On the Rocks IV - After the Explosion {Pub}

"Going to Mordor!" Cried Pippin. "I hope it won’t come to that!"
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SPECIAL EDITION DISASTER PUB - AFTER THE EXPLOSION

Just when Írimë had the pub all nicely renovated and shiny, and things were really heating up (heh heh) with the summer customers, drawn in by her ingenious cooling scheme, what had Orodruin decided to do? That’s right, blow up and wreck the whole fredegaring place. Clouds of ash, pyroclastic flow, and very pretty but destructive ribbons of lava came cascading down the mountainside and all within the pub either jumped for cover or were swallowed up by the scorching mess! Or were picked up by deus ex fellbeastia, who knows. Anyway, the place was all smashed up, and Írimë’s screeches were deafening. Now that the molten rock has cooled off enough not to instantly roast anybody who touches it, the pubmistress and her staff are back to pick up the pieces. With no roof, splinters of walls, only half a bar, and some new seats in the form of brand new baby rock, On the Rocks is a shell of its former self. But you can’t keep a good bar down for long, and though Írimë, her face streaked with weepy eyeliner, can still be found slumped agains the remains of the bar at times bemoaning her fate, the snagas have begun to root out all the bottles of liquor that survived, ready to serve to any patrons who may wander by for a drink, or to help with the repairs. The Georges have taken refuge in the rubble, unwilling to abandon their home, but supremely angry about the loss of their rafter hiding places. Try no to sit or step on them, and come on by with coins aplenty to drink your sorrows! This is going to be expensive, after all….



Pub Staff
Pub Mistress: Írimë (Moriel)
Bartender: Frost
Server:
Cook:
Other??:
Bookie: Bagronk (Moriel)
Random snagas you are free to godmode

Want to work at On the Rocks? Make your case IC to Írimë.


Drink Chart
BLOOD - Chilled blood of the following races, Hobbit, Man, Dwarf and Elf.
BLOODY MORDOR - The fresh blood of a Hobbit mixed with the strongest liqueur Mordor has to offer makes this chilled drink an excellent choice. Hobbit eye to garnish.
TELPERION MIST - A drink not for mere mortals, containing a splendid mix of several liqueurs and a little something secret.
SOTBON (Sex on the Beach of Nurnen) - Awesome ice breaker, dark, powerful - excellent start to any party, served with red or black umbrella.
FIRESIDE CHEBLEY - A concoction of Elvish wine and blood combined with the very best ash that Mt. Doom has to offer
MORDOR MUSH - A collection of alcohol from across the world splashed over a generous amount of crushed ice, a Mordor smoothie.
ORQUILLA SUNSET - 99% alcohol, 1% fruit juice - a shot to end all. (Served in a Shot glass)
SCREAMING RINGWRAITH – Pure Nazgûl Essence, enough said. (Served in a Shot glass)
SILMARIL WINE - A delightful infusion of the grapes of the Silver Tree of Gondor spiced with a hint of Silmaril essence.


House Rules
-This is a minion pub so bad behavior is expected, but Godmoding is right out (except the snagas).
If you godmode, expect to be godmoded back by Írimë
-All races welcome, but remember, it's the minions' home turf...
-OOC comments whited out at the end of your post
-All posts 500+ characters (approx. 4 full lines of text)
-Do not post in #660033
-Keep an eye out for Pub Events


Pub will run 3 Pages/150 posts, or until I feel like starting a new one, whichever comes first
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Elven Enchanter
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Once again Zâram found herself at On the Rocks. The memory of the somewhat drunken pyjama party was starting to fade, but something seemed very different about the pub this time around. For once, it seemed to be oddly quiet. She wandered up to what had been bar where she found Írimë slumped against the rubble. "You've redecorated," she said with a dark laugh. "But I guess it was about time for some changes around here."

She looked up at the sky, which was covered in the smoky haze that typically surrounded the volcano. "Too bad about the smoke. I hear open roof bars are the new rage." Zâram plopped down on one of the pieces of freshly cooled stone and waited to see if anyone else showed up in the ruins.

Arien
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Faint curls of steam were arising from the remnants of the barrel pool, the ice instantly vaporised. The barrel itself had split. Smashed glass was mingled with ice on the floor; hardened trails of lava crept like glowing slugs about the premises, along with various personal items - a scrap of lace, a shred of leather, a fingerbone or two.

The Mouth stood over the whole mess, grinding his teeth quite audibly (and he was famous for his excellent teeth, surprisingly) and twisting his leather gloves with unnecessary force. It was only by some luck of Morgoth that some premonition had led him to put on his Small Helmet only moments before the conflagration - nothing to do with sulking about Írimë being such a damned tease - and even more unlikely that an unusually large Raven, quite taken with the sparkle of his helm, had seized him and attempted to haul him out through the rafters. The Mouth was almost a mile away when the Pub had blown up and had suffered only inevitable singes, smoke damage, and the wounds to his dignity; these mostly because the Raven had soundly excreted upon his breeches.

Properly dressed - which meant new breeches and Big Helmet - he had returned to the place of disaster, suitably armed with a crossbow and a set of towelling in case of Raven-related disasters. Alas, the Mouth had little in the way of preparation for eruption related disasters; at least the Big Helmet provided something of a breathing filter, as he’d attached a silk veil across the bottom. He strode in over the debris in his largest and clumpiest pair of boots.

Írimë was just visible by the bar - a rather huddled figure, not quite like her usual self. Another woman was seated not far away. Casually, the Mouth looked behind the bar for any unbroken bottles and selected the closest to hand - a Fireside Chebley, somewhat clotted with ash. He tapped three glasses out and began pouring for everyone.

“Your insurance rates on this place must be absolutely unbelievable,” he murmured to Írimë.
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Írimë was having a moment.

She had been wading through the debris with what remained of her snagas, just on the cusp of feeling like she might actually be able to put the place back together, when she had come across the smashed corpse of a bottle of ten thousand year old elf blood and the despair of it all had welled up inside her. She had thrown herself across the twisted remains of the bar in best princess-like fashion and set to wailing with sobs. The snagas had paused, looked at each other, shaken their heads, and kept working. It was only when the pubmistress's sharp ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps that she ceased, and dragged herself around to slump against the bar and see who was coming. Zarâm, back from... wherever she had run off to. Írimë sneered at the she-half-orc and her attempt at humor. "That's one way of putting it," Írimë sniped in reply, wishing one stray ribbon of lava might come running down and obliterate the blue eyed harlot. Someone (potentially) much more welcome arrived then, and Írimë cast an arm out dramatically to the Mouth as he dug out some glasses and began to pour. "You couldn't even imagine! No one within a thousand leagues will insure me, and I have to namedrop every one of my sisters even then! We do get a nice bulk discount but," Írimë stifled a new sob, and waved her hand at him. "Give me a drink, and come drown my sorrows!"


🍸 (A cocktail for the poor pubmistress with wishes for a speedy recovery.)
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Arien
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Mouth Of Sauron

The Mouth recoiled involuntarily as Írimë raised her head to look at him. “Morgoth’s dangling jewels,” he exclaimed. The pubmistress’ eyeliner had run in dark streaks down her face and she looked more like a wraith-victim than the usual sexy demoiselle he was used to. Hastily he slid the first filled glass in her direction before taking a generous gulp from the next. The third he slid down the bar to the blue-eyes half-orc who appeared to be an interested newcomer. “You look absolutely dreadful,” he continued with tactless fascination as his eyes explored her hollowed cheeks and newly sepulchral visage. “I quite like it,” the Mouth added slyly, taking a more measured sip. “You should try deshabille more often.” His eyes lingered over the rips in her apparel. “Not as if you’ll be able to afford new clothes, if your premiums are so high…”
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Ula, Human (Corsair), She/Her
Now, it wasn’t that Ula returned to Mordor with any real sense of optimism, but it seemed a bit much that even the bar was gone.

“Ah,” she said politely as she entered. “Hate what you’ve done with the place.”

Oh, devil’s tits, the dwarf was never going to stop complaining about this.

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Írimë was still having a moment, even as the Mouth slid his slithering eyes over her bosom (and other parts), but it was eased slightly as he slid her a glass. She straightened only somewhat from her dramatic slump to receive it, the with the quick jerk of the practiced consumer of many boozes, downed it in one. Somewhat braced, she reached below the bar and retrieved another bottle, this one full of Nazgûl essence and barely clinging to life. "I'll restock my wardrobe before I seek out a new premium," Írimë snarl-pouted at the Mouth, "and restore my bar to its former glory!" she poured a generous measure into her glass, knocked that back too, and was pouring another when somebody else came in through the rubble. That one wasn't a regular, but she'd been here before, and the pubmistress never forgot a face. Ula, a troublemaker, though less so than many other customers. Írimë sniffed delicately, narrowing her eyes at the corsair. "So glad to have your opinion," she said drily as she finished her pour, "now get out your coin or get out of my establishment!"
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Ula, Human (Corsair), She/Her
It wasn’t to say that Ula generally went about her day broke as week old bread, but it wasn’t to say that she didn’t, either. Times were tough when your career was on the high seas and you’d been stuck landlocked for over a year. It happened. Luckily, Írimë looked both soused and dramatically distracted enough by her own circumstances to miss the fact for a shot. And, really, what was Mordor without someone trying to gut you over something, anyway? At least this way, Ula’d get something for the privilege.

Also, she’d brought fresh meat this time and he didn’t know any better.

“Money bags is waddling in behind me, don’t you fret.”

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Character: Lungorthin. Former Balrog of Morgoth, serving evil since the Years of the Lamps. Decided to move from front-line military service to a more administrative role following the War of Wrath. Will neither confirm nor deny what their gender is, or whether they even have one, but back in the Utumno days Mairon once called him a 'he' and it stuck.

The sound of Írimë's screeching does a remarkable job of interrupting what had been, to Lungorthin, a most relaxing afternoon. Ah, the calming feel of volcanic ash softly dusting his forehead! The unmatched views of lava running down the side of the mountain! The pleasant tickling sensation of the pyroclastic flow between his toes! Yes, days when Orodruin erupts are delightful days for Lungorthin indeed - at least, until those whose resting body temperatures are not lava start to yowl about it.

With a sigh that sends great gouts of flame shooting from his nostrils, the former Balrog of Morgoth raises his great horned head, blazing eyes following the shrieks downstream.

Ah. That'd be On the Rocks, wouldn't it?

Not surprising - in all his years serving evil, he's never met another human that could do so remarkable a job of sounding so precisely like a Nazgûl as Írimë.

Her enterprise is due for a health and safety inspection tomorrow anyway, so Lungorthin might as well pay her a visit. Unfortunate timing, but it's all the more important in a place like Mordor to ensure health, safety, and other regulations are strictly enforced. How effective can the Dark Lord's forces be in enslaving the free peoples of Middle Earth, after all, if they can't even make it safely out of Mordor? Not nearly as effective as they could be, that's what. And ever since the War of Wrath, Lungorthin has made it his mission in life to ensure the effective and efficient operations of the Dark Lord in any way he can.

As the screeching continues, he pulls his feet reluctantly from the pyroclastic flow, packs away his evil picnic blanket, and launches himself into the air to head toward On the Rocks.

*

In a flurry of wind and flame, Lungorthin lands a short distance from the ruins of what used to be Írimë's bar.

Oh, dear. The damage is... appalling, and he doesn't even need to consult his inspection handbook to see that it is most assuredly not up to code.

Looking at Írimë, he clears his throat. "Health and safety inspection."
Last edited by Csevet Aisava on Sun Apr 10, 2022 5:13 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Dhomraeg Grumbledriver, humble merchant of the Lonely Mountain

It had been a long trek. Business had been slow enough in Rohan that Dhom couldn’t afford to purchase a pony for the trek down Mordor way. The journey had been long and arduous, and the only company had been a displaced pirate who Dhom was fairly certain was lying about the upcoming prospects available. She had been entertaining, at least. Luckily, spirits had been boosted in the last few days by the promise of a tavern awaiting the duo at road’s end, and the young woman had dashed off ahead as they neared the (now mostly destroyed, apparently) drinking establishment.

Seeing the goal of his journey near at hand, damaged though it may be, Dhom propped himself up with his walking axe and pushed ahead the final steps to his destination. Voice dry from long travel, Dhomraeg barked out (a tad more gruff than even his usual voice) “Liquor, strong and neat” as what remained of the door pushed open. The piratess (Ulfa? Alvie?) had already found her way here, as expected, and Dhom was ready to try and work out whatever deal for coin presented itself. Disaster profiteering, while messy, could be quite lucrative.

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"Yeah yeah, that's what they all say," Írimë muttered, and knocked back her third drink. There was always more money coming, promises, promises. Where was her sultry bartender? He would have had something to say to the Ula wench. She had just begun to pour a fourth libation, when an ill wind blew through what remained of the door. And by ill she meant hot and dusty, not literally dirty but figuratively dusty with administration and bureaucracy; a scorching wind more unwelcome that the rankest of breezes that came from Orodruin when it was having an off day- the wind of balrog induced red tape.

At the same moment and apparently entirely unaware of the being he had passed by, a dwarf (Dhomraeg) entered the bar as well, demanding liquor without the slightest show of payment. "Coin, shiny and pure!" Írimë snapped at him, before turning back to Lungorthin "Health and ssssaaaaafetyyyy?!" she screeched, sloshing Nazgûl essence about as she waved her arms, "health and safety?! I've never been known to whip one of your kind before but only for lack of opportunity! Have you got eyes, can you see what I'm dealing with right now?!" She dropped her hand to her waist where her whip usually hung coiled, only to find that it, like so much of the bar, was gone. With a wail, the pubmistress put the bottle to her lips, took a deep pull, and then flung it straight at Lungorthin's head.
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Khazad Youth
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Dhomraeg Grumbledriver, humble merchant of the Lonely Mountain (independent)

The hospitality of Mordor had not been overhyped, Dhom was learning. Somebody, a proprietess he assumed, asked for coin, and so Dhom dug into his ever dwindling supply of funds and fished out a couple grimy pieces of minted metal. Coughing out some of the dust from the road helped Dhom's voice to lose some of its edge, but he still sounded grumpier than he meant.

"Here, this should afford me a pour of something stiff as well as something reasonable for the bairn there," he said, pointing to the pirate who had delivered him most of the way to this place (Ula). He then placed the coiins on what remained of the bar, careful to avoid the terrible amalgam of flame and shadow that had entered just before him. Dhom was not well versed in the ecology of the Land of Shadow, but there wasn't a dwarf alive that didn't have a healthy fear of these things after news of Moria's fall made it to the rest of the people. Worse still, this one was bureaucrat, and Dhom couldn't remember the last time he had registered his independent venture with the proper authorities.

Dhom had little understanding of what was occurring on these premises, even less of how exactly he had ended up here, and none at all of what to expect. He thught of a few choice words for Ula that he would need to remember to share before this all was over. That could certainly wait until after a drink or two. Or seven.

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Lungorthin. Former Balrog of Morgoth, serving evil since the Years of the Lamps. Decided to move from front-line military service to a more administrative role following the War of Wrath. Will neither confirm nor deny what their gender is, or whether they even have one, but back in the Utumno days Mairon once called him a 'he' and it stuck.

Írimë's reaction comes as little surprise to Lungorthin. Bureaucracy, he's found, does extraordinary things to unite the forces of good and evil in hatred. It brings him a small sense of satisfaction to see it, for truly, anything evil enough to draw the ire of those who live their lives marinating in malevolence must be remarkable enough to make Melkor proud. Greater still, however, is his sense of duty. Of what importance is some fleeting moment of pride, when stood against the goal of Mairon's triumph over Middle Earth? None, of course - victory, which requires the smooth, efficient, and orderly operation of the evil enterprise, is what matters.

Moreover, Lungorthin has seen a great deal in the millennia he's lived. He's seen the destruction of the Lamps, and the death of the Two Trees; he's seen Utumno fall only to rise again as Angband. With Gothmog, he fought the spider that strove against his Master, mightiest of the Valar; his flaming whip cut through hundreds during the battle the elves call the Nirnaeth. He fought in the War of Wrath; he saw Númenor fall. Ilúvatar's hemorrhoids, he even lived through The Incident - the one that took place during the Siege of Angband, when Mairon and Melkor decided that macramé would be just the thing to alleviate the general sense of ennui.

So when all is said and done, there's not much that can phase him. Nor does it phase him now to find Írimë throwing a bottle directly at his head - though perhaps, he realizes too late, he should have done her the kindness of catching it before it could strike his head. Because... well.

The bottle, obviously, is filled with alcohol.

Alcohol is flammable.

And Lungorthin has the resting body temperature of lava.

The glass bottle shatters on impact. A rather pleasing sensation of flames tickling his skin, like water droplets in a sudden rainstorm, follows. The conflagration which envelops him far outstrips the size of the bottle, and Lungorthin thinks that perhaps he hears the alarming sound of more glass bottles beginning to crack in the heat - or is that only the shards from the first bottle?

Quite unfortunate, either way. He takes a step to the side to avoid enveloping the bar's newest patron, some sort of dwarf, in the flames.

"That will have to go on the inspection report, I'm afraid," Lungorthin says cordially in the direction of Írimë's last known whereabouts. Then he clears his throat, a gout of flame issuing from his nostrils. "Pursuant to the Mordor Existing Building Code Section 115, Subsections 1 and 5, I am declaring this structure unsafe and revoking its certificate of occupancy. All current occupants are also hereby ordered to vacate the premises pursuant to Section 116, Subsection 1 and 2, and are prohibited from entering except for the purposes of securing the structure, making repairs or removing hazardous conditions, or demolishing it."

Picking up a nearby boulder, he etches the words "This Structure Is Unsafe and Its Occupancy Has Been Prohibited by the Code Official" onto its surface in flame before placing it prominently near... well, what passes for an entrance.

"Unfortunately," he continues, "Pursuant to Section 4, Subsections 1, as well as Sections 400 through 505, all Subsections, and given the extent of the damage, it is evident that this structure was not in compliance with recent updates to the Mordor Code of Volcanic Safety. As such, it cannot simply be repaired to its previous standard, nor do I believe that it reasonably can be repaired under Section 117, Subsection 1. Therefore, it will need to be demolished and rebuilt in compliance with the current codes, in accordance with the requirements laid out in Title 10 of the Code of Mordor Regulations, part 36, subsections C and D."

Pausing for a moment, Lungorthin retrieves his steel clipboard and a blank copy of the Mordor General Regulatory Agency (MGRA) form 203. Like all official MGRA documents, it's printed on fireproof paper - remarkable, the innovations they've come up with! Pulling out his agency pen, which writes in fire, he begins to fill out the form with the same information he's just related.

"Given my discretionary powers under Title 10, your status as a small business owner, and that there seems to have been no loss of life or limb associated with the damage to this structure, I am willing to suspend administration of financial penalties for this facility's prior noncompliance with the Code of Volcanic Safety - provided, of course, that the structure is promptly rebuilt according to code," Lungorthin says as he writes.

Which reminds him...

"Oh, and incidentally," he adds to Írimë, "When was the last time you renewed your liquor license?"
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Arien
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The Mouth of Sauron

“Yes, you should definitely seek out a new wardrobe,” remarked the Mouth, his eyes slightly glazing over not from the alcohol hit, but from fond memories of other items Írimë had been caught wearing, including but not limited to:

1) Wholly inappropriate and artfully slashed ballgowns;
2) Leather haberdashery and some sort of whip pressed into double service as a belt;
3) Glitter, or possibly dried elf blood, or probably both

These fond recollections did not distract his notice from:

1) the presence of classic irritant and inability-to-take-a-hint Ula;
2) The additional Nazgûl essence that the pub mistress had been concealing beneath the bar and was now clutching possessively;
3) The inspectors.
4) One of them looked a bit short and hairy, actually?
5) Oh no, wait, that was a Dwarf
6) Just the one inspector, then

The Mouth brightened visibly, both because of the presence of the additional Nazgûl essence and because of the inspector. Like all creatures of true evil, he loved additional bureaucracy *and* anything that made Írimë squirm, as she wiggled truly delightfully. Alas: she did not seem quite as enthused. A half-aborted murmur of protest left his lips as the precious purple bottle smashed in flaming splendour upon the hulking Inspector, who fortunately had brought equipment capable of withstanding a blaze. Not uncommon in Mordor, where mostly everything is made of asbestos.

“Well, here we have a Dwarf and a Corsair,” the Mouth said brightly, with every air of helpfulness and a certain nod towards keeping his own budget within limits. “Famed for their building and trading skills - surely we can work out some kind of deal for sprucing this place up?”
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Ula, Human (Corsair), She/Her
Trading - a unique perspective on Corsair skills. Not inaccurate, though, if one wanted to be fussed about it.

With a bit of a shrug, Ula offered, “My mother is known for her connections, as long as a deal is made proper. Stab her, she’ll stab back, but she’s otherwise retired from trying to out trick a trickster. Her knees make ducking harder these days.”

Of course, without alcohol, her willingness to actually do anything other than offer up a half-hearted option was quickly dwindling and the balrog was infinitely more interesting. She’d heard they were much larger than this. And smaller. Generally, there was a poor consensus on the actual size of the average balrog, now that she thought about it.

The added alcohol content also made Lungorthin puff up a bit like a cat. Just because she knew petting the blazing inferno would burn her hand off didn’t destroy the urge.

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Dhomraeg Grumbledriver, humble merchant of the Lonely Mountain (independent)

There were incredibly rare moments in time that could change the direction of a person’s life in its entirety. Many think that such moments would involve the chance at acts of great heroism. Dhomraeg was wise enough to know these moments more frequently led to normal folks like himself soiling themselves, so he tried desperately to avoid such encounters whenever possible. Today, he found himself failing - especially unfortunate considering he had sold his spare pants in order to finance his expedition to Mordor.

Whether it was because of his sheer exhaustion at the trek, his powerful desire for strong drink, or his ever-increasing desire for conversation partners who wasn’t a brigand masquerading behind the (incredibly) thin veneer of nautical respectability, Dhom had somehow failed to piece together the magnitude of his situation. The Balrog was obvious, but the other patron here (the Mouth) also bore some deeply unsettling malice just beneath the surface and the more he thought about the proprietress, the more Dhom realized that she, too, was in a league of power far beyond his understanding.

All he had wanted was a fresh start. Rohan hadn’t been kind to the dwarf trader, and Dhom had found himself resorting to crafting horseshoes to survive. When Ula had promised better professional opportunities in the markets of Mordor, Dhom hadn’t concerned himself with the possible complications of dealing with such an infamous nation. Coin was coin, and Dhom had wares to peddle, trade skills to offer, and a belly that needed filling. He found himself now questioning the wisdom of such a risky venture into lands entirely foreign to himself and renowned for its menagerie of powerful fiends.

He wanted nothing more than to find his drink and fade into the background of whatever sort of confrontation was brewing, but when the offputting stranger (the Mouth) brought fresh attention on Dhom’s head, he knew that would be difficult.

“Ah, yes,” he found himself saying, “I am indeed trained in many of the crafts known to my kind, but my primary vocation is as a merchant. If you’d like, I’d happily work to get this establishment back up to code - assuming Dwarven building code is close enough to what we are operating with here.”

Dhomraeg desperately hoped this would be enough to buy his safety, and so he shifted his weight back onto his walking axe and kept an eye on his newfound fellows.

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The whumpf that followed the impact of the bottle with Lungorthin's head and subsequent gout of flame was quickly drowned out by yet more bureaucratic nonsense. Normally Írimë would have been protesting against the assault of fire against her roof from inside (it got enough of that from outside) but a. she currently had no roof and b. her eyes had glazed over as the balrog recited some utterly impenetrable section subsection forthwith whoozywhatsit of a code that someone somewhere had decided needed to exist. The sound of coin on what remained of the bar brought her slightly back to her senses, and she swept the dwarf's money off the barter and into her pocket. "The bairn" was evidently Ula, and though Írimë wasn't sure she would've referred to the wench quite so lovingly, coin was coin and she might as well try to reclaim some semblance of normalcy by serving a paying customer. Automatically she reached beneath the bar in search of glasses only to find none where her hand expected them. Of course. But after a slightly undignified search through the rubble, she came up with both two reasonably intact vessels and a bottle of something or other, these two wouldn't know the difference. She sloshed a generous measure into each (might as well, everyone deserved to be drunk under the circumstances), and slouched over to where Dhom and Ula were in conversation with the Mouth, who had ever so helpfully suggested a trade. She handed over the classes and was preparing to make some sort of snappy retort to the dwarf, when a question from Lungorthin, whom the pubmistress had been dong her level best to listen to with somewhat less than half an ear, floated to the surface of the room's voices.

"...liqour license?"

Her hand clenching about the neck of the bottle she still held after pouring the two drinks, Írimë swiveled her head around to look at the fiery thing and his clipboard, utterly nonplussed.

"My what?"
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Easterling
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Lungorthin. Former Balrog of Morgoth, serving evil since the Years of the Lamps. Decided to move from front-line military service to a more administrative role following the War of Wrath. Will neither confirm nor deny what their gender is, or whether they even have one, but back in the Utumno days Mairon once called him a 'he' and it stuck.

Having learned a great deal about dwarven building codes from a certain acquaintance in Moria, their mention from this dwarf floats as music to Lungorthin's ears. The structural integrity! The effectiveness of the ventilation! Glorious!

Of course, the Code of Volcanic Safety might be another matter, but...

"Certainly, that should suffice, assuming the final structure and required surrounding areas are built to withstand volcanic activity pursuant to the Code of Mordor Regulations, Sections 405 and 407," Lungorthin tells Dhomraeg. "If you are not yet familiar with Mordor's Code of Volcanic Safety, you are welcome to review this copy. Keep it — I have extras."

Withdrawing a copy of the Code from his bag, he holds it out to the dwarf. Between the sheer length of the volume and its fireproof construction, its size and weight are the rough equivalent of a reasonably-sized boulder. "Given your people's accomplishments, I'm sure this should be little trouble for you," he adds in a reassuring undertone. An approving gout of flame erupting from his head and shoulders as he does, sending sparks flying toward the sky.

To Írimë, he repeats with the eternal patience of a bureaucrat with thousands of years of experience, "Your liquor license. Pursuant to Regulation 17, Section 6 of the Mordor Commerce Authority's commercial licensing requirements, all business owners are required to complete CMA Form 13, the Application for Commercial Liquor Sales, and obtain approval prior to selling liquor. This license must be renewed every five years by completing CMA Form 14, the Application for Renewal of a Commercial Liquor License. Fees are required for both, although small business owners may have their fees reduced. Also, as previously noted, this structure's certificate of occupancy has been revoked, which means that — among other things — you cannot be conducting business here. This operation will need to be relocated until such this location is again deemed fit for occupancy."

Ever-prepared, Lungorthin retrieves several forms from a compartment in his clipboard — a copy of CMA Form 27, the Application for a Temporary or Seasonal Food Service Permit, and CMA Form 23, the Application for a Mobile Food Service Permit, along with copies of CMA Forms 13 and 14 — and holds them out for Írimë.

"Assuming that you do not currently have another location from which you can do business, your best option may be to apply for a temporary or mobile food service permit. In this respect, you're in luck, as I do have the authority to review and approve these now." Pointedly, he clears his throat. A spout of fire issues forth from his mouth. Glancing meaningfully at where the door would have been, he adds, "Shall we take this outside of this unsafe structure?"
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Zâram must've fallen asleep because suddenly she heard the words "liquor license" and couldn't believe her ears. Of course, Mordor was known for its rather insane bureaucracy (at least within the court system), but not when it came to pubs. It was a health and safety violation to have everything clean after all. A little bit of dirt and the occasional explosion (as was demonstrated by the flying bottle of alcohol landing on the flaming Lungorthin) were perfectly normal. In fact, despite the open bar nature, the pub seemed to be unnaturally calm. There wasn't an odd baby creature of unknown origins wandering around for one. Zaram reached into her pocket and fingered the knife she always carried. It had been awhile since she had stabbed something. Could one stab a balrog? And then she heard the balrog mention that business could not be carried out in here and she had to scoff at that. "Unsafe?" she said, with a raised eyebrow, her blue eyes piercing the balrog. "It's safer now than before the explosion. After all, there's now a shortage of timbers to crash down on the patrons."

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That stupid bastard! That little, butt-faced miscreant! When she got her hands on him, she was going to wring his neck, string him up, and toss him in a dry riverbed! She had officially had it with him and she was going to make sure the entirety of Mordor knew that she was done. A public excommunication and execution was the only way to make a clean break and start over. He’d be at the pub. He’d been missing for the last three weeks but there was only a half dozen places he would have crawled under to hide from her. The spa in the market looked abandoned, that was sad, it had seemed to Phlegm that he was onto some halfway decent idea, but the place didn’t look like it had seen a customer in months and the place smelled like mushrooms. His murder hornet apiary was empty too. That made her nervous. A thousand poison dagger wielding demon bugs running wild and free because he let them all out was not a comforting one. The only other place he could be was the pub. He was probably ogling that horrid woman too. What that damnable little goblin saw in humans was behind Phlegm. She thought they were all disgusting and plain. No, it didn’t make much sense for them to be both horrible and plain, but they were and Phlegm was in no mood to argue with anyone. She was going to kill someone today and that superseded any sort of logic.

So she came to the pub, threw the doors open in a loud, dramatic, crash (it would have been perfect if there was lightning flashing behind her, but alas that was mistimed and the thunder boomed about four seconds after she entered and the doors slammed shut once more.

Good goblin gods! This place is filthy. Doesn’t anyone clean in here? Are health hazards supposed to be part of the charm? Phlegm longed for a goblin run establishment. Sure it would have random knick-knacks all over the place and follow the new chaoscore aesthetic, replacing the more famous goblincore aesthetic which worked better in places like swamps or forests not high volcanic deserts, but at least it would be clean. Phlegm shook her head. What could a goblin expect from a human run pub? They probably had “chicken” too, not the real thing, bloody and feathery.

“Where is he?” she shouted, grabbing the nearest snaga by the collar. They were of a height, but somehow the goblin matron towered over him. A goblin mother’s wrath was a terrible thing to behold, Nazgûl and Balrogs had nothing on her. Phlegm Fleegsdottir was not to be trifled with, and that’s exactly what this stupid snaga was doing. He sniveled, sobbed, and blubbered something in incoherent orkish. She slapped him so hard a tooth from his mouth and landed in someone’s drink. They looked at it, frowned, then drank it anyways. She would talk to him later, he looked like he had some promise.

“Where in the bloody hell is Fleeg?!” she shouted, shoving the snaga aside. “Where is my son?!”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Arien
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The Mouth of Sauron

The Mouth emitted the half-pleasured, half-pained groan that was the sign of a man coping with intense… bureaucracy. The grim wheel of evil upon which Mordor was run, it was a cruel necessity that adequately ground down the souls of his employees and underlings, and yet on occasion he also felt its terrible touch impeding him. In this case, it looked likely to have him evicted from this admittedly dreadful drinking spot.

The rafters- what remained of them - were shaken yet again as a particularly snotty goblin female dramatically slammed open the doors right after the Balrog’s slow and patient intonation. Having finished its recitation the creature seemed happily to have gone on standby and was smouldering listlessly where it stood, like a particularly efficient portable brazier, despite Zâram’s attempt to use sweet reason. Alas, most of the denizens of Mordor were trained to resist sweet reason - another thing that both delighted and infuriated the Mouth in equal measure. His head sank onto his chest for a moment, causing his Big Helmet to meet his glass with a gentle clink.

“No, madam,” he said wearily, bracing his elbows gingerly upon the bar. “We haven’t seen your horrible son, although you’re welcome to dig through the debris for him…”

Perhaps this would clear some of the rubble that the Balrog was so concerned about?
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Phlegm turned toward the voice, the only one willing to speak to her in this noisome and messy establishment. They must be the bartender. She squinted at them momentarily. All humans looked alike to her, and this particular one looked even more alike everyone else than anyone else. The voice was thin and nasally but with an amount of gravitas that did not match the frame. Phlegm could never tell if a human was a man or a woman. Was it high pitched voices that belonged to men? Or was that trolls? Honestly, humans and trolls were so alike in appearance and intelligence who could blame her for mixing them up. She could pick a nonbinary human out of a crowd with ease, it was the other genders, all the ones squished off to the side, that she had trouble with. This one looked like it could go either way. Better to stick with ‘they’, a goblin doesn’t misgender after all.

“If you haven’t seen him, then why would you suggest I look under the rubble? Did you put him there and then ‘forget’? And are you the barkeep? Get me some whisky, top shelf.”

She eyed the human suspiciously. They were probably lying, humans did that a lot, it was a perfunctory reaction to anything uncomfortable. She stepped over the remains of a table, all smoking lacquered wood and sizzling leather, and stood at the bar’s edge. The human was shorter than she’d expected. A voice with such gravitas ought to come with someone of at least average height. She was short, she knew, but she didn’t have to crane her neck to look at them in the face. She regretted that though when she did, their mouth looked like something out of a New England racist’s be-tentacled nightmare. Humans and hygiene, humans and hygiene. She shook her head, she did not need hentai images seared into her brain right now.

“And don’t you think for one moment I’m cleaning up after your messes. What the bleeding mountain did you do? Try to clear a bowel obstruction with ghost peppers? Any goblin could have told you that sort of thing next to a volcano is bad news.”

Ugh, humans.
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Balrog
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More than likely, everyone was dead. That's sorta just how things worked with volcanoes and eruption. Fire and smoke and ash and people caught doing some of the strange things imaginable only to be recorded, studied, and displayed two thousand years later. It had been a year since the last eruption of the mountain and there had been no word. Again, likely because everyone was dead. If everyone was dead, then, legally, shouldn't the property be up for grabs? The bath house place was like that. The dude straight up abandoned it and a year later a trio of siblings moved in and took it over. Flegyria assumed the same would apply here.

She'd never owned a bar, or a restaurant, or even her own house at this point, but that was all immaterial. Her life was on a track and she couldn't very well jump off that track when the train went haywire, could she? Not that Flegyria knew what a train was to begin with. She was going to be queen of Mordor one day. Queen Flegyria du Volcan. It was going to start here, in this abandoned pub. Probably abandoned. Likely abandoned. Hopefully abandoned. This would be the base of her operations. She would first become a bar owner, then a crime lord, then a queen. That's how it worked in the stories her cousin wrote for her at least. She had to assume that he, having lived in the heart of Mordor and frequented this very pub often, should know what he was talking about.

She knocked on the door and felt silly immediately. Were the ghosts going to answer? Bring out a plate of chilaquiles and iced tea? She'd like some of that, if she was being honest.

No. No, now was not the time for games and daydreams. She had a career path to get started. She brought a shovel with her, borrowed it from her neighbor who had been missing for nearly two years now. He wasn't going to need it. She would need it to clear the rubble and (probably) the bodies of the old, dead, patrons.

She imagined the smell and promptly gagged. She had a very good imagination.

No, no that wasn't imagination. There was something definitely rotting in the pub right now. She sighed. If she was going to be Queen of Mordor, she was going to need a strong stomach.
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There was no telling how many people were dead, but there were definitely some dead bodies. Ironically, it was not the smell of the dead bodies that had Flegyria’s nose in a twist. Rotting corpses and putrefaction were things she’d gotten used to over the years. As a goblin she had not been allowed to enter the office programs in the Black Guard (and as a woman standing less than four and a half feet tall, she wasn’t allowed in the Black Guard to begin with) and she had been forcibly assigned to sanitation and maintenance work. Her first day had been cleaning out warg cages, with the wargs still inside. Yes, the wargs were dead but it was still horrifically unpleasant. The treatment had been meant to either scare her away or teacher her her place. It had done neither. Unlike her cousin, Flegyria was quiet, patient, and vindictive. She knew how to get revenge.

That, though, was not a tale for the now. Right now, the would-be goblin queen needed to find out what the hell was making that rotting stench and get rid of it. Sure, smell could be used as an intimidation tactic, but petitioners and rivals needed to be able to enter her establishments without keeling over and dying first.

She noted the remnant of a wanted poster on the wall. No, no it wasn’t a wanted poster (those would have been utter farcical in Mordor even before the Fall), it was a poster though. It had, it had her cousin’s boyfriend on it. He looked goofy, ugly, and hairy as ever. How old was this picture and why was it hanging up in a bar? Humans have terms for large, hairy, gay men: bears. It was weird but appropriate, she supposed. Orcs and goblins had a similar term: bugbears. They were hairier, grosser, and larger than men naturally. This guy definitely fit the bill. He was, though, far more bug than bear. His eyes looked vacant and beady. It was not a flattering portrait. She tore it off the way and sneezed into the paper. She had not intended to use the paper as a kerchief but a sneeze snuck up and exploded out of her. She crumbled the paper and tossed it on the floor.

The paper smelled, it smelled like her cousin’s boyfriend. Gross.

That was not the source of the smell though. Even the bugbear was not that repellant.

She dragged the body of a human woman out of a booth. She was slumped over a table with a least a half dozen empty glasses around her, arrayed in a semi-circle as if they were a fortification. She was only partially dressed. Why the devil of the deep black sea did human women only half dress? Did they not understand the basic principles of weather and protection therein? In Mordor of all places too. They’d rather go around with their boobs half hanging out and their legs uncovered. Was this one trying to attract a mate at the bar? This bar? This bar?

Clearly, it hadn’t worked, surrounded by empty alcohol containers, she did not give off the vibe of an attached woman. She was not heavy and Flegyria was used to dragging the corpses of much larger beasts than this woman. A shuffle here and there, some scrambling over debris and detritus, and the woman’s body was outside, the beginning of a pile. Once the bodies were out of the bar, she’d find a place to dig a pit.

Maybe during this vastation she would find what it was that stank so goddamned bad.
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The bodies were becoming easier to clear. There were dozens of them, and dozens of parts too, but the smell of rotting was not coming from any of them. Sure, each and every one of them smell awful, but the smell of body odor, pooing oneself, and bad dental hygiene were bearable. She only threw up in her mouth a little at the last one. He was especially smelly. An effective and dedicated cosplayer, not only did he have the garb of the Lord Mouth down, but also his horrendous, well, mouth. How many months of not brushing, of eating nothing but garlic and buttermilk and pepperoni, had he dedicated himself to in order to pull off such a costume? Flegyria, despite being quite put off, was impressed. Not many people were dedicated to the craft of cosplay, not this level at least. Surely at this level the real Lord Mouth might have been indistinguishable from the cosplayer.

Briefly, only briefly, she wondered if this was the Lord Mouth. She laughed at herself. Such a foolish notion. The Lord Mouth, here. Of all hellholes in Mordor, here! She dropped the orc body she was dragging to burst into a fit of giggles. Even in the midst of death, ruin, rubble, and decay she found hilarity. Mordorians had a flair for the absurd. Flegyria’s laughter rang across the broken rafters and up through the rocks. The Lord Mouth in this pub! This random, quaint, dive bar! Even her cousin wouldn’t have been able to come up with an idea so farcical.

The goblinette wiped tears from her eyes and began to cough, then choke, on her laughter. She fell to the floor. Giggling never ceasing.

What the hell was going on? It was funny, sure, but was it that funny?

Oh great black stars! Flegyria, through her giggles, understood their source. There must be a gas build up somewhere in the mountain and it was leaking through the walls of the pub. That’s probably what killed the lot of these imbeciles. Drunk on cheap alcohol and too slow to exit.

Flegyria stumbled to her feet, her sides aching with the effort of the laughter. She tripped over a broken table pinned to the ground by a rafter beam and went sprawling. That was funny.

Well, no it wasn’t.

But it was, a little.

She stumbled back out of the pub, her head swimming. She gasped for air. Finally, Flegyria was able to stop laughing. She nearly threw up trying to do so, but she did. Her head was pounding, and she felt like falling over. She sat in the dust trying to regain her composure. She was going to need a way to continue working whilst plugging the source of the gas.

Oh sure, just that. She snorted derisively then quickly stopped.
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For a moment, just a moment, Flegyria wondered about the weirdness of her situation. She had been here how long, clearing out the bar? And no one stopped her, no one came to help, no one even came to gawk like slack jawed jackdaws (that reminded Flegyria she needed to find find some feed for her familiar raven). Where the heck was everyone? Even in the aftermath of, well everything, there would be some looky-loos crawling out from under the literal rocks. Surely? It was strange. Soon though, the goblin lass told herself, soon though there would be dozens, scores, hundreds even, moving through here, the seat of her absolute authority.

There was the minor issue of a poison gas lurking through the walls of the pub, of course. But that would be simple to solve. Somehow… maybe… hopefully…?

Okay maybe it wasn’t going to be that easy, especially by herself. What she really, really needed was a lackey. A simp. A minion. Send them in to look for the source, maybe a crack in the walls or the ceiling, plug it up, and voila. Sure, they would likely die in the process, but sacrifices must be made for the greatness that Flegyria was planning. Queen of All Mordor! Some rando’s life was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

However… again…

No one was here. What the ever-loving hell? Not even a snaga or a wyrmling or a dimwitted warg. How utterly disappointing. Utterly disappointing!!

She screamed her frustrations. She did not scream like a goat in the manner of her cousin. She was too dignified for that sort of bullsh(it) after all. The sound still reverberated off the volcanic rock and into the air. Would that bring someone around? If not, she was going to be forced to go back and find someone and the only person she could think to help was going to be a pain in the ass.

Dammit!
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Arien
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A scream cut through the air, and eventually, the helmet. It rang like a bell. A cascade of dust, a noisome mix of rust and ash, shivered from its dull surface. There was a creaking noise, the kind you might expect when the ancient door in the mouldering castle is levered open by someone with bad posture who is almost certainly named “Igor”.

“What’s… all this… noise?” came forth the hollow cry, an ungrateful epithet for a man who’s been roused from his spellbound slumber/hangover coma; but nobody had ever accused the Mouth of Sauron of excessive gratefulness.

He ungummed one eye, with some effort. All he could see, peculiarly, were wooden struts, and a bleary form which appeared to have two monstrously long necks, and -

Ah. He was, of course, upside down.
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Balrog
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Vauddut was the textbook, archetypal definition of a simp. Flegyria first encountered the basement dwelling goon during her search for her family (mostly her aunt but also, I suppose, her cousin). Vauddut was the only person still living in that neighborhood. Well, it wasn’t much of a neighborhood at that point. It was a bunch of ruined cave homes. Vauddut was still the only person alive there. Flegyria knew there was something sinister in that, but for now she was willing to ignore it. He was a good servant, a snaga if ever there was one. He doted on her and allowed all sorts of humiliations to be brought upon him, just so he could hang out with her. It was weird, really weird. Creepy even. He did give good foot massages though and didn’t mind getting kicked in the face as hard as Flegyria could kick. She’d broken his nose twice and sliced his lip open in a horrific bloody gash on two occasions, but he remained as loyal as ever. They used to say that wargs, when they found the right owner, were loyal unto death, no matter what. Those people hadn’t experienced the simping nature of Vaudut because it should have been studied. He made her dinners, but they were only somewhat edible so Flegyria usually ended up feeding the leftovers to Throbal-gris, her pet boar. He didn’t eat though, not in her presence. She made a comment about how bad his breath was and he never at in front of her again. She wasn’t about to call him back.

He, also, adored doing tasks for her. Adored it. Would trip all over himself to do something for her, no matter how menial or degrading. Simphood, simphood. As the future Queen of Mordor was thinking about what to do about the poison gas in the pub, it dawned on her. This was what his entire existence was building up to, this would be his crowning moment of servility.

She found him easily enough, he was lurking near the entrance to her home (temporary home of course) like a weasel.

She berated him soundly, told him how useless and worthless and annoying he was and, when his rheumy eyes were ripe with tears (oh god one of the eyes was bigger than the other and when he cried the tears from the big eye were piss yellow), she softened. “Oh there, there Vauddut. Don’t cry now. You know how much I hate it when you cry. It makes me so sad. There, now, stop that. I’ve thought of something you can do to help. To make me happier.”


“Y-yes?”

She smiled devilishly.

Within just a few minutes they were going back toward the pub, Vauddut with his chest puffed out to a ridiculous degree. If he wanted to be a target for even the most novice of all Mordorian archers, he was doing a great job.

“Hey!” he said moments after they’d arrived.

“What?”

“Isn’t that the Mouth of Sauroooooo—” he stopped short of saying the full name, the taboo still strong on his lips.

“Sauron,” Flegyria finished, unafraid. “Sauron, Sauron, Sauron!” She had lived in the taboo too, of course, but the moment he was whisked off by a gentle western breeze her fear of him vanished.

“Flegyria, you shouldn’t—”

“Shouldn’t what, Vauddut?”

“Isn’t that the M-Mouth of S— the Mouth of… Sau… the Lord Mouth?”

“What are in the ever loving fu—” she stopped. The cosplayer? Was that the real… No. No. No. No. No.

“I think he’s alive.” Vauddut said stupidly.

“Huh?” asked the Goblin Queen.

“See… he’s moving around. All wiggling and wormy like.”

“Great. This complicates things.”
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Arien
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The Mouth of Sauron

Moriel’s disgusting and disreputable establishment was even more disgusting than the Mouth had recalled last. What did he recall last? He had been trading half-hearted barbs with the sewer rejects Moriel referred to as patrons, and then - a stinging handful of lights, like sharp glitter, and here he was awakening with a taste in his mouth like poor quality magic and poorer quality wine. Someone had obviously attempted a cheap spell to rob the premises and had it blow up in everyone’s faces. He spat out a snarl and a year’s worth of congealed dust, and attempted to right himself. Alas! That sleek twist of his hips would have set him on his feet, agile as a cat, had he not been cruelly atrophied by inaction. Instead, the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr found himself flopping like a fish, then swearing like a sailor as the blood returned to his extremities. He could hear a faint burbling - was that snivelling? Maybe someone praying? Or just taking the Dark Lord’s name in vain?

The Mouth finally completed his flop and, right-side-up, creakingly levered himself to sit upon what had probably once been an item of bar furniture, but was now merely an attractively stable stack of rubble. His hand fumbled around in the debris until it located a bottle. Without bothering to decipher the sad, ragged declaration on the shreds of label, he uncorked it and slugged the remaining contents into his dry throat.
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“Holy sh(it)!” Vauddut, the giant oaf shouted, nearly falling over. For as tall as he was, the large dimwit was spindly and lankier than a dead tree. His arms flailed in the air for a moment. Then he did fall over, tumbling ass over teakettle.

Flegyria rolled her eyes and slapped her palm to her forehead. Good help was too hard to find, apparently. The Queen of Mordor was going to get much better help, and soon. Vauddut was, well Flegyria was getting what she paid for. Hopefully when he went into the pub to find the source of the gas it would kill him and make their separate bloodless. Unless the gas made him bleed then it would, well, very bloody. How could anyone be so oafish? That reminded Flegyria of her cousin and once his toothy grin appeared in her memory she didn’t want to think anymore.

This was all, however, utterly immaterial to the point at hand. With Vauddut flailing about like a dying fish, it fell to the Queen to address this… person. The Mouth? The actual, honest to volcano Mouth? The Lord Mouth? Mouth, mouth, mouth, mouth, mouth.

Flegyria felt hers suddenly go dry and cottony. It was an unpleasant feeling on a day this hot and sticky. She licked her lips thickly.

“(Sh)it might be right,” the goblette mused, “but not quite holy.” Outwardly, she needed to remain calm.

“You there, who are you and what are you doing rumbling about? Why are you dressed up as the Mouth? Didn’t your mum give you better role models? What are you doing here?”

She pulled out a heretofore unmentioned short sword from her hip (a lass needed to defend herself from, well from her allies), and pointed the blade directly at the drinking man’s chest.

There was no way, no way, this was the real Mouth. His nose was too small.
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Arien
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The Mouth of Sauron

Whatever Moriel had bottled and fermented here, it tasted disgusting, but a) no more disgusting than usual, and b) an improvement from the dry, foul taste lingering at the back of his own throat. Like old boots, of poor quality. Worn by a sweaty orc. The Mouth shuddered and wrangled the last acidic, rancid drops down his gullet.

His peace, such as it was, was further broken by the familiar sound of a horrible orc falling over. This happens frequently within earshot when one is the commander of Lugbûrz, but usually one can shout things like “Have the rubbish taken out immediately,” and the sound diminishes into the rattling gurgle of a horrible orc having their throat slit and then the wet dragging noises of someone hauling off to the Fell Beast feeding pen. Alas for the Mouth, this time it was instead followed by a whining goblin voice, set at a frequency he ordinarily tuned out - and would have done, had said goblin not pointed a poor-quality blade at him.

“That’s not how you brandish, you insufferable worm,” he snarled at her contemptuously. “That’s not even where the ribs are on a human. Go back to the Pits and practice your bodywork on your oafish companion here until you can recognise your superiors.”
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That cantankerous, lugubrious, leguminous swine! That monotonous, arrogant, suboral jackass! Clearly this person with a dagger pointed at his chest (it was his chest, she’d studied enough human anatomy to know that… wait) she lifted her dagger a few inches then to the left. Where was she? Right, this airhead alcoholic must have really thought he was the Lord Mouth to be so… mouthy (Flegyria hated puns but what the hell else was she supposed to do?). He wasn’t though. There was too much evidence to the contrary. He looked nothing like the Mouth, his helmet design, though good, was at least a season out of date and the Lord Mouth would never have worn something out of fashion, trendsetter that he saw himself as. This dingy bar was too out of the way, sure it was going to be her base of operations, but that’s because rebuilding Lugbûrz was out of the question. Even the most illicit of affairs didn’t warrant coming this far out to avoid recognition (which the horrendous mask and helmet would have made moot).

“Look, buddy,” she prodded him with the edge of her dagger, not gently but not brutally. “I don’t give too figs who you are, but you better damn well give a whole bushel of figs to know who I am. I’m Flegyria the First, Queen of All Mordor, Master of Orodruin, High Lady of Udûn!”

“Ummm,” Vauddut said behind her, ringing his hands like a nervous accountant.

“What?” she whirled on him, leaving the human to… drink more.

“I don’t… uh— I, well, maybe— what if…”

“Spit it out you oafish lump!”

“I think he’s the real Lord Mouth and you shouldn’t be addressing him like that.” The unevenly eyed orc looked sheepish, turtling his neck so that he appeared to have none.

Flegyria looked at him for a moment. Considering. Considering. Considering what? Throwing him in a lava pit.

She ignored him, ultimately, and turned back to the cosplayer.

“Obviously you want to be the Lord Mouth. Though you drink too much to be the real one, I heard he was almost teetotal. Prove your worth to me,” she grabbed his helmet and dragged him away from the pile of corpses, “and I’ll let you serve me in that capacity.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Arien
Arien
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Mouth of sauron

The little goblin was getting airs - quite literally, in fact, as she had puffed up like a balloon (best made in Mordor through cruelly inflating toads through a pump-action device filled with gas from the most noxious steam pits, once devised for torture but finding a new secondary use in its creation of “decorative” items… anyway), and was now prodding the Mouth with her dagger. Quite ineffectually, as the Mouth never went drinking - or anywhere, except sometimes, the hot tub - without mail. Speaking of which, where was that letter?

“Stop that,” he said gently. She was clearly not one of the orcs that had been bred for intelligence and would shortly fulfil her ultimate purpose as fell beast dinner - meanwhile, there was no point in toughening the meat. Even as she attempted to grasp his helmet, he rose to his full height - far above hers - and shouldered his way out of the dead and debris. The Mouth shook himself. Dust cascaded from his shoulders and the breeze thus generated even gave a slight snap to his black cloak; but his plate did not gleam so much as glower.

“There is no High Lady of Ûdun,” he pronounced. His eyes narrowed and he focused on the other orc, the one that was grovelling. “What has been happening here?”
cave anserem
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Balrog
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There’s a saying in the South (south of what and where is up for debate): Bless your heart. It’s a nice, comforting saying one might say to an idiot who can’t seem to untie their tongue or their intestines.

“Bless your heart,” the goblin queen said, sheathing her dagger. This man was no threat to her, hell he wasn’t even a threat to Vauddut, who still stood slack jawed and drooling at the man. A pool of slightly green liquid was starting to form underneath him. Goddamn you oaf! Can’t you get it together for half an hour and not be such a simping loser? Flegyria could feel her iron gasp on the dumb orc loosening with every moment this Mouthy cosplayer was allowed to disrespect her. Violence, though, was not the answer. Not unless she needed to cheat and throw the question out.

“You have been out cold for quite some time, it seems, hooooman. Pass out on too much watered down top shelf swill this place used to sell, I’ll warrant. Probably ran up quite a tab before the whole thing fell apart.

“For that reason, I’ll go easy on you. You probably have a,” she increased the volume and shrillness of her voice threefold (something any goblin could do without much effort), “very splitting headache that isn’t allowing you to think passed the number four.”

Flegyria resumed her normal pitch and volume. “There might not have been a High Lady of Ûdun before you began your binge. By the way, why were you binging? Lose a contest? Was there a better Mouth out there? I can’t imagine what his costume most have looked like. Anyway, there is a High Lady now and you’re looking at her. If you’re not going to aid me in my quest to reorganize Mordor under my rule you have this one chance to vacate and make your way to Gondor or wherever it is you hooomans live outside of Mordor.

“Hey!” She shouted, losing patience. Why are all humans so obtuse? She picked up a rock and threw it at the back of the cosplayer’s helmet. “I’m speaking to you. You want to play at the Lord Mouth, well here’s your chance. You'll never get to be the Mouth of Sauron, but you can be the Mouth of Flegyria.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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