Hoppit Darts: The Fleegening

"Going to Mordor!" Cried Pippin. "I hope it won’t come to that!"
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Balrog
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On the Rocks might be closed for the season, but that doesn’t mean fun cannot be had in the pub! How is this possible? Enter a pair of idiots so determined to have fun they made a pact with each to only try and kill each other in interesting ways: Reg and Fleeg!

They’ve snuck into the pub and set up one of their favorite pastimes, Hoppit Darts! But it wouldn’t be fun without a crowd. Fleeg made up fliers (because Reg can write his name and not much else) and distributed them far and wide. Reg gathered up the hoppits, stuffed them into barrels, and set them up on the dart boards.

There’s a secret each of them is keeping from one another though, each of them is hoping the patrons who play decide to try and kill their co-host.
How It Works:
After an initial signup period of five days (give or take), there will be 7 rounds, each lasting ~48 hours. Sign up by RP'ing your entrance. During each round, you will post throwing your darts, and your score will be determined based on dice rolls (as below) and a potential bonus (up to 10 points) for posting quality or/and humor. You may join late, but will only get to throw for as many rounds as are left. If you miss a round, that's too bad, no make-ups and the hosts reserve the right to do something funny/embarrassing to you.

In each post 3 darts will be thrown. For every dart, 2 dice are rolled:
A 20-sided die. Whatever is rolled on this dice is the player’s basic score for the round.
A 6-sided die. This die modifies the score of the 20-sided dice using the table below:

6-sided dice rolls:
1, 2, or 3 = Basic score remains the same
4 = Basic score doubles
5 = Basic score triples
6 = The hobbit has been hit. Refer to the table below:

If a 6 is rolled, the hobbit has been hit and the dice is rolled again:
1 or 2 = A leg, 20 points added to your basic score
3 or 4 = An arm, 30 points added to your basic score
5 = The chest, 50 points added to your basic score
6 = The head, 100 points added to basic score. However, if this happens more than once then the hobbit has been impaled and is dead. You are now out of the game, you score stands and you can still win.

After all dice rolls have been made and posting bonuses awarded, a final score is calculated.

Additional Goals:
- While harder to hit, if a contestant tries to hit Reg of Fleeg a 12-sided die will be rolled. If a player aims for Reg, Fleeg will roll for you, if a player aims for Fleeg, Reg will roll.
1 – 9 = miss
10-12 = hit (refer to table above for points, though points will be halved when added to the total and neither can die as a result of a headshot, though the contestant might encounter a new difficulty

Rules:
-You may control your actions and the actions/reactions of the hobbit at which you are throwing, but the dice determine where your hobbit is hit.
-You may play as a hobbit if you really want to, just know you’re going to have a bad night. Coordinate with the person throwing the darts to make sure they’re ok with having someone else play their hobbit! If you miss a turn for reactions, they are free to godmode you.
-This game does take place “in” On the Rocks, but there are no snagas on duty as they are all in the pop up pub, meaning you’ll have to get your own drinks
-Posts 300+ characters (appx 3 lines)
-Spectators/hecklers are welcome
-Special Frost Rule I am colorblind so be aware that if you decide to post in a foo-y bright color that I have trouble see I will likely impose a disadvantage on you

OP by Moriel
based on the Utumno Pub Challenge by Dain
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Contrary to popular belief, this was in fact the sort of tomfoolery Swiltang usually went in for- it was just the usual crowd that accompanied it that made him typically steer clear of the hoppit dart competitions in Írimë's pub. This time, however, there were variables at play that made it impossible to resist. One, the Pubmistress was notably absent which meant that she would not be trying to embarrass him at every turn. The Maugân didn't not enjoy the Southron woman's company, but she did have a tendency to overdo things. Secondly, this particular competition had been set up in her pub on the sneak, and the fallout was sure to be entertaining. And Third, and most appealing, the darts were being run by the oaf Reg and the complete and utter disappointment that was the latest Fleeg. Ordinarily Swiltang went out of his way to avoid them, especially the latter, but this particular situation offered both the opportunity to play one of his favorite games, and potentially inflict a bit of pain on the snotty (literally) little weasel... and so it was with a twisted grin further marring his twisted face that the twisted orc strode into On the Rocks with a bang of doors and a rush of ashen wind.

"Fleeg!" Swiltang bellowed, by way of greeting and demand for darts.
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Arien
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Búbosha

It’s going to be fine, Bubòsha told herself firmly, staring at her own reflection and willing confidence into herself. The reflection was distorted and blobby. This was both because Bübosha was slightly distorted and blobby, and because she was using a very poorly polished giant fish scale as a pocket mirror.

She straightened up and clacked her fish scales together with resolve. It was time. If you really wanted to know how you felt about a boy, you should throw things at him.

Bùbosha scuttled into the pub, keeping her head low. She didn’t have long: she was due to play the spoons at Írimë’s pop-up later on. There were a lot of goblins in here and they all looked bigger and stronger than her. Nervously avoiding Swiltang’s gaze, she crept over to the bar and poured herself a Telpirion Wine to settle her nerves. Elvish filth, but it burned so good.
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Umoya

Umoya having come in third with Cargul in the lava snake races decided that throwing sharp pointy things at a hoppit seemed like an excellent way to relieve her stress and rage. The tall and dark skinned Haradrim woman walked into the bar, which was empty aside from those that were here to throw sharp pointy things. Cargul was wrapped around her arm making her look quite striking and dangerous, since the lava snake was also very grumpy about having lost the race but lacking digits was unable to throw sharp pointy things and instead was happy to help his haradrim owner with aiming as his head brushed against her fingertips demanding gentle scritches on his scales.

"Right, I want throw sharp things where are the sharp things?" She asked since she was a bit certain she wouldn't be allowed to use her little fine throwing knives as darts in this case.

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It’s going to be terrible, Amalric told himself firmly, recognising the truth for what it was, while staring at his own handsome reflection and attempting (unsuccessfully) to quell the overconfidence that was his hallmark. The reflection was distorted and blobby because it was depicted on the back of the head of a particularly greasy-scalped goblin in front of him, but it was handsome never the less - quality didn't lie. He wore some form of hide trousers, boots and vest, for the simple reason that 'going native' was all the rage. An elf out of touch with fashion was, well an orc really.

He didn't have to straighten up, because all elves possessed innate immaculate posture, not to mention fabulous hair. He flexed his long fingers with practiced ease - it was time. If you really wanted to know how you felt about a girl, then there was something wrong with you and you really needed to move on to the next.

Amalric swept into the pub magnificently, much better than the dive deserved, keeping his head high. He didn’t have long - actually that was untrue: as an elf, he had all eternity. There were a lot of goblins in here and they all looked small and puny, as usual, beyond the ferociousness of their odour. He wondered if anyone would dare meet his gaze as he strode to the bar, snatching a bottle of Telpirion Wine - that had somehow found its way here - from some near-dead wretch and poured himself a goblet. Elvish deliciousness, here of all places (!) and probably poisoned, but one did not simply walk into Mordor and expect less.

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Woggy Hardbotom (Hobbit)

Woggy walked into the pub, saw what was being prepared, and immediately backed out of the pub before anybody paid attention to his entrance.

Groggy Harderbotom (Orc)

Groggy walked into the pub, entirely not resembling a Hobbit on stilts in a long cloak, and did not back out of the pub, though still nobody paid notice. He saw an Elf that he knew a good long Age ago; he was staring blankedly at the back of the head of a (fellow) orc. "Blankedly," Groggy mused, "must surely be a word." To an outside observer they would realise that he would struggle to count to six, let alone rolling a six sided die and following instructions, let further alone speaking or thinking words that are actual words. He approached the bar and ordered a drink. "Give me a drink" he said, or so he thought, but the word(s) that came out of his face region were closer to "gimedrnk," lending further to the idea that words and numbers were hard for him. At least he only had to order one drink.

Let's hope he never had to try to count to twelve.

He waited to receive his drink whilst wondering what it was they would be serving him and whether or not it would be poisonous, or worse, Telpirion WIne.

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Regdûsh

Something was tickling him. Reg giggled. He squirmed. “Cut it out, you!” he roared, waving away whatever was tickling him. He opened his eyes and saw before him a pointy beak and beady eyes. He blinked rapidly, and the fluffy white feathers of a chicken came into sharp focus.

“GYAAAHH!”

He leapt to his feet (he’d been laying on the ground, passed out, behind On the Rocks) and gave the bird a good kick. With a loud “buh-baaaaaawk!”, it soared away into the ashy skies of Mordor. Was that the same chicken he’d launched into the harbor in Umbar? Nah, it couldn’t be. That chicken had drowned long ago, and he’d heard its ghost had taken up residence in a large mansion somewhere or other in the wider world. But if it wasn’t that chicken, which chicken was it?? Where had it come from? Why was it tickling him in his sleep?? Reg shivered. What a creepy way to start his day.

Deciding he required some booze - and fast - he wandered into the pub. He’d been banned long ago for some crime or other he didn’t remember, but he and Fleeg had decided to take over while the pubmistress was away on her holidays.

The crowd inside took him by surprise. “What’s this, then?” he growled to himself, edging around them all (he particularly wanted to avoid the elf, yick) in an effort to get straight to the bar with no small talk. Once there, he saw a flier written in his and Fleeg’s familiar writing (Fleeg had picked up where Reg had left off): “HOPPIT DARTS. FLEEG AND REG. PUB.” Right, right. It was hoppit darts night! These fliers seemed to imply he was somehow in charge, so Reg crawled right over the countertop and sagged to the ground behind the bar. He was still waking up, after all. He pulled the cork from a bottle of Nazgûl Essence with his teeth, chugged for a while, then surfaced for air. “Ahhh. Much better.”

He stood up behind the bar and looked around for Fleeg. Someone had inquired about pointy things, and Reg had to admit this was a pertinent question. “Oi, Phlegmson!” he shouted, “Where are them pointy things, anyway?”
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Balrog
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Excellent! Fleeg waltzed into the bar (literally dancing a waltz) and smirked at all the people that had managed to sneak into the pub last minute. The goblin had been waiting in the shadows, twiddling his thumbs while waiting for his idiot partner, Regdûsh to finally arrive (why his ChA oSbrO’s bum was covered in chicken feathers only Melkor knew). Fleeg was almost worried that the orc had choked on his own drool while sleeping but when he finally arrived, Fleeg knew it was time to make an entrance! Suave as a snot green goblin can be, he leapt up onto the bar counter and whistled. “Hey you slugs! Are you ready for some Hoppit Darts?” On cue, nameless snagas, paid in helpings of mushroom grog and rancid wine, wheeled out the dart board complete with Hoppits tied up. The work was a bit shoddy, but Reg could at least be counted on to make sure the knots were tight. Fleeg looked around that the players and his eyes went as wide as dinner plates. Was that… holy shire that Swiltang! Swiltang himself had decided to join in the night’s game! Fleeg’s chest puffed out. He began strutting back and forth on the bar’s countertop. Swiltang was here, the evilest orc that ever lived came to his game! Fleeg was moving up in the world. Take that Mig! Fleeg barely even noticed the rest of the patrons, none of them were as cool as Swiltang. Except… wait, was that…? Holy giant centipedes! Búbosha! His (soon to be) sweetheart was here too? Well everything was coming up Fleeg tonight! With a clap, he ordered the darts to be disturbed while pouring himself a glass of Telpirion Wine that everyone seemed to love so much. He gagged and spat it out.
The Players
@A Son From Wish - Swiltang
@Sil - Búbosha
@Fuin Elda - Umoya
@Amalric - Amalric
@Woggy Hardbotom - "Groggy Harderbotom"

GM Update: Everyone will have a week to post, this game is gonna go at a nice slow pace while the holidays are limiting people’s involvement, post as many times as you like, but only post your throws once and remember to bold them and tell me who you’re throwing at (Reg, Fleeg, or the Hoppits)
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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"Well," Groggy thought to himself. "Well," he repeated, this time out loud to nobody in particular. He often did this; vocalising his own thoughts and turning them to words. He figured that it was the easiest way for people to know what he was thinking.

"Well," he said again, because he hadn't yet had any further thoughts.

He slurped down the sickly looking drink that was served to him and did not immediately die, so he thought luck was on his side. "Luck is on my side" he said to the same nobodies in particular, again falling into his trap of speaking aloud all his thoughts.

Groggy squinted at the rules to try to work out how to play. As words were his greatest weakness, save possibly numbers, he was hoping to pick out a couple of the key words that were written and work out the rules from there. (He first tried absorbing the information through osmosis, but this failed, as per). After doing so he looked around and saw nobody else had yet started so he took up the mantle to get the ball rolling.

He walked up, picked up a Hobbit and threw it against a dartboard-looking wall.

After this, and after much berating, somebody approached Groggy to explain how the game actually works to him. He therefore picked up his three darts, then confirmed that the number of darts he was currently holding was indeed three, and then threw these three darts at his Hoppit.

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Umoya for her part was glad to see that she wasn't the only person here, though the only people that she was even slightly interested in was the elf she hadn't met one of those yet and she was debating on if one could stuff an elf and have them as a trophy in a hunting lodge, though it was less impressive than a full grown Mumukil but then who had space for a full grown mumukil. She played with her sharp little knives pressing it against her finger and twirling it looking at him only to have the Hobbits wheeled out and caught her attention giving the elf a bit of a reprieve.

The haradrim woman slid gracefully towards the line, she personally put her little throwing knife away and picked up her darts. She smiled at the elf, after all most of the other creatures in this bar were goblins, and well something on stilts. She narrowed her eyes, whatever they were they were throwing darts at the other hoppits. For now She'd keep from throwing darts at the stilted creature.

She turned slightly preparing to throw her own darts at Fleeg, the snot coloured goblin bothering her aesthetic senses. For now though he was safe, Reg hadn't made throwing the darts at him that well incentivized putting a dart or three into the goblins skull. Instead she tossed the three darts at her hoppit

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Several others had decided to show up, apparently undeterred by the odiferous pair who were running the show this time, including an elf who swiped an entire bottle of what was probably very expensive wine, but that was Írimë's problem- well, Reg and Fleeg's problem, for they had probably stolen it first. Swiltang took his darts and sidled up to the throwing line near the only other person who looked like they had any idea what they were doing, a Harad woman. Fingering the darts and pointedly ignoring the stilted creature (also falling under things that weren't his problem), the orc sword master sized up the hoppit before him. It was, of course, wriggling most pitifully, which made the game more fun. Slowly and deliberately, Swiltang sent his first two darts swiftly through the air towards the hoppit. The last, however, called to him too sweetly to resist, and he turned slightly and with a flick of the wrist, winged his third dart at Fleeg. Time for a drink.
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Arien
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Búbosha

Bubösha blinked uncertainly. For a moment, she thought she had seen a hobbit @Woggy Hardbotom before her - but he had disappeared so swiftly that he might as well have been an illusion. Oh, well; there were plenty of “house Hobbits” strung up for the entertainment, most of them wiggling forlornly in sacks. Just HOW Reg and Fleeg had come by such a crop was anyone’s guess. Their disguises were not the best, and no sane Hobbit or Ranger would have let them within twenty leagues of Hobbiton. Even if one of them was... dressed as a chicken.

But inexorably, Bùbosha’s eyes tracked back to Fleeg. An astute business-goblin, surely. It wasn’t as if *Reg* could be the brains behind this. She looked at Reg. Then back at Fleeg. Reluctantly, she had to admit that she wasn’t certain that Fleeg was reliable as the brains of an operation either. Really, they needed a sensible woman around the place.

Hissing, for no perceptible reason, she hefted her darts and cast them. One each at Reg and Fleeg: the third at a random Hobbit
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Balrog
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Fleeg was pleased with himself. He found a chair upstairs (don’t ask how he got up there or what he did) and brought it done to watch the proceedings. It was going to be a glorious day! He made himself a centipede martini, threw his legs up over the bar and watched the proceedings. It occurred to him that he should have charged at the door, or even for the darts. That was money down the latrine. Mig was going to be annoyed, but Mig was always annoyed so maybe that was no great loss. He could find a way to charge them. And what was it his mother always said? “Contacts are as good as gold?” Fleeg thought on that. There was a chance she was talking about glasses though… whatever! On with the games!

Swiltang
Dart 1 – you hit the board, but Fleeg’s nonsensical presence distracts you just enough to miss the hoppit completely (8 points)
Dart 2 – much better! Putting Fleeg’s fleeginess out of your mind, you are able to use your superior hand-eye coordination to sent the newly sharpened dart straight into the hoppit’s bicep (40 points)
Dart 3 – A surprise to no one (except Fleeg of course), your third dart thunks hard into Fleeg’s thick goblin skull, he shrieks, you grin (50 points)
Round One Total: 98 points

Búbosha
Dart 1 – the wine goes a little to your head and you sway a little, but even with poisonous elven wine coursing through you, you manage to puncture your nasty little hoppit, aerating his chest (48 points)
Dart 2 – your dart at Reg goes wide, whizzing past his nose, it may not have hit but at least it was fun to watch him try to figure out what happened (0 points)
Dart 3 – even though Fleeg would probably look good with a nose piercing, the dart clangs off his martini glass and flops onto the bartop (0 points)
Round One Total: 48 points

Umoya
Dart 1 – well things are starting off well for you! Will the dart doesn’t hit the hoppit, you definitely clipped off a lock of hair, enough to make him whimper (18 points)
Dart 2 – another dart that almost hits, just barely missing the hoppit’s wrist, or maybe you got him, there’s a line of red you swore wasn’t there before (51 points)
Dart 3 – third time wasn’t the charm this time, after two near hits, your last dart droops at the last second and clunks on the board behind the hoppit (6 points)
Round One Total: 75 points

Amalric
There’s something in that wine. Something that’s making you drowsy. That goblin, the one drinking the martini with a centipede in it, did he just pickpocket you?
Round One Total: 0 points

"Groggy Harderbotom"
Dart 1 – well damn! You technically missed your hoppit, but it looks like he has a new ear piercing he can show all his friends, if he survives (18 points)
Dart 2 – a little too cocky here, smug from your near hit, you try throwing with your eyes closed and it doesn’t end well (2 points)
Dart 3 – better, realizing that closing your eyes in a room full of goblins and orcs is a bad idea, you take better aim, not a hit but it does make your hoppit squeal (12 points)
Round One Total: 32 points

So there we have it! Round One! Fleeg pulls the dart out of his ear, completely unaware of how it go there (centipede martinis are very strong), shrugs and hands it back to Swiltang, there’s no way that could have been on purpose, right? He also, apparently, believes that Búbosha’s dart that nearly hit him was meant for Reg, because why would she want to hit him after all? Everyone saddle up for round two! Update in a week (more or less)!
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Umoya

She tipped her head slightly her lips twitching slightly at the fact she scored so low with one of her darts, but she did fairly well over all. When she realized it was Swiltang that so far was the only person, if one wanted to call Swiltang a person, was ahead of her she wasn't in bad company. She did chuckle at the fact the elf managed to be too far into the bottle of elven wine that was left in the bar. Umoya for her part decided she was going to get something to drink and headed over to the bar and looked over the bottles that were back there still and grabbed one and popped the cork. Some sort rum from what she could tell. She tipped it back and enjoyed the burn before heading back to the line to toss another three dart.

She tossed the first dart at the hoppit, and then something came over her perhaps it was the rum, as she took another drink and she narrowed her dark eyes and smiled darkly, and tossed the next one at Reg, she doubted he'd react terribly much, she'd heard stories about how slow he was to react she just wanted to see how he reacted. And the last dart, she threw at Fleeg himself. Mostly because his shrieking annoyed her and she was not allowed to sew his snot green lips shut.

Arien
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Búbosha

ZING! Squelch. OUCH! Whizz! CLANG!

These are the sound effects of Bübosha’s darts after she flings them. They are followed by the quiet whimper of exsanguinating Hoppit, and then a husky, rasping noise, which is the combination of Bùbosha “tsk”ing to herself in annoyance and her tapping her feet on the floor whilst she wonders a) what to do next and b) how Fleeg has managed to get hold of martini glasses.

Well: there’s only one cure for curiosity, and it’s questioning. Or maybe death! There are two cures for curiosity.

Bubösha schlepped over to Fleeg and delicately retrieved her dart with two long-nailed fingers. She kept the nails on her right hand short: easier to fulfil her scribing duties; but much less convenient when you wanted to scratch someone’s eyes out, so she had compromised by allowing Lefty to grow long.

“So, where’d you get the martini glasses from?” she asked, taking aim again. Surely she couldn’t miss from this closer distance.

Three at the Hoppit
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The door to this...well, it wasn't really a door, more of a pastiche of tattered skins vainly attempting to keep out the wretched, dry stench of Mordor...to this dive...well, dive would imagine a place to which this pit of decreptitude could only dream...swayed in the wind, as if someone entered and left again, the faint whiff of a presence Amalric hadn't sensed in...well, an age really. He reached back across the aeons of memory for a...oh, the hell with it, that was frankly tiresome. There were much better matters to be attending...well, there weren't, in actual fact, not in a hole like this, unless the matter was getting blind drunk and leaving immediately after with someone of ill-repute (other than himself, obviously).

But while he was here, doing his best to prevail against a near-overwhelming lack of suitable mirros, the Elf may as well have some fun. He chucked two darts, one each at Reg and Fleeg, and one at the nearest hoppit too, just to appear that he was up for the game.

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Vauddut the Thoughtless

So the tent was just a staging area? Well that was very smart. Vauddut was able to get the lay of the land and assess his opponents. None of them looked particularly imposing, but the orc knew that judging by appearances often led to him getting his ass kicked, at least half of the time the female of the species. They called him thoughtless, but they didn’t call him “doesn’t learn from his mistakes”. Come to think of it, that would be a really long nickname to give him and almost as inaccurate as thoughtless. Oh well, certainly after this battle royale tournament, he would be granted a new nickname. His disgustingly bright yellow eyes glowed with anticipation. One was much larger than the other, some said that it made him look like a freak, other’s were too unnerved by it to say anything. Vauddut liked his oversized eye. It didn’t offer any advantages like more acute vision or a better periphery or anything like that. He just liked it.

His first bout would not take place in the tent. It was going to take place in On the Rocks! Vauddut thanked his lucky ash clouds. He was a veteran fighter in the pit there. By veteran he meant he’d been sounded defeated a number of times because he’d been too drunk but the was sure this fight would be his first victory along the path to… more victories. He raced ahead of his opponent, the first person to set up often had an advantage, and he was not about to give up valuable information like that. He was usually too drunk to pay attention to the lay out of the fighting pits, despite having attempted at least three dozen fights now.

He arrived! And was immediately shocked to find that the pub was closed. Wait. No. It wasn’t. Was it? The bulgy eyed orc was confused. There were people inside, hoppits tied to dart boards, and noise but the doors were locked. That’s weird.

Not letting himself be deterred (and therefore admit defeat), he broke down the door with a tremendous wallop of his shoulder. Ouch, that was going to leave a mark! But he was in!

Everyone looked like they’d been frozen. Like they were playing a game of Hoppit Darts and suddenly everyone just stopped moving or playing or breathing. The goblin that Vauddut assumed was the MC was still moving, rummaging through glasses of alcohol and jars of bugs complaining about the lack of centipedes. Shouldn’t he be paying more attention to the game he was hosting? It seemed like horrible form to start a game and just drop it because you couldn’t find any centipedes for your centipede martin. What a jerk! What a douche! What a… oh who cares, Vauddut was here for the fighting pit anyway. He snuck in (despite having broken the door down in a loud crash and finding frozen game patrons) and made his way to the pits where he proceeded to roll around in the same and shadow box until his date/opponent arrived.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Urzul, the smelly she-orc

She was assigned a date (whatever that even meant) and a different location to meet that date in. With a bit of grumbling about having to travel all over Mordor just to find some one thing, she shuffled out of the tent and towards the designated meeting spot.

The noise of breaking told Urzul where exactly the entrance lay, and she arrived just in time to find that she could enter the establishment undeterred thanks to whoever who had crashed in just before her. Warily she stepped forward and glanced around at the patrons who appeared to have been pretty much disturbed in their activities by the crashing of the door.

"Hey, anyone called Vauddut in here?" Urzul asked, scratching her belly through conveniently formed hole in her old garments.
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Left jab, right jab, left hook, right hook, haymaker, body slam! Vauddut was having the time of his life rolling around the sand and pretending to do battle with a dozen foes. He raised his hands up in victory, like any championship boxer would, and howled with glee. He was out of breath and covered in sweat. There was a good chance he smelled like a dead cat too. Luckily this wasn’t some sort of fancy date where he needed to dress up and look decent (he only had three shirts and one pair of trousers) so he didn’t have to worry about being presentable. He grabbed a handful of sand and threw it into the air. He realized this was a very ill-advised idea when the sand came raining back down. His unnaturally large eye was wide open and all the sand in the world apparently decided to lodge itself in there. “AHHHHH! You gob shire buffoon! You sandy little shire! I’ll knock your—” wait was someone calling his name? He stopped swinging around blindly, falling over as the inertia caught up with him, and tried to look about. Having one eye completely covered in sand made it difficult to see. His other eye, the normal one, was blurry and had a hard time focusing on one single thing. “Aye! Who’s looking for Vauddut? He owe you money or somethin’?” He was exceedingly (not) clever, that Vauddut the Thoughtless. He grinned to himself. When was his sparing partner going to show up? Where was the crowd that would cheer him to victory? Why did sand make his eye sting so much? These were the kind of questions that occupied the orc’s mind.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Urzul-orc

The responding voice brought Urzul's attention to the sand pit with an orc in it that seemed to have used much of the sand as a way to provide himself a dating attire. And what was she to do with such a date? Partner? Partner-in-crime? "Farting flying frogs," she sighed in dismay, trudging over to the sand pit.

"Who cares 'bout money. Does he have food to share?" she asked, as she stood at the edge of the pit and examined Vauddut closer - he definitely was sand-covered, one of the eyes included, and most definitely appeared to be altogether foodless. "I'm coming from that dating tent or whatever that is, to see what have I been assigned."

She did not want to step any further as the sand might get in through the hole in her shirt and tickle her immeasurably, so she fidgeted, for a while glanced at the dart throwing competition wondering if it was worth participating, and then turned her attention back to business at hand.

"You know what we're supposed to be doing?" Urzul inquired.
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Balrog
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“Does he have food?” That was a very good question. Wow, like that was really good. Vauddut hadn’t thought about getting food. Does one usually eat a meal with your opponent before the bout? Seemed like a good way to puke all over them during the fight. That might not be a bad idea he decided. In fact, it was an excellent idea. He rubbed his large eye and yipped like a warg when the sand was only pushed deeper inside. At this point it was hard for him to blink, he could close his eye about half way until it just sort of… stuck. It was gross, but hopefully it wasn’t so gross that his fighting partner would be too grossed out by it. He pulled out the notice from the Violent Times tent and… wait… Violentines? Was that a typo? What the heck is Violentines? Some sort of cultural equivalent to Valentines Day for the Tarks and Strawheads? It had to be a typo. Right? He’d have something to discuss with his sparring partner over their pre-bout meal at least. “Says here we can have one meal on the house.” It did not say that. Other than getting preoccupied with the possible typo, Vauddut hadn’t read anything else on the card. He assumed he could get something to eat because no one was really here and he could pick the place clean.

“Honestly,” he sat down with a plate full of hobbit ears and blood-soaked cheerios, “I ain’t gots no clue ‘bout what we’s supposed to be doin’.” He took a bite of the ear, it snapped pleasantly in his mouth. “How we supposed to box with no one watchin’ us to make sure we fight fair. Wait… what you mean ‘date’ wassa date? I don’t go for them frui’y drinks ya hear. Well, I kinda do. But not before figh’! Wha’s yore name? I am indeed Vauddut the Thoughtful.” He crunched on another ear. “Take a seat and eat up, I hear i’s good for you to eat a full meal befor’ a duel. Read it in sum pamphlet by a guy named Reg.”

He blinked, well half blinked, eyes the orcess with a suspicious eye. Flying farting foxes? What did she know about Borgio? He thought he’d been very careful when he’d stolen the animal from his employer.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Urzul

That Vauddut's big eye sort of drew her attention, and Urzul couldn't help wondering what it really looked like when it was not all stuck up with sand. It was sort of... kind of... attractive? If there was anything that could be attractive about an orc.

"A meal on the house? Well, coolness! I'm Urzul," she said, following Vauddut to the table. But why did he go on and on about fighting? Were they supposed to fight? Not that she really minded that; while Urzul was not very fast, she usually could make good use of her weight to crush her opponents in any scraps she ended up in - usually over some food that others tried to take away from her.

Ensuring that she had a huge tankard of some sort of ale, or whatever wish-wash fluid it was, to go with food, she sat down and stuffed a couple of ears in her mouth, munching on them loudly. However, that eye of Vauddut... It just did not give her peace.

"Look, mate," she said after staring at him for a good long while. "Seems you got too much sand in your eye, let me help you out." Taking a hearty drink from her mug, she then threw the rest of the drink at Vauddut's face in hopes of washing the sand right out of the eye.
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Balrog
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Aha! He’d known it all along! They had sat down and started conversing, something Vauddut was not great at (he didn’t have very many good words at all) and he was beginning to despair. What had he gotten himself mixed up in? Valentines all about finding a mate, and he didn’t want a mate, he had, well he had mates but not a mate, if you understand the meaning. This was going poorly. More and more, Vauddut realized he might be out of his element here. Very out of his element. The slow (molasses slow as he wasn’t the pointiest barb in the rosebush) dawning realization that this was a date was causing his giant eye to twitch uncontrollably. In addition to the sandy irritation, this was about to send him to floor clawing out his eye in a bloody, but unavoidable battle of self preservation against himself.

But lo and behold! Urzal (not a bad name, if names could be equated with attractiveness and fightiness) threw a drink in his face! Hahaha! It was a jape the whole time! There was no such thing as ‘violentines’ after all! He’d been worrying himself into a corner over nothing. Gleefully, Vauddut returned the gesture, throwing his half empty mug with lightning (at least in his mind) reflexes, aiming for Urzal’s head. “You might be the best mate I ever ‘ad!” He bellowed with a deep guffaw. The fight was on!
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Urzul

As had to be expected, Vauddut apparently did not mean to just stand - or sit- around and be helped in washing the sand out of his lovely eye. Urzul tried to catch the mug thrown her way, but she was slightly clumsy by nature and all she managed was to scratch the mug with her fingernails and let it hit the floor instead of her face. Some of the drink that was within landed on her face, and she licked it off as far as she could reach, smacking her lips to taste it.

At any rate, she was not about to gather the mug that by some great miracle had remained whole and had rolled along the floor, instead she grabbed another fistful of crunchy ears, filled her mouth with it, and tried to respond something to Vauddut's compliment, spitting bits and pieces of food all over the place in the process instead of reasonable words.

With an oof and an umph she stood to her feet and grabbed the edge of the table. If fight he wanted, fight he would get from her. With all of her might Urzul yanked the table upwards to overturn it and see if she could scare Vauddut by her display of strength.
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