surprise. There was a hatch beneath it, likely used for smuggling, and it had no lock. He climbed up a nearby pole and stretched, his fingertips barely finding the hook, and unclasping it. He jumped and grabbed hold of the rough wooden edges of the hatch and pulled himself inside. The warehouse was dark, with only a singular torch near the door lit. There were no guards inside, for the pirates felt none would try and make it past the doorguards, nor could they. He moved as quickly as he could, but could not help but feel fear as the water dripped from him. It would dry soon enough, but if any were to enter the warehouse in the next hour or so they would know someone had been there. His eyes searched back and forth to find what he was looking for. He wasn't quite sure himself what that was, only that he need not concern himself with anything but coin or gems. He would take back what was owed to him and then some. For a few minutes he skulked about the room, quietly opening lids and drawers and sifting through containers, when he saw it.

On a table, near the center of the room, was a chest. No longer than two feet, and half as wide and tall. It had a keyhole, the key to which was assuredly on the Captain of the crew, but Neithor knew what was in it. It was their silver, their gold, their gemstones, and their most valuable pieces. There was enough in there to buy him an entire caravan of goods, with guards and horses to defend him. Now knowing his target, his slid back down out of the hatch and swung himself over to a different pole, this time taking a small stick he had found in the room to push the hatch shut. He then climbed over the other pole and clasp the hook again, securing the hatch and hopefully hiding his presence. He would need a small boat, that was for certain. Perhaps even just a dinghy, he thought, but he would have to secure it during the day and somehow manage to tie it under the docks without being noticed. He would also need the key, and for that he would need to find the Captain.

The Captain, a dark-haired and broad shouldered man by the name of Ashajt, took his drink in the inn of The Nine-Eyed Cat. He slept in the topmost floor in a private room that was never rented out to any other, even when he was onboard his ship. The pirates were well known to be drunkards and men of leisure, as was their wont, and stayed up most of each night carousing and fighting and chugging down ale. He would have to wait until they were all good and drunk, and the Captain had gone to his room, to make his move. Earlier in the day he went walking along the shoreline and saw a fisherman in his boat not but fifty meters away. He waved at the man, shouting for him to come to shore. He did not immediately comply, as it looked like he had a fish on his line. Sure enough, a few minutes later he pulled and from the water came a large salmon that he quickly stabbed with a knife and threw inside a bucket on the bottom of his boat. The fisherman started rowing to shore, beaching at his camp just a little ways from where Neithor had called him.

"Hello, hello there!" said Neithor. "Sorry to bother you, but would your boat be for sail? How much for it?"

The man looked at him quizzically and then laughed, saying between his chuckles, "You Gondorians are something else. What makes you think my boat is for sale? And that I would sell it to someone like you?"

"Who I am or where I'm from doesn't matter old man. I need your boat, so name a price." He said, his voice low and grumbling.

"Set a price? Alright, my price is a thousand gold coins. That's what this boat is worth to me, and you'll not see it. Cause if you had that much gold you wouldn't need my little boat, would you know? So piss off and leave me be."

Neithor was furious, and before he knew what he was doing he had stabbed the fisherman. A look of genuine shock was on both of their faces, as he truly had not meant to kill the fisherman. It was as if something had come over him, some unknown feeling of malevolence and hatred. The fisherman fell there, gasping for air, and Neithor could not look at him. He stepped away and began to search for a rock, something heavy to weigh down the body. The fisherman would expire soon and he could not let the body be found. When he returned, the fisherman had taken the long journey and his lifeless body lay there broken. Neithor carried it into the boat and pushed off from shore, paddling his way out hundreds of meters until Umbar was a speck, before he tied a rope to the fisherman's ankles and threw him overboard, a heavy rock on the other end of the rope. He waited until the body disappeared before turning about and heading for the docks, careful to make his way from the opposite direction so as not to be seen. He was very lucky that the day was blazing hot and many of the sailors and dock workers had taken shade for a while. He steered the boat under the docks and right up the warehouse hatch, where he took the remaining rope and secured it to a nearby pole. He slipped into the water and swam away, the first part of his plan complete.

He returned to his inn to sleep for awhile, as he knew he could not rest for at least a day after this. When he awoke, he paid a young boy to ride his horse out of the city and up the coast, and ordered him to tie it up near a great oak tree that grew near the beach, one he had seen earlier that day. He made his way to The Nine-Eyed Cat and watched from across the street, listening to the hustle and bustle of the inn and occasionally peering through the windows to watch the pirates. He saw Ashajt, drinking at the head of a table with a pile of coins and dice in front of him. They were gambling, though Neithor did not know the game. Hours passed like this, and the moon was high in the sky. Curse it all. When will he sleep? He thought to himself. If he did not go to his room soon, Neithor's plan would fail. Another twenty minutes had passed when the Captain stood from the table, stumbling as he did, and turned to go up the stairs. A woman went to follow him but he shook his head and pushed her away. Perfect, this will make it easier He thought.

He backed away to get a running start, then ran forward and sprung into the air, grabbing hold of the outcropping of the second floor's ledge. He pulled himself up and began the slow and agonizing crawl up the ledges of the building. His hands were wet with his sweat, and the grime of the walls soon turned slick. He nearly fell cresting the fourth floor, but caught himself at the last moment. After what seemed like hours, though in reality was ten or fifteen minutes, he pulled himself up to the balcony of Ashajt's room. The Captain was already in his bed, resting on his stomach with an arm and leg hanging off the side. Neithor crept forward and pushed open the balcony's door that led into the room, and stepped in. His feet were silent and he held his breath. He would have only one opportunity for this. He moved next to the Captain's bed and positioned himself, readying for the moment. It was instantaneous, over in the blink of an eye. He grabbed the Captain's hair with one hand, pulling back his head, and slashed his throat with the other. A faint gurgling came from him, but Neithor drove his knee into his back to prevent him from moving. Soon enough he was dead, and Neithor began to search for the key. He found it in a trouser pocket, and it was unmistakably the right one. It had the same markings on it as the chest did.

He stepped away from the body and grabbed a chair that was next to the door, propping in under the handle to secure it. He then fled from the building, climbing back down the way he came up and making his way to the docks. There was no one on this side of the docks, save for the two guards at the warehouse. It wasn't until this moment that he realized there was no way to swim underneath the docks from where he stood. He would have to go around, but he had no time. He stood there debating for a moment what to do, before accepting the reality before them. He pulled up his hood and strode forward, concealing his already drawn sword beneath his cloak. He walked down the docks as quietly as he could, clinging to the shadows. He was but a mere five meters away from the guards, but their torchlight extended almost to him now. His mind raced, debating what to do. He looked about him, and saw a wooden hammer on the barrel next to him. He grabbed it, shuffling it in his hands to adjust to the weight, then threw it overhead into the water of the bay.

It worked perfectly, as the guards both turned their heads and moved to see what the noise was. They did not hear him come from behind as he plunged his sword into one of their backs. The other turned in surprise, his mouth open, but did not have time to react before Neithor's blade removed his head from his shoulders. He kicked the two bodies into the water, and turned around, rushing to the door. It was locked and he had not grabbed the keys from either guard. He grabbed his sword once more and smashed it into the lock, once, twice, three times before it fell. Surely someone would hear the noise, unless he was very lucky. He kicked the door in and ran forward, dashing towards the chest. He picked it up and made his way to the hatch, slamming his foot down atop it and shaking loose the hook that clasped it shut. The door swung open and below him was the boat. He set the chest above him and jumped down, standing on the seat. He reached up and pulled the chest too him, nearly losing his balance as he tried to set it down. He nustled it tightly between his legs and immediately set forth, grabbing the oars and paddling as fast as he could. His arms burned from the effort, but he could afford no delay.

He pushed and pushed, moving down the shoreline, far enough away to be out of bowshot but close enough to be able to see his horse if it was there. To his joy and relief, it was. The boy was clearly had needed the money, or had some fear of the strange Gondorian man, but his horse was there tired to the tree. He speedily made his way to shore, dragging the boat for the last bit. He pulled the chest from it and hoisted it onto his shoulders, making his way to his horse. There was no good way to secure the chest, other than to tie it around himself and rest it on the backside of his horse. It would not be comfortable for either of them, but they had no choice. He kicked the horse away and fled into the night, his arms sore and his mind filled with ideas for the future. He had, against all odds, succeeded.

He returned to Pelargir with his wealth in tow, and used much of it to purchase goods and horses and mercenary guards to follow him. He knew the pirates might find him eventually, so he set forth for Minas Tirith as soon as he had everything he needed. For a time he traded, almost completely honestly, before realizing that there were other markets. Other merchants and purveyors of goods that resided outside of the realm. He began to trade in slaves and ill-gotten items, selling to Haradrim merchants south of Mordor and to the orcs of Mordor themselves. It was at the Black Market inside of Udun that he found himself at most often now. The company of Mordor suited him better than that of Gondor, and they were more inclined to leave him to his business. It was on this day that he found himself wandering the market, when he chanced upon The Occult Owl. He had never seen it before, but perhaps it was because he had never been to this part of the market. He stepped forward to the stall and saw what he could only assume to be a fortune-teller, from the odds and ends and mystical bits of paraphernalia that surrounded her. His curiosity piqued, he moved towards her and said, "Hello...I am Neithor. Are you a fortune-teller perchance? For I wish to know my future, if you can see it."

Master Torturer
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Kirrah

The small idols and coins that were tied to her long ginger dreadlocks jingled softly as she stirred. Hidden deep within the dirty green cowl of her hood, piercing grey eyes looked out at the first visitor she had seen, in ages. No one knew where Kirrah came from, one day she just appeared and had pitched her stall many months ago, but after the initial interest, business had slowly but surely died out. It had not even been due to inaccurate tellings and prophecies. She had been too accurate. And the more her tellings became true, often within days of foretelling them, the more people began thinking she either facilitated the profecies she foretold or was in league with those that did see to making it happen. Whether she was or wasn't, everything she said came to be.

She sniffed the air, as if smelling the man before her, her mouth twisting with disgust. "Gondorian.." Her voice was softer than her looks, more melodic than any voice here in Mordor. Like a siren she spoke, slowly standing so she stood before him, the small table between them. The table held all kinds of things, dirty bowls that looked like they had dried blood in them, a skattering of small bones that were splattered with what was definitely blood and a stack of oversized cards. Several flies buzzed around the items laying haphazardly on the small table, though they did not seem the bother the woman.

"2 of those golden coins that you stole. That is my price for forseeing your future." Knowing he would pay, she waved a hand towards the bones, the bowls and the cards. "Pick a medium. Choose wisely, one will tell only a week ahead, one a month ahead and one a year." Seating herself again, she added "If you want the precise day and time of your death, then it is 200 gold. Take it or leave it." It always paid to know who could afford it, but it paid even more to know who desperately needed to know, wanting to stay alive.

"Well?" She asked, her ring encrusted and tattooed fingers playing idly with a bone.

Balrog
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Fleeg, Businessgoblin Extraordinaire
Druviz Kadar

“Shelob?! Where?!” Fleeg screeched, immediately jumping in the air then crouching as low as he could to the ground, an old goblin trick for hiding from spiders (it wasn’t but Fleeg believed it was). He stayed in this position for a good five to ten seconds before he realized that it was not, in fact, Shelob but his CHaoSb Ro, Reg. If it were possible for goblins to turn a different color (the lorist jury is still out on this of course because there’s so much minutiae to debate and bicker over) the Fleeg would have turned from snot green to a deep forest green or perhaps a weird seafoam green. His eyes bulged at little as well. Fleeg was very sensitive about his bulging eyes, goblins had a predisposition to having their eyes bulge out so much that their eyes would often pop out of their sockets and flop around uselessly on the goblin’s cheek. The only way to correct such a thing was an expensive, and dangerous, surgery down in Umbar.

As glad as he always was to see his dimwitted best friend/worst enemy, the orc’s decorum was atrocious. This was a GRAND OPENING for Gothmog’s sake! What was he wearing? Seriously, what was he wearing? Fleeg couldn’t tell if Reg was wearing clothing or had simply allowed the bellybutton fungus to spread and expand over his whole body. This got Fleeg thinking, something dangerous and non sequitur, had he ever seen Reg wear anything more complex or formal than a loin cloth? Surely he had, right? Reg wasn’t one of those freaks that went around the Black Lands in naught but their dangly bits. Fleeg shuddered and felt bile in the back of his throat as an image, unbidden and unwelcomed, of Reg besuited in nothing but his birthday suit entered his mind. He spat an acidic blob of phlegm. “Regdûsh you… douche!” he couldn’t find a better insult other than the low hanging fruit so he smacked it as hard as he could. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago! I told you exactly what time to get here,” (he had done no such thing) “and here I see you lazing in at this hour? ARGHHHH!” He dramatically threw his hands up in the air, hoping his ChaO Sbro would miss the subtle movement he took to grab a smooth, black stone from the ground. “I’ll have you know that I only had to go to three loan sharks,” (one of them might have actually been a shark, Fleeg couldn’t tell) “and I was given a great deal, only 75% interest! Mig said the guy was trouble, but Mig is just jealous because I got all the family ambition and he just got a toad.”

He stopped and realized his mouth was dry. “Speaking of toads, you tried that new breed that came in? I hear it gives you a great high, makes you smell colors!”

He coughed and adjusted his businessgoblin jacket. It was not fitting to talk about drugs at a grand opening, unless the grand opening was for drugs and his apiary was not designed for… well hey there’s an idea. He took out a notepad made from leaves and a charcoal pencil and wrote “murder hornet venom, drug?” before stuffing it back into his pocket.

“Where was I? Oh right… wait… huh?” He thought he saw Reg fiddling with the lock out of the corner of his eyes. No, not even Reg would be dumb enough to mess with an angry murder hornet’s nest, right? Right? Please say right.

“Just what in the blazing dragon balls are you doing?!” He looked aghast at his Cha OsB Ro.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Esquire of The Mark
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Neithor the Liar
The Occult Owl:
Seeking the Future #2

There were some things that he had not yet become accustomed to from his time in Mordor. Always there was a faint smell of sulfur in the air, the dead bodies of orcs who had fought publically being torn apart by others, and the dark clouds that hung over Udun were commonplace for him. But certain sights and smells could still surprise him. He was not prepared to see that the fortune-teller was no orc nor woman of Gondor. He could not tell where she was from, as he had never seen hair like her. It was of a flaming reddish-orange, knotted and dreaded, filled with small objects and coins that the hair was threaded through. He could make out only her eyes under her hood, and they unsettled him. They seemed to be colorless. No, no he corrected himself. They had color, a grey that seemed to shine with the piercing might of a sword. It unnerved him, though he hid his discomfort as well as he could. Though he wanted to know his future and he truly did believe in the powers of witchcraft and magic that fortune-tellers were known to have, it would not do him any good to give her any information or reveal anything about himself that was not absolutely pertinent to the matter at hand. And so he steeled himself as she stood and proclaimed her price, already knowing somehow he was here to learn of his future.

That should not have surprised him as it did, though the price was certainly fair to his mind. No, it was the fact that she said that his gold was stolen. None here that traded with him knew of his theft in Umbar. Nor did they know of the previous heist in Pelargir. He had kept much of the information about his past and who he was to himself. The soldiers who protected his caravan weren't the type to ask questions if the coin was right, and those who operated in The Black Market were usually the same. It probably would not matter to any of them to know the gold was stolen, nor the lengths to which he went to get it, but that information was private. That she should so accurately guess upon seeing him was disturbing. Of course, it was no guess, she obviously knew. Her legitimacy was confirmed to him in the first words that she spoke, and that was a small comfort, though it did not make him feel any less perturbed than he was now. No, indeed he became even more uncomfortable as she told him to choose a medium, and said that she could predict the very time and date of his death. For two hundred gold coins, no less. The business part of his mind immediately told him that it was a scam, that she was merely going to fleece him of a large amount of gold. But, the other part of his mind, the less rational and more fearful side, was curious. She had already been right about his gold being ill-gotten, who was to say that she could not be right about something like that?

He studied the table she stood across from him at. It was filled with odds and ends, little bowls with what looked like blood, and what he could only assume were the tools of her trade. He was not studied in the arcane and the mystic, but he recognized at the very least the deck of cards that sat upon the table. He did not know the cards themselves but knew what they were. His hand slowly reached down towards them, hovering a foot above the table, when he pulled them back. He looked at the fortune-teller, her eyes staring at him without moving. She did not seem the patient kind, as she asked him, "Well?" He looked back up at her and said, "I...I think...well, clearly you know what it is I'm here for. You know much it seems. I suppose that's the nature of your abilities, that you see the unseen, what the rest of us search for. I...I wish to know my future. I hadn't come looking for the information about my death...but...if that is something that you can tell me...can I then avoid it? Could I change my fate, I wonder." He cast his eyes back down onto the table and looked at her tools and trinkets again.

It was a strange moment for him, one that would change the course of his life, though he knew it not yet. His hand shook as he raised it, pointing to the bones. His voice was nervous now. As if he hadn't already been stammering beforehand, it was more obvious now. "C-cast the bones...the bones for me fo-for-fortune-teller. I have the gold...two hundred pieces, as you ah-asked." He reached down to his belt where a pouch filled with coins hung. He untied it and placed it on the table. "It-it-it's all there. You needn't count it, I'm sure you know I speak the truth. There's more in there as well, if...if you speak..if you tell me that which I am looking to hear."

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Kirrah

The implied threat of a dagger to his throat if he tried to re-appropriate his bag of coins, hung in the air between them as she quickly pulled it to her and hid it deep in the folds of her cloak. She eyed him for a long moment before she moved again. Sniffing the air as she had before, she could smell his fear clearly despite the heavy smell of sulfur. The slightly sour smell mixed with his sweat made for an unpleasant aroma that could not be hidden from her even if he took a bath in pure perfume. Fear always emanated and dripped through the pores regardless. But even if his fear could not be smelled, there was the stuttered request.

Her grey eyes finally relented their soul searching stare as she looked down at her table and picked out the bones that lay scattered around. Tossing them into the biggest bowl, she slowly drew her dagger out. There was nothing ornate about it, a simple dagger by the looks of it. Only those that knew their metals would know that this one was special. Made of a metal that was rarely seen around these parts. It looked as if pure fire had been harnessed and melded with the steel, swirling hypnotically, as she held out the blade and with her other hand grabbed his. Before he could even pull back, she had cut a slash just above his wrist, sparing his hand a painful wound that would take longer to heal.

She held his arm above the bowl long enough to get a few drops, her grip shockingly strong. Almost as if disgusted, she let him go in a way that pushed his arm away from her. The blade returned to it's sheath after being wiped on her smock, uncaring about the stains. Using a tattooed index finger she smeared the blood in the bowl over the bones and then shook them before dumping them out on the table before her.

If he at any point made to talk, she would harshly hush him to silence, spending long moments studying the bones while sucking on the finger she had used to stir with. He did not need to know that was all she needed, a taste of his blood, leaving him to think she was just being disgusting with her hygiene. The answers came to her in that one lick of blood, the bones just there for show.

"161 days,15 hours and 23 minutes. That is how long you have left to live." She had answered his question, but because the bag contained more, she added, "Minas Tirith, 3rd level." She paused for a long while swirling the taste of his blood in her mouth, looking back at the bones. "There was a man.. a fisherman, you took his boat, and his life. His son. His son is coming to take your life like you took his father's."

"Go now, Neithor the Liar. Enjoy your last days.."

High Lord of Imladris
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Umoya
Grijakeren


The Market had been slow there were a few wandering about and the dark skinned woman sat relaxing in her small stall the rich floor coverings she had brought made the time pass quite comfortable. She debated on putting up a sign on the outside of her shop so that people would know more about what was going on, however she paused once she pulled out the paper. How many minions could read? She knew there weren't too many from where she had grown that were good at reading. She had a hard time seeing most of the dark lands being much better in terms of being able read the nuances of a detailed sign.

SHe picked up a brush taking in her teath for the moment as she thought for a while before she took her well of black and red paint balanced together in one hand the paper in her other as she sat in the door way and set out the paper and the paint so that the few wandering souls that were in the market would see her art. Sometimes it worked sometimes it did not. She would see. With that she folded her legs underneath her and put the fine soft hairs of the brush tip in her mouth bringing the fibers to a soft point. She dipped the brush into the black paint and held the brush above the paper for a moment before she began to draw, a great spiraling mass of some wyrm akin to those in the deadly deserts to the south.

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Fleeg, Businessgoblin Extraordinaire*
Druviz Kadar

When it came to scoffing at others’ idiocy, Regdûsh really had nothing to stand on. He was, after all, the biggest dolt ever not to have graduated from Mordorian preschool, much to his mother’s undying shame and outrage and his father’s enduring pride. Recently, in a fit of charity or some other kindly impulse, his older brother Art had taken it upon himself to fill in some of the chasm-sized gaps in Reg’s education. It was going about as well as you might expect. Despite his own less-than-stellar track record with critical thinking, the great hairy orc guffawed mockingly at the sight of Fleeg cowering on the ground in an awkward, insect-like position at the mention of Shelob.

“Arr, you’d never be able to hide from ol’ Shelob,” he growled. “Not the way you stink, maggot breath! And what’s this about ‘late’? Can’ be late to somethin’ you wasn’ invited to, can yeh?” He scowled. While he had actually been invited to this accursed grand opening, he wasn’t about to admit that. He scratched his hairy chin with a hairy hand. “Dûsh is part of my name, I’ll accept that much from you, but not much more, mind.”

One thing upon which he and Fleeg, his bestest ChAos BRo, could agree was a general disregard for their older, boring, and infinitely smarter (though Reg would never admit to this last one) brothers. “Mig wouldn’ know an opportunity if it chopped off ‘is head! How’s he even keeping that toad alive, anyway?” Reg chuckled, thinking of Mig’s stupid toad hat. What an imbecile! All brains and no sense of fashion. Toad caps had gone out of style at least twenty years ago, with the death of Ombilge the Opulent, whose toad cap had grown so large that it crushed her head whilst she prepared it a hearty breakfast of bacon pancakes. Scared off at the prospect of being smothered by their own headgear, the orcs and goblins of Mordor had abandoned their toad hats en masse and devolved into licking the toads for sport.

Of course, Reg was not to know this, ignorant to history as he was. But Mig was the only weirdo he knew wandering about with a toad affixed to his head, and he delighted in any excuse to mock Fleeg’s older brother. He did, however, know about the new variety of toad which his OrB referenced.

“Course I heard of ‘em! Got one right here, haven’t I?” He stuck a hairy fist into his pocket (he WAS wearing pants, thank you very much) and extracted a brilliant blue toad. “Fancy a lick?” He offered the squirming amphibian to the newly-christened purveyor of murder hornets as a means of distracting Fleeg from the fact that he’d definitely just unlatched the murder hornets’ apiary and kicked it. The tactic proved ineffective, however. An angry buzzing grew as the hornets prepared their attack on their captor and his idiotic friend - with a loud BANG, the apiary door flew open. The huge hornets burst from their erstwhile prison and, after stopping to sip from the lingering puddles of mushroom grog, flew straight for the two biggest idiots ever to step foot in the Black Market. One bitter drone in particular dove straight at Fleeg’s face.

“FLEEG!” Reg hollered. He shielded his head with his arms (he could do with a toad hat now, he had to admit) and ran in haphazard circles inside the tent. This, of course, did not stop him from being stung repeatedly. “You best sort this out, or I’ll have Art sue you into oblivion!!”

(* Please note that this title does not reflect Reg’s sentiments about this whole situation)
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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The streets of the Market
~Nerys~


Dark were the streets that crawled across the vale of Udûn, lurking beneath the shadow of Durthang fortress. Stale and stagnant it felt within the cramped and winding alleys of the market, too few yet abroad to disturb the heavy pools of fetid air. A tall shadow loomed at the edges of entrance, in the lee of one of the few permanent structures and the shape of a dark figure hidden within the gloom might be discerned by those with keen eyes, or the wit to be cautious in the Black Land.

Sharp grey eyes travelled over the scene from beneath the concealment of a hooded cloak, their owner content to remain unobserved as she surveyed the changes that marked the passing of time since she had last visited one of the markets many incarnations. Long had been the years since Nerys had walked this land under the watchful gaze of the looming towers of the Morannon. Though she now called no land home, she felt almost content as she stood once more within the centre of Udûn, for the market was the beating heart of the valley; here one could find all manner of items, creatures and knowledge, if only the seeker knew which trails to follow.

What might in other lands be called a smile graced her face, though certainly it conveyed little of the warmth or joy that would usually accompany such expression, as her shrewd gaze caught on certain familiar sights. At last stepping out of the shadow, Nerys had no thought of lurking or concealing her presence, for that would entirely defeat her purposes. Strange inkings, marks of powerful bold lines and script decorated the otherwise fair skin of the hand that swept back the hood concealing her features. Her stature and colouring marked her lineage, but that was not remarkable here where so many servants of the Dark Lord mingled. The fall of blood-red hair that was now lazily stirred by the wind combined with the cruel expression, sharp gaze and barely concealed daggers at her waist may certainly stir some memories, or at least she hoped so, for quarry that had already tasted a bite of fear was the most satisfying to hunt.

Business she had with at least one of the stallholders this day, and that time would come, but for now her only purpose was to see and be seen as she strode confidently through the winding streets amidst the growing crowds.

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Soreya
Kangtar’s Korner to Grijakeren
(@Revered Grandmother)

It seemed Khaulzim did not know songs of quality for he ignored her request completely. Unimpressed, she left without leaving any coins for the minstrel. A chicken crossed her path and ‘I am braver than you, get your ink at Grijakeren’ flashed before her eyes. Soreya almost smirked. The creative mind behind that deserved her attention and if the place was up to par, she might even get some ink herself.

Scarlet silk swishing around her, she floated toward Grijakeren and studied Umoya through kohl-rimmed eyes. Her expectations for the tattoo parlor had been low. Seeing a fellow woman from Harad was unexpected. They were the only people she would let near her skin with needles.

“I saw your chicken,” she told Umoya, watching her sweeping paintbrush. “But you got something wrong. That bird is not braver than I and I will prove it to you. First, I would see more of your art before providing you with a very unforgettable canvas.” Soreya swept her fingers along her bare arms already covered in swirling ink. Anything new would have to go somewhere more vulnerable, placing her at a distinct disadvantage and she wanted to take the measure of Umoya before putting herself in such a position.

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The streets / Thaukim
~Nerys~


The weight of several gazes rested upon Nerys as she continued her slow course through the market, idly browsing at several stalls though none had apparently caught her interest. As she wandered her dark grey eyes seemed to lazily sweep the surroundings, though if any had cared to look closely they would see moments where her gaze sharpened to a point, accompanied by a subtle incline of the head, almost as if she was signalling to certain creatures along her route. She had wondered if the scouts would still be used in the Market, of old they had been one of his favourite devices, but much could have changed in the intervening years. Rumour and intrigue picked up as she travelled North had at least confirmed that his star had continued to rise in the Eye's estimation, now she only had to arrange an introduction. A small, savage smile crossed formed as she realised she knew exactly whose stall to visit first.

The burly, squint-eyed orc manning the stall (Thaukim) barely looked up as she joined an Easterling browsing the wares so carefully displayed. Bored he appeared, making no attempts to engage with customers; though his gaze locked on the knives and any hands that came near as if in warning to potential thieves, the large, spiked mace resting gently beside him an indication of the payment that would be exacted for any stupidity. Nerys ran her gaze along the rows of knives, inwardly rolling her eyes, though the quality of the merchandise was better than any other would boast, she knew this would be only the poorest of Bargurr's wares.

She hadn't thought she had changed so much over the years, but with the lack of reaction so far she couldn't help the desire to mess a little with Bargurr. Bringing one hand out from within the folds of her dark robe, she trailed a single finger down the wickedly curved steel of a blade, as if testing the edge, only to slowly flip her hand over, revealing the stark shape of the runes that rested on her inner wrist.

"Beat it, come back later if you still want the knife." Even if the Easterling had wanted to argue, the imposing sight of Bargurr rising to his feet as quick as a snake, mace firmly in hand clearly dissuaded him. As the orc turned that same glower on her, recognition flaring in his beady eyes, Nerys almost wanted to laugh, did he really think she would be so easily cowed? Dark and rolling as the thunder that often sounded was the orcs voice as he growled what passed for a greeting, "So, you're back then, are you burzum? The years haven't beaten the stupidity out of you I see, coming back here. What do you want?"

Nerys did laugh then, a quiet lyrical sound that wouldn't carry beyond the pair of them. The tall figure of the Black Numenorean leaned in slightly, to all appearances it was a conversation between two allies; but the hand resting lightly on the table, so close to the hilt of one of the best quality blades, and the creaking groan that issued from the mace as Bargurr's fist tightened suggested undercurrents that rippled strongly.

"Come now Bargurr," she purred, her voice dripping with honey, "I only wish to speak to him, surely an introduction isn't too much to ask. Aren't you pleased to see an old friend returned? A friend that has kindly forgotten that little incident at our last parting, you wouldn't want discourtesy to jog my memory, would you?"

Assessing and shrewd was the gaze that ran over her, a disturbing intelligence rarely seen in an orc, but one that had been the foundation of Bargurr's fortune. "Well, this is a change, you'd best be hoping you've learnt enough sense to know what you're doing asking to see him. You've got through the scouts, or you wouldn't have got this far, but you won't go further, not yet." One meaty fist slashed through the air as if to emphasise his point or his agitation. The timbre of his voice dipped even more as his eyes darted down to her arm, "If those runes carved into your flesh are what I think they are, it seems you've been keeping interesting company on your travels, but he sees no newcomers. I'd settle in if I were you lass, and wait for a summons. Now," and here the orc shot her a nasty grin full of jagged teeth, "I'm thinking you'd best be moving that hand off my fine merchandise, or forking over some coin."

That easily the undercurrents seemed to settle, tension slowly drifting away on the fetid air that blew through the Market. Nerys smiled coldly at her old 'friend', easily dropping all mention of an introduction now her purpose had been won, "Coin I have, but not for this trash. Show me something better, and we might do some business this day."
Last edited by I hate Eärendil on Wed Sep 22, 2021 9:29 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Fleeg, Businessgoblin Extraordinaire
Druviz Kadar

Fleeg was a businessgoblin, this much could not be denied (look at where he was for crying out oud), but he was also a toad addict, or a toadaholic as it’s called in some circles. Similar to some (most) orcs being alcoholics, Fleeg had become addicted to that sweet, tripping balls, hallucinogen found only in the brightest colored toads, the brighter the better. So, naturally, when Reg waved the iridescent blue toad (it was a frog but are we really going to be pedantic about this?) in front of his face, there was nothing the snot green goblin could do but grab it, stare at it with ever widening eyes, and lick. It was the biggest, most disgusting (bordering on pornographic) lick this poor beast had ever been forced to endure. It was long, wet, sticky, and smelled faintly of something from the compost bin. This lick shamed all of goblin-kind. It shamed all of Mordor. Fleeg the Undead came back to life to roll in his grave; trolls choked on their roasted mutton; the dragons of the far north murdered hordes of caribou lest the shame of Fleeg’s action reflect on them; the Nazgûl all screamed in unison as their worst shame was brought back to their memory (each of them had had a chance to kill Fleeg at some point in his life and yet he still walked free). Mount Doom belched forth a new column of black, chocking smoke, trying to hide itself for the utter disgustingness of this lick. Fleeg, however, knew none of this. The poison in the toad (frog) had already begun to take effect. He saw Reg. Reg was there. In the room (tent). Reg was there, but he was also there. Fleeg looked at his hand and watched it start to wobble and lose cohesion. It turned blue. He giggled and watched it, raised it higher so he could watch the light show. Something hurt. Fleeg couldn’t tell what hurt, but something was hurting. It was a weird, stinging sensation. Maybe he put his hand in the frying pan again when Reg was making bacon pancakes (makin’ bacon pancakes). Little strips of bacon began to flutter in front of his face and began to dive at him. It hurt when they hit him. He tried to bite them, tried to eat them, but each time he moved his wide-open mouth, something stung him and distracted him while the bacon escaped. No! Fleeg began to wail as the bacon flew out of his tent.

“NooooooOOOOO! Reg! Don’t let the bacon escape! We have to capture the flying bacon!” A very stupid, very illogical idea came into Fleeg’s addled brain. What if he could make the flying bacon breed with his murder hornets? BACON MURDER HORNETS! MURDER BACON HORNETS! It was genius. If only he could capture some of this flying bacon! He grabbed on strip and, suppressing his urge to enjoy some tasty bacon, tried to bring it back inside. “OW!” he shouted. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” His hand was buzzing. His hand was growing. Wow!
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Druviz Kadar

Phlegm was not happy. She was in first place; she was quite happy about that. It was just another example of how she was better at everything than everyone. She wasn’t too surprised to see herself in the position she was in. It was Buboshå, Fleeg’s erstwhile fiancée (the details on whether or not this was true were sketchy at best, was there ever going to be an actual wedding?). Phlegm was not like most mothers. She did not think that Bubösha wasn’t good enough for Fleeg. Far from it. A rotting warg corpse was too good for Fleeg. Maybe it was the whole goblin woman vs goblin woman dynamic. Was it something built into their genetics? Fight all the other females for resources and mates? It’s true goblin women were the ones that made their society actually function but that couldn’t be it. There was just something about that woman. What did she want with Fleeg? Fleeg?! Of all the idiots in all the Black Lands? He wasn’t rich, he wasn’t smart, he wasn’t handsome, he didn’t smell good. What was this woman up to?

Then she announced that Phlegm needed to go “forage” for her next ingredients. Great. That meant she was going to have to visit her son. Goddammit. She knew what she was doing. Phlegm could see it in her eyes. She squinted then scuttled off. Her dimwitted asshat of a son owned an apiary. A “murder hornet” apiary. She scoffed. Was there every anything dumber? Still. She could buy a few from him. No, she was take a few of them from him and use them in a kabab with mango, reaper peppers (apparently her sabotage hadn’t worked in the way she thought), some onion, garlic, and some hunk of boar bacon. That should be enough to satisfy the judges.

When she got to Druviz Kadar (what a dumb name!) the whole tent was in chaos. Something had gone wrong. Of course it had. It was Fleeg and murder hornets. There was no way something so dumb was going to work. Fleeg was on the ground screaming about bacon hornets. What the—? The hornets were escaping! Sauron’s Black Earth! What is wrong with this goblin!? She dodged several, whacked one that nearly landed on her with a piece of lumber, and hid behind a table. This was… not ideal. It was predictable, but not ideal. There were two jars on the table. She sniffed the first. She wanted to die. It was that nasty mushroom grog they brewed at the spa from Reg’s belly fungus. Why? She spat a blob of stomach acid she’d retched up. There was going to be no using that. She threw it on the floor. It oozed out of the broken glass like a living thing. The second jar was better. It was apple cider vinegar. Why was there a jar of vinegar? Who knows? Phlegm didn’t have the luxury of caring about why her son did the things he did. She opened the jar and within moments, the wasps came investigating. After just a minute the jar was full of hornets drowning in their own foolishness. Almost as dumb as Fleeg. She shrugged. Most of the hornets had flown out of the tent. Fleeg was still rolling around on the ground screaming for Reg. Reg was here? She looked around but didn’t see any sign of the oaf. Fleeg was probably hallucinating. There was a toad next to him. She pressed her palm into her face. Of course, there was a toad involved. Of all the sons! Maybe he would die and there would be no more Fleegs. That would be a mercy to her.

She grabbed the toad and looked at it. It looked as dazed and confused as Fleeg. “Alright then,” she muttered, opening a burlap sack at her waist. “We’ll add frog legs to the kebabs.”

She took one more look at Fleeg, rolled her eyes, and left. Such a disappointment.

A few streets over (does the Black Market even have streets?) Phlegm found a vendor with a cart selling vegetables, a goblin with unnaturally wide eyes. He grinned and wiped the slobber from his mouth. “Oh! A customer! Oh! Oh! I have vegables and froots for sale! I have vegables and froots for sale!”

Phlegm sighed. “Do you have onion, garlic, and reaper peppers?”

He looked at her with slow, uncomprehending eyes that slowly came to life. “Oh! Oh! I have onions!” he stuck his hand in his cart, shuffled around a bit, then pulled out a bulbous white thing. “Here we go! An onion, for the gorgeous matron.”

She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“I meant… well you’re… uh… and… well the thing is… what?”

She rolled her eyes and with lightning speed grabbed the onion from the idiot’s hand. “Don’t call me a matron, and don’t call me gorgeous. I’ll use your tongue in my kebabs if you say another word.”

His eyes went wider somehow. He nearly befouled himself. He stuck his hand back on the cart and wordlessly pulled out two more onions, two bulbs of garlic and three reaper peppers. His hands were shaking so bad he dropped the onions in the dirt. “Oh no!” he whimpered.

Phlegm rolled her eyes. She’d warned him. She could do without the boar bacon. Goblin tongue would do as a fine substitute. She pulled out the knife.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Kamâz Stâz

Vauddut hadn’t done as well as he had hoped in the first round of the competition. He’d been so sure that eyeball stir fry was going to be a hit! He’d tasted it himself and thought it was magnificently malignant! Normally, he’d never get to eat something so luxurious and bougie. He was going to have to dig deep if he was going get out of the hole he’d found himself in after the first round. The troll and the goblin were somehow in the lead. A troll and a goblin! What even was that? At least he was doing better than the hopplets. As they were all given their task to find food in the market and bring it back to cook, he’d taken a good stock of them. What the ever-loving fredegar were they doing here in Mordor? “All I’ve got is insane…” he muttered in a singsongy voice. He was formulating a recipe for later in the competition, one that would call for at least two hopplets ears.

But that was all for later! Vauddut had things to do! He had to make sure he even made it to the next round. He milled about for some time, his mind bouncing back and forth. What was he going to make that would impress the judges? They were impressed with the maggot hummus and the stew. Maybe he should make something similar? But his stew would have to stand out. He passed an orc screaming about wild game and roasted onions. He stopped. Roasted onions? There was a thought. He loved a good roasted onion, with salt and pepper and…

He bought three of them, two for the stew, and one for himself. A chef should never cook on an empty stomach. Was that a saying? It felt like one, whether or not it was correct was another matter altogether and the orc didn’t have time to philosophize over the kitchen.

“Sea Monsters?” He took a bite of the onion and chewed as he looked at the sign over the darkened tent. “What do you suppose is in there?” he asked the empty air next to him. The air did not answer.

The place smelled. It smelled like something had been dredged up from the darkest depths the Sea of Núrnen. Vauddut could taste a little bile in the back of his throat. Not a deal breaker though. Whatever the troll had done to make his stew palatable, he was going to have to out do it. Slowly, as he chewed on another bite of roasted onion, an idea began to form in his mind. Seafood stew. Mermaid stew.

He grinned wide, his greenish stained teeth gleaming in the dull ruddy light.

He entered the tent. The smell of a sea of dead things increased a thousand-fold. He tasted a little more bile at the back of his throat. He swallowed and rubbed his eyes. The smell was so strong it was making his eyes water.

A cheerful looked Haradan with creepy glowing eyes and thin fingers intercepted him.

“Welcome to Kamâz Stâz, my good orc. What can I, Ghaaqqo, your humble friend, do for you today? Have you come in search of a companion? I have bright and colorful fish from all over the world, rare and wonderous to look upon! Or perhaps you come for a more gastronomical experience?”

He spoke with such smooth haste, like silk over steel, that Vauddut was struck dumb for a moment. He wasn’t sure he liked this human. He didn’t like many of them. It was a natural thing for an orc to be at odd with a human. He eyes him suspiciously. He’d not understood all the fancy words the man had used.

“I’m lookin’ fer a mermaid.” The orc’s voice nowhere near as silken and smooth as the Haradan’s.

To his credit, the man, Ghaaqqo, did not immediately burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. “A mermaid you say? Now that, my friend, is a rare thing indeed! I once thought I caught a glimpse of one in the mythical Sea of Rhûn many, many years ago. Alas, I was too young and too distracted by the creature to attempt to catch it. Tell me, friend orc, what would a man such as yourself want to with a creature like that? Would you steal her skin so she would obey your every command? No, no that’s a selkie. A mermaid. Ahh, those are dangerous creatures. Rare and beautiful to look at but turn your back and they devour you whole.”

“So… you ain’t go no mermaids ‘ere?” Vauddut was disappointed, he frowned.

“I am afraid not, my good orc. I could work to procure one for you, but the cost would be rather astronomical and time it would take to catch one could be aeonic.”

Vauddut spat, a small chunk of roasted onion fell out of his mouth.

“Might I interest you one something else?”

The orc rubbed his chin. He had been counting on mermaid for his mermaid stew. Anything else might lead to a disappointment. Then he saw something tubular and toothy in an aquarium on the far side of the tent. “Wha’s that?” he pointed.

The Haradan smiled broadly. “Aye, you have a good eye my friend.”

“You makin’ some sorta joke about me eye?” Vauddut looked serious for a moment, his already bulgy eyes bulging even more, then he broke into a raucous laugh. “Hahaha! I had ye goin there for a minute!”

The Haradan’s smile faltered somewhat, but a deep breath later and the façade was back in place. “You did! Aha! You did indeed my good orc. Rare to see an orc of such good humor. And a good eye for the greatest of delicacies. Those in that tank yonder?” he pointed to the tank with the tubular fish, “Those are lampreys. Succulent delicacies, hidden in the darkest, deepest parts of the Sea of Núrnen. In my homeland, they are considered a kingly meal, a meal only those of the aristocracy were allowed to eat. Mordor is so much freer in that regard.” His smile was wide and sharkish.

“I’ll take three o’ ‘em. Got a mermaid stew to make, an thems is close enough for me.”

“Mermaid stew?” to his credit, again the man didn’t burst out laughing. “Now that does sound like a kingly meal. Good orc, you must tell me where you are planning on making such a rich and controversial dish!”

Vauddut pointed in the direction of the competition tent. “The food contest.”

“Ah!” the Haradan rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Then I will tell you what. I will cut a deal with you, my good friend. Should you win with my lampreys and your ‘mermaid stew’ I will charge you not a copper jot for them. Instead, you and I will open a stall in the market here and sell it to the most noble and foppish lordlings we can find. If you lose though, you will help me catch a hundred fish to replace the three you took. What say you?”

Vauddut stared. What the hell? He had no idea what was going on. “Uhhhh,” he said, the paused. What could the harm be? “Deal!”

“Right then,” Ghaaqqo smiled like a shark, “let’s get you something to transport these beauties.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

High Lord of Imladris
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Umoya
Grijakeren
@Lailsheenbo

She was just finishing a piece of art, a swirling black and red worm when she heard the foot steps drawing near and a smile that was somewhat unsettling and a chuckle escaped from the Haradi woman at the comment about her chicken being seen.

"I was beginning to worry that the script was going to be lost on the dull minds of the orcs in this place." She said finishing her bit of art. She sat back an eyed this woman up, she was beautiful as all haradi women were beautiful, and the swirls and markings on her arms were impressive and finely done. She stood slowly and surely knowing that yes she could share more pieces of art on paper but this woman, she had no doubt wanted to see what her work looked like on flesh, as it was a different monster to work on less forgiving than parchement and paper and ink.

"Of course someone with such art would want to see more, though I maintain until you get a tattoo from myself that the chicken is braver." With that she parted her skirt the fabric overlapping back and forth so that unless she parted it specifically her legs were always covered but now her toned thigh slipped free from the silks and showed designs upon it in ink as well.

Swirling about her thigh all the way were firebirds sea serpants in a battle with tribal swirls telling the Haradi creation tale on her thigh, it was a bold piece for a woman to bare, normally such stories were reserved for men, but Umoya was not afraid of men, and she had a feeling this woman, she was not going to be cowed by any man either.

High Lord of Imladris
Points: 5 208 
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Granny Appie Smith and Honey Crisp
The Tongueless Vegetable Vendor and Pakon Stazim


She was looking to try to see what she could get at this strange market. "HONESTLY THESE ELVES. YOU'D THINK AFTER THIS MANY YEARS THEY'D KNOW HOW TO CLEAN UP AFTER THEMSELVES, LOOKS LIKE THEY'VE LET THE PLACE GO TO THE ORCS" Honey Crisp nodded in blind agreement. All she could tell was it smelled terrible and honestly she was upset that the judges didn't get higher of her pipeweed brownies that she'd made. When they came across what Granny Appie Smith recognized as a Goblin and immediately she took a crack at it with her cane and lobbed it's head clear off.

Unfortunate fool had had zero luck what so ever today after dealing with Phlegm but Appies aim was off and the head smacked right into Honey Crisp with a wet squetching thud.

The younger of the two hobbits felt at what was there and nodded. "Pigs head without its tongue... I can work with that with this lot." She muttered standing back up dusting herself off and wrapping the grotesque head in a very nice clean kerchief and carried it around while Appie looked for her own items of the cook out. She ended up finding some mushrooms of questionable origin, she wasn't the one going to eat them though. And put a copper piece on the Vegetable Vendors table not realizing she'd whacked the vendors head clear off, expecting there to be an elf somewhere... But she needed more than just mushrooms. She needed something fancy. and then she found Pakon Stazim.

Appie reasoned that at least one of the judges was a Goblin (it had been very hard on her to not try to practice her long swing on the creature) so she could make a goblinish sort of meal. She found herself a nice sized spider, a bit bigger than a proper pie dish and decided that was what she would do make mushroom stuffed spider. She'd heard of people far nicer than orcs and goblins eating bugs so maybe there was something to it. "SONNY I'D LIKE TO PURCHASE THIS SPIDER." She called out to @Lokktar Ogar hoping to pay them for the spider, but if he didn't show up... Well if goblins tried to stop her she might get all the rust off of her golf swing.

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