Barbog

Yeah Multiple settlements/vassals/RP hubs can exist within one region (For example, Honeyhill being located in the same 'region' as Haense). Just feels weird to have to run back to a city that isn't your own, that might have locked gates with nobody to answer, to receive an urgent letter you weren't expecting.

my man out here makin a rooftop aviary on his brokerage.... based, zazed even...

Just a question- by 'nation subregion', does this mean things like different levels of a capital city, or vassals/communities away from the main city (that aren't separate settlements)? Is there a limit to how many a single organization can have?

(An image from the Library of Yar, depicting a family of Yar Bone-Singers in traditional runed bonemasks.) Oh, how Barbog exemplified the spirit of Yar today! Leading a band of almost ten-thousand strong to the impenetrable fortress of the Ferrymen, with the weight of the life of a poor noble lass, and perhaps the world, upon his shoulders! It is a wonder that women of all races aren't already throwing themselves at his feet- not that he would accept any, of course. To leave a family behind is to only bring more weight upon him when he inevitably goes to save more fair maidens from their oppressors! Indeed, it is time that Barbog is recognized for his strength, his wit, his wisdom, his indominable faith in the Spirits, and the honor he brings to all of Uruk-kind through his every act. Drumming his hand upon the windowsill overlooking the empty village, he pens this declaration to be displayed throughout the Horde's territories; To All the Peoples of the Horde From San'velku to H'nor, Know This; THROUGH THE MIGHT AND WILL OF THE GLORIOUS BARBOG, SAVIOR OF PRINCESSES AND HERO OF THE URUK-HAI, THE CLAN OF Yar SHALL BE REVIVED! Be not afeared, good peoples of the Horde, for this is not a declaration of war or secession, but a declaration to the unwavering strength of your brothers-in-arms! Clan Yar, the traditional clan of wisemen among the Uruk-Hai, has long seen better days. With no response from former Yars, I fear them passed or in self-exhile. I have spent many moons and many months among the ancestral lands of the former Yars, having been under the tutelage of some, and studying the remains of their village library since. Whilst I cannot claim to be chosen by Yars to continue their great clan, I would rather face disrespect in the Stargush'Stroh by their ancestors for falsely assuming the title, than face the shame of letting this grand clan die. I write this missive as a declaration of my assumption of Yargoth, and in doing so, name myself Barbog'Yar, Savior of Princesses, Hero of the Second Horde, Shaman of Krathol's Eternal Suffering, Honorary Halfling of Honeyhill, Friend to the Vale of Nevaehlen, and the Last Vigilant of Yar's Way. I shall strive to do this title honor, and, should any of my brothers seek to prove themselves, be they of Uruk-hai blood or Honorary Uruk, I fully intend to contend Clan Trials soon to see whomst among you may stand beside me in representing Yar's Way. I leave you with these parting words from the late Malog'Yar, founder of Clan Yar; “Wisdom is born of a strong mind. It is more practical than philosophy, agh goes beyond mere knowledge. It is the ability for right living, common sense, wit, resolution of life’s problems, agh success beyond material gain. Gruk for latself, but heed the blahings of those more experienced with the respect agh consideration due them. Learn from life, agh apply latz learning in a way that means something.” 𝓑𝓪𝓻𝓫𝓸𝓰'𝓨𝓪𝓻 Last Vigilant of Yar’s Way Hero of the Second Horde

Barbog'Yar, Lord of Trout Population Analytics, and recently heading population reconstruction efforts in eastern Almaris, knows that much of the north-easterly Almarian trouts are likely to be safeguarded from this threat. All of the regional trouts native to the Northern half of Almaris are exclusively freshwater species that live in lakes, freshwater bayous and swamps, and of course, rivers. A recently study of White River Run, betwixt Celia'nor and San'Velku, has shown absolutely no presence of this species thus far. Due to the distinct lack of coastal or migratory trout species in Almaris, it stands to reason that this will not change without Descendent intervention. Still, this leaves the unfortunate southern half's trout population victim to this virulent parasite. The Thannic pollution alone is likely to wreak havoc on many aquatic species, degrading shells of shellfish and molluskoids, introducing Thanium into the bloodstreams of species that will only build as they climb the food chain, and of course, the unpredictable effects of the parasites themselves- these "Savoyard Curse" slugs. As the grand notice mentioned, this corruption seems difficult to cure- perhaps with enough research and time, one may find a nontraditional method of either curing the infection entirely, or more likely, discovering if there is a way for the trout population to reproduce and live whilst still bearing the infection. Only time will tell.

wtf happened to kani take care of yourself king

The same shabby little goblin gathers himself up once more, grinning toothily at the egg in the corner, resting peacefully in it's box. He nods to himself as he pats the loamy soil, ensuring that it is still a bit moist- easier for the little creature inside to get comfortable upon should it hatch in his absence. After all, hatching season is coming soon for the Drûth tortoises. Still, he pushes this thought aside as he turns to the other object of interest in the room- the large corpse of some burly human, all gutted and dessicated. The goblin is quite pleased at the lack of mess to clean up, and drags it outside by the hair. He calls out a soft goodbye to the egg, and barges out the door of his outpost. The goblin then strides to the near-center of the village, by the large bonfire. A remarkable pile of skeletons and mangy hides await him, and await their new companion- the bones that hide in the flesh-bag at his side. He dumps it upon the ground, and makes quick work of the poor sod that used to be something, be someone. It doesn't matter anymore. Be it a beggar, thief, warrior, or king, it is now reduced to chapped hide and bones nestled in dry gore. He takes no pleasure in ripping the bones out of the trespassing sod's corpse, and tosses much of the skeleton into the pile- which, upon closer inspection, seems to be made of mainly humanoid remains. One must wonder how many people cross into this village, especially with all the shrunken heads and macabre designs lying about. It's quite a bit more likely that the goblin merely claims more of the lands around, and uses that as justification- or these may even be dead soldiers whom he came into conflict with. Truly, it is impossible to know anything about them, other than that they were deemed incredibly dishonorable to warrant this treatment. This line of thought is to be pushed out of mind as he finishes his work, leaving the human-shaped sack of meat behind as he gathers up the pile of fur and bone. Throughout the day he remains hard at work, gathering up twisted logs and branches as need be, entwining them around skeletons, draping hides and furs atop of those to complete the look. By the time a few hours pass, the end result stands tall by the center of the village, proud and ready to bear the ages. Looking to his feet, he notices he still has quite a lot of material left to work with. Looking up at the sky and seeing the harshness of the midday sun, he figures he still has time enough to carry forth and construct another, towards the boundary of the village- further reasserting Yar's claim to the land. As he drags the bones and hides across the ground with intentional disrespect, he bellows out a song he found inscribed in a hut- left for the former inhabitant's children to learn, presumably, to join with their elders during celebrations or toil. "Lyfe iz toyul, Lyfe iz pain. Tyll da zoil; Wayt fur rayn. Grizh coatz plowz, Wurkerz groan. Harvuzt now Flezh agh Bone!" The macabre tune is sang with an optimistic lilt, as if being given the chance to know and speak the lyrics is some grand milestone for the little wretch. This song is looped over and over as he swiftly constructs another harrowing ornament, covered in the same furs and bones- even featuring a full skeleton upon one of it's stronger "branches". With his work done, the goblin gazes up at the starry night sky, and can only hope that the road of war out in the distant cities does not reach the clan's slice of the forest.

A metaphorical tear rolls down a chalk-dusted goblin's metaphorical cheek as he stands at the edge of his village and reads the missive; "Mi kuldnub have pud it bettur mizelv, Dominuz ub Krugmar. Dey zcream ovur agh ovur dat dey iz da viktimz, yed zeek tew opprezz elvez dat dewnub wunt tew join dem." "Tyrantz agh mongrulz, azh agh awl. Nub beddur den a zity full ub znaga-enzlavurz."

The goblin now wanders through the village, holding two severed human heads in one hand. It appears to be some gittish Orenites, judging by their hairstyles and the complexion of their skin. He grins broadly at his prize, carrying it throughout the “goi” as though it was a trophy from a hunt. The village is once again empty with these intruders’ demise, however, and it seems as though the goblin doesn’t mind it that way. Still, he has much more important matters to attend to than merely flaunting a bloody kill- he needs to make an example of them! He wanders up to the roaring fire in the center of town, an irregularly deep pot sitting nearby. He bought it specially for just this purpose. The goblin sets the bloody heads down on the ground, the pot full of water into the flames, and stumbles over to the collection of left-behind books he calls a library. He draws one out, the cover a depiction of a grossly misshapen and desiccated corpse- perfect. This, he brings back to the roaring fire. Flipping through the book, revealed to be sets of instructions for various rituals, the goblin stops on one in particular- the long-lived yet bold practice of creating shrunken heads. A toothy grin spreads on the goblin’s face, in stark contrast to the lifelessness of the head he holds in his hands. Shrunken heads were oft made by the Yars as warnings- though what these warnings conveyed, depended largely upon whom the unfortunate soul was whomst the head originally belonged to. In this case, the goblin prepared the heads for a warning of warding- a butchered pilgrim who lost themselves in the jungle midsts, and dared to trespass on the Yar’s sacred grounds. Whilst the goblin would not claim himself a Yar, and performing a ritual he was ‘taught’, he supposes that the circumstances would allow for it- a trespass such as this could not be forgiven, it was unto the lands of the Yar, and it would be the will of the Yar that such a fool shall be made an example of. Indeed, the shrinking of a head had several meanings towards it. Firstly, the ghastly sight served as a warning to any brave enough to come across it. Secondly, it was a severe disgrace to the soul that it once belonged to- to shrink a head would remove the bones, the most sacred of structure, the desecration of a head in particular to highlight this loss was due to their foolishness or callousness. Thirdly- to give appropriate notice to their kin whom would search for the body of their brethren. It was with these goals in mind that the goblin set upon the practice. With a weary sigh, the goblin lifts the finished heads from the pot, after a full day’s work. He grins proudly at their twisted, wretched visage, and nods to himself. The goblin’s hands are covered in cuts and burns from his lack of experience, but the quality of the finished product is well worth not taking shortcuts. He quickly tacks one up to a root at the edge of town, leaving below it a note forbidding anyone from further trespass upon these sacred grounds. He carries a smiliar note, and an equally disgusting head, over to the main city of San’Velku. He slams a post into the ground, sets the head atop it, and leaves the following sign below; Satisfied with his work for the day, he marches back to the riverside village, resuming his vigil once more. He looks off to the side, seeing the shrunken head at the village's border, and grins again with pride.

The one-armed goblin makes his way around the village, tacking up banners he found in the hut of his old role-model, Fiil’Yar. The flags of Yar wave proudly now, allowing no doubt as to whom the village belongs. He nods proudly at the sight, and continues to clean up much of the overgrowth in the area. He peels away the last of the vines that onces encased the notice board, tossing it to a bag at his feet. He grunts with exertion, and directs yet another proud nod to the sight. With this option now available, he tacks up another large notice onto the wood; “Searching for Living Yars! Rewards Available for Information! - Barbog” This, and similar postings have been made throughout Krugmar’s lands. He steps back and grimaces a bit. Whilst it’s somewhat expected that there wouldn’t be any results so soon, the lack of any leads or evidence of the Yar’s continued existence is… demoralizing. It seems he’ll have to reach out directly towards dealers of information, possibly even bounty hunters… Still, it’s a small price to pay for solace and the revival of such a great clan. He heads back into his borrowed hut, dumping the vines into the forest along the way, and returning to the egg resting in a box of sandy loam. He kneels down beside it and scoops the soil back over it, wetting it a little from a nearby pail, waiting patiently for it to show any signs of life. For now, however, he sits back at his small table and gazes out across the village. Obviously, being so small, most structures were single-use. But there lies a large empty hut at the top, with an ever-burning firepit inside. It would make for a good shamanic focus room. The largest building, a two-story hut that someone lived in, judging by the bed… It already had a bunch of empty bookshelves, why not turn it into a library and meeting hall? There was unfortunately nobody to suggest these ideas to, and with him refusing to change anything himself, the goblin was left to sit and wonder what might be.

my favorite fish is the one that's really really red because it moves in a quirky way and i think that's bold and brash of it and should be encouraged in more fish in that aquarium

The one-armed goblin continues his patrols around the ancestral village of the Yars. A few friends have stopped by recently, noticing the path he carved on his way to the river-village and following it. Unfortunately, none have been whom the goblin was waiting for- any to whom this land was their birthright. He sighs as he drops himself back in his chair, staring out the window as it starts to rain. He unconsciously reclines a bit as he starts to doze off, the chair scraping against the floor and filling the hut with a sharp noise, waking him up once more. The displeasure is obvious on his face and he tosses the seat below him a scornful look- but before he can undergo a one-man war against chairs, a flash of pale color outside the window alerts him. The sky has started to crackle with lightning, bathing the swamp ground in light. He watches for a bit, until a hint of mottled grey by the riverside catches his eye- certainly something he didn’t see before on patrol. He stumbles out the door and into the storm, trekking over roots and muck as he wades through the swampy riverside. He reaches the odd shapes he saw before, and is struck with recognition and pity. A collection of eggs lie about the shoreline- each quite large, a mottled grey-green. He recognizes their distinctive pattern; Drûth Skhell eggs, the Bush Tortoise. The reason for his pitying look is obvious- the eggs lie broken and spilled, the nest ruined as it was washed up by the violent storm. His eyes widen in shock as he turns one over- not a single crack upon it. By far the smallest of the clutch, likely to birth a runt, but the only survivor of this nest. He gingerly picks it up with his single hand and cradles it against his body, before hobbling back to his hut. Once inside, he lies it down upon a box packed with sandy loam, gently burying it again. Soon will be the season that these tortoises are said to hatch in, and the goblin can only hope that this egg shall bear fruit. His lips part in a toothy grin at the irony, living in this village; he may never be a Yar, and this is no Duhnah Skhell, but he shall care for it all the same.

A scrawny, one-armed goblin struggles to work his way through the snares, vines, and brush of the jungle. He casts a scornful glare towards the scorched lands behind him, now surrounding the Iron’Uzg, before spitting and hacking as he walks into a large web. He wipes the cobwebs away from the shiny white bone of his skull, and with a grunt of exertion, marches onward. Just past the webbing, he hears the sound of a gently running river. A toothy grin splits his branded and scarred face, knowing he draws closer to his destination. The goblin cuts down a row of vines, clearing a small path for him to squeeze through, cautious of the Gaja snake-vines the area is infamous for. Still, he knows it will be worth it as the crunch of leaves beneath his feet turns to packed dirt and planks. The breath is drawn from him as he strides up to a large notice board in the center of the path, overgrown with vines and fronds… but a patch lies suspiciously bare. In this space is a sign, declaring this region claimed, under ‘new ownership’ of some foreigner. The relief, the purposefulness that drove the goblin to reach this place, is soon replaced with a blind fury. He rips down this sign in anger and carves a single word into the board in its place; He stomps around towards the only hut that hasn’t been similarly covered in overgrowth- signs of recently being lived-in, albeit temporarily. The door is locked, but it poses no obstacle to the enraged urukim. With a lift of his stave and a muttering to Anyhuluz, Ilzgul of Destruction, he smashes the door open and storms inside. A fine layer of dust coats the meager belongings of the individual whom attempted to lay claim to the abandoned village- their abandoned village. He snorts in derision. Clearly, they abandoned their own claim- or, hopefully, were killed before they could ruin this sacred ancestral ground. Instead, as one of the last bearers of the Ways to which this village was meant to serve, he stumbles over to another hut. He rips down more overgrowth, and opens the door of the wall of the smallest, centralmost building- with a commanding view of what he has sworn to protect. He carves a series of runes into the wall, which would clearly describe his purpose here to any descendants of the founders of the village, knowing only they would be able to read the inscriptions. The Watching Eye, The Wall, The Sounding Voice, The Giver’s Box, and last, The Tower Shield. Without the rightful owners to defend it themselves, he shall act in their place. He will be a stalwart tower on the river village.

A one-eyed goblin looks at the missive in his hand, and stares up at the gates of the accursed city in the distance. "May da Ilzgûl dat dey offend'd gayn vengunce upon deze raziztz, honurlezz, wretch'd zkoundrelz."

he need a space ship !

Not trying to be antagonistic, just not sure I get it, can someone elaborate on how Ologs are incapable of activating enchantments? I had thought the process of enchanting (more or less) circumvented the need for knowledge of the magic itself (and obviously, they can't be taught magic). I've never learned enchanting myself, so I'm sure there's just something I don't know about at play here.

A leather-bound tome lies unattended. The pages are stark and clean, suggesting a recent publishing, or attempts at preservation. You pick it up, curious at the title- what are Long Pigs? The answer is likely not what you hoped. To Cook a Longpig Authored by Barbog, Grubgoth of the Iron’Uzg Translated by the Orcish Cultural Revival And Purity project (OCRAP) For too long, brothers and sisters of the Uruk-hai have been left in the dark by the master butchers and Grubgoths of Uruk society. Perhaps these were never meant to be left secret, or forgotten by the masses, but as times and traditions change, so too has our knowledge of the past. Whilst many brothers may still seek out and butcher the longpig like in days past, there is a distinct lack of etiquette about it, and the dishes prepared (if they can even be called such) featuring longpig are woefully inadequate at best, and a slap in the face of Glutros at worst. I shall do my part in redeeming my misguided brothers, sisters, and any who fancy a decent meal of the most coveted meat. TO BUTCHER A LONGPIG As we all know, there are many types of longpig in the world. From the gamey, lean cutlets of the Mali, to the chewy gristle notable in Dweddish meat. Each variety of longpig brings unique textures and exotic tastes to any dish, but all maintain similar anatomy- and thus, similar cuts. Below is a detailed sketch, drafted by a close friend and confidant- whom I paid in meals, of course! The following parts have been carefully labelled and separated on the drawing; Head, ears, jowl, snout, neck, blades, shoulders, hock, back-fat, arms, hands, ribs, flank, belly, loin, rump, lower hock, leg, shank, and feet. Please take careful note of abnormal, non-descendent races. As one might expect, the belching Wonk or the limber Hou-Zi will undoubtedly be cut differently, as their anatomy grows further from traditional longpig cuts. The Musin shan’t be more than a snack. TO MAKE A MEAL OF LONGPIG Whilst cooking the meat itself is none too dissimilar from a hock of lamb or pig belly, one must be careful when selecting your sides! Longpig has a very distinct tone, and, due to its exotic nature, should not be wasted on unfitting dishes. My personal recommendations are as follows: HUMAN - As time-tested-and-true as beef or pig itself. While certainly a cut above livestock, if not just for the hunt involved in procuring this meat, I personally feel that you have better options. Truly, Longpig is meant to be a rare delicacy, and the abundance of humans leave this rather paradoxical- and the tastes and textures themselves are certainly nothing to write home about. If you were to create a barbaric or uncultured dish, then human meat suits perfectly. Burgers and bacon, perhaps, but leave serving longpig before a king to the Mali or Kha. ELF - As much as they may protest when alive, when you get down to the fundamentals- the flesh itself- they’re really all quite similar. Indeed, the tender, gamey, supple meat of the Mali are among my favorite dishes. I cannot speak highly enough of the feasts I have turned the odd botanist or researcher into. Perhaps it is their natural femininity, or their inclination to bookish things, but elves have an unrivaled, juicy tenderness. The finest of red wines, and the most expensive, outlandish sides could never be enough to compete with the meat itself- but perhaps they may make it better by comparison. DWARF - As the stout, tough race toils hard in their mines and are born with muscles taut as stone, so too is this reflected in their meat. If you wish to cook evenly and deeply with this longpig (or shall we call them shortpig?) , then a good tenderizer and elbow grease is required. I can assure you, though, that they make a most excellent brisket if you do, and there is no better iteration of pulled longpig meat, than that painstakingly torn from the Dwed. HALFLING - While it wounds me as a friend of the Weefolk to have to record an entry that may be mistaken as encouraging their slaughter, I only do so in the highest regard as an objective chef. They are, as one may expect, quite similar to the flesh of the human that some allege they originate from. They have more ‘earthy’ notes to them, which some have suggested come from the divergence of ancestry. This pairs well with heady beers and hard liquors. Should you come across the meat of the half-men, I can only suggest one thing; avoid the feet. They are tough, covered in calluses many, many layers deep, and unlike shucking a clam, does not reward you with good grub. WONK - Their anatomy is, quite simply, repulsive to most casual consumers. Even the meat itself is slick and slimy, and the only cure is to char it into a brick- a cardinal sin that no true cook should ever commit. You have two options when it comes to the Wonk as longpig. You may either attempt to recreate certain seafood dishes with Wonk meat, leveraging that sliminess as one might the slippery raw squid, or slick watery vegetables. This, in my opinion, is the best choice for most of the Wonk’s body… except for their hock, leg, and shank. These are fatty and have a texture somewhere between soft fish and poultry. Best when sauteed and stewed! Fun fact: Wonk legs do not stiffen up as fast as most animals upon their demise, and may even twitch when heated up in cooking! HOU-ZI - An odd choice- and I say that proceeding the Wonk! Whilst there are similarities between the Hou-Zi, and races such as halflings and humans, they are an entirely different beast- No offense to Hou-Zi intended! Truly, they ought not be hunted for their meat, as it is rather bland and chewy in the most unpalatable way. Instead, the true delicacy of the Hou-Zi is in the mind… And I say that in the most physical sense. Chilled Hou-Zi brains. Do not question it, merely enjoy it. KHA - Whilst Kha are very few and far between these days, I would argue that only makes the already-exotic taste of the meat feel only that much more so! Truly, in days where Kha would roam our borders in droves, were days where the Ilzgûl blessed our civilizations. There is something so… utterly indescribably, in the juices of Kha meat. I cannot stress this enough- this meat NEEDS to be served rare, if not raw. Any dangers of undercooked meat are well worth the suffering when beer-basted Kha precedes it. MUSIN - Musin themselves have little meat, and are best served as a side of their own. However, should you find yourself with many little mouse-meals, you may find that they are best incorporated as half-dish. Meals such as a mushroom-and-musin kebab, or a chunky stew, would be a wonderful use for these little snacks. SEZZIKBEKK - While their bodies are quite unappealing at first glance, they hold much meat in their more ‘avian’ parts- the thighs, breast, and (on some specimens with less-twisted appendages), wing-meat. Whilst these may be used as a replacement for more common fowl, such as chicken or partridge, they truly shine when deep-fried. Indeed, while I find few things more delicious in this world than Krugtucky Fried Chicken, I have found their equal in Fried Sezzikbekk. TO PLATE A LONGPIG This will, of course, vary by the meat itself, and how you cook it. Humans, halflings, dwarves, and the like will be suitable as plain affairs- one would not be remiss to see human sliders on a plain ceramic tray, and for good reason. For more ‘exotic’ meats, then rest assured, I recommend firmly to play this up in their presentation. Sauteed wonk with a smooth Teriyaki sauce, Musin kebabs wrapped in palm leaves with carefully-threaded skewers connecting the cutlets, and Deep-Fried Sezzibekk stacked like a tower, with garlic powder and shredded kaktuz sprinkled from high above. All of these are presentations I have seen with my own eyes, and they never cease to entertain and enthrall even the most well-fed of critics. Go with your intuition here, but I must repeat from earlier; do not waste your longpig. The taking of a life is much more special here- a cow or chicken are penned and dumb, and the act of bringing one to your table is of absolutely no note. The battle that wins you a prime dish-to-be of longpig, however, means that the meat itself deserves a higher level of respect. Perhaps you may attempt to recreate aspects of that very battle in your plating, but at the very least it makes an entertaining story to share. AFTERWORD Whilst my advocacy for the consumption and proper preparation of longpig cannot be understated, I do not intend for this book to inspire my brothers and sisters to become butchers for the sake of sport. It is the very act of a well-fought battle that makes the meat taste that much more succulent, the comedy of serving a belly cut deep by your friend’s arrow, that is to truly ‘make the meal’. To turn them into common chattel is right-out. Livestock has grown complacent, boring, and dare I say, a turn-off to many chefs. Respect the intent behind serving longpig, by not abusing the source the Ilzgûl have so generously provided. They are the sustenance after a battle, not some simpering beast to be penned and bred for grub alone. But, above all else; Cook well, my friends. -Barbog

A Hint of Resistance Eccentric Visions A runty little goblin sits alone in his blarg, surrounded by complete silence, aside from slow, labored breaths. The shutters lie open, and a gust blows through the household. With it, the bones that adorn the goblin rattle and clank against one another; a soft noise, but in the quiet of the home, it sounds a mournful cacophony. Long has the goblin been haunted by visions, 'gifted' to him by an unknown benefactor. Never have they been comprehensible- painfully blinding lights in a sea of changing colors, encompassing dark with naught but wind, howling and screaming yet ever so quiet... It's enough to make an Uruk turn to Oracle Wood in favor of traditional cactus, and it seemed to be working for a while. That is, until this eve. The wind howls louder. The broiling cauldron before him is suddenly stilled, as if the temperature dropped to naught. A connection he had attempted to make is suddenly severed- No, not severed. Intercepted. He is drug into a sea of undulating dark, surrounded by a thrumming heartbeat and the sound of gentle breathing. It's almost soothing, at first. Then, a voice speaks, clearer than any of the visions he has attempted to evade. It rings out across this dark, even as the heartbeat yet thrums in his ears. "Nûl-ob tau! Shiik-ob bukul'nuun! Puzughl kulûk shiik agh zurm!" ["The pain of the forest! The cry of the river! Cease all the cries and clamor!"] He winces visibly, scrambling to place the dark tongue. His eyes would widen, had he a corporeal form in this place. The voice calls out again. "GHAASH-LAT! GHAASH-IZG! GHAASHUG KULÛK ZA UB'KUL!" ["BURN YOU! BURN WE! BURNING OF ALL THAT WILL BE!"] It's loud, so very loud. Painful, even. But his pain compares naught to the pure agony he feels coming from the speaker, every word is suffering. "Lat rok'unudh-matum mub. Frum'bur at fiith-lat." ["You, a death-haunted thing. The burden, to you it clings."] The one time that the visions are clear, intelligible... and it's an order, an irrefusible command. It would almost be funny, were it not so desperate. "Ukh-lat, darûkûrzal. Gaatublat fauthat, ghaash'Uruk-hai bûrgulu-ishi." ["Go now, weakling. Your punishment awaits, in the shadow of Orc flame."] The connection forcibly ends itself, not even bothering to return to it's original recipient... Perhaps that was intentional. The goblin falls backwards, off of the stool he had been meditating atop. He lets out a groan of pain, clutching his head as he staggers to his feet. It seems his plans have changed... radically. The thrumming of the heartbeat in his ears doesn't clear away, even after the vision has ended. Whatever spoke to him, commanded him... is still watching. Expecting. "Zorri, teechur. Guez wi muzt agri tu diazgri, juz' diz azhnz." Damn. He was kind of hoping for a big change, just... not from this side.

The ugly little bone-and-hide-covered goblin shudders before a broiling cauldron, a thick blunt clenched between his stained teeth. Whispers taunt the edges of his mind, flashes of visions he has not seen in a long, long time- that he thought he escaped. "Nûl-ob tau! Shiik-ob bukul'nuun! Puzughl kulûk shiik agh zurm!" "The pain of the forest! The cry of the river! Cease all the cries and clamor!" "GAASH-LAT! GAASH-IZG! GAASHUG KULÛK ZA UB KUL!" "BURN YOU! BURN WE! BURNING OF ALL THAT WILL BE!" As usual, the flesh-haunted wretch knows nothing about true about their will- what they ask of him. He staggers off, dropping the rolled cactus from his maw as he hobbles out of the hut. He sees a set of vials on the wall; murky red, black as tar, a putrid green. He takes them all. He needs them all.

I ZKAHKING LOVE BARDMANCY!!!!!!! +1

A pale goblin dressed in bones and hides sits across his elder, nodding in approval as he reads the draft he was handed. "Lat alwayz haz mi vote, brudda. Now agh furevur. May lat zhuw da tru paff uv da Ilzgul tu da uzg. Zpiritz gruk wi needz it nuw moar den evur."

One of these goblins, a particularly ugly little wretch, scampers around in red-and-white clothes in lieu of their usual hides and bones. He screeches loud and proud about Popo Krugsmas to all that will hear... even after the others would dissipate. He really likes Krugsmas.

An ugly goblin snatches the letter out of the hands of a courier. He sees the note scrawled out. He laughs for a solid minute, gives it back to the terrified git, and carries about his way. What morons, expecting payment to return dishonorable Uruk.

An ugly, stout goblin somehow finds the missive all the way out in Vortice, notably not delivered to him specifically. He raises an eyebrow at this, but shrugs anyways, and utters a short prayer as he hikes up a rucksack full of loot, looking around for the path back home. "Gaakh Gorza baduzg-ohg mokh-krut. Nargzabubat." He folds up the missive, putting it in one of his many pockets, and begins the hike back to the Iron'Uzg with a final, "Afâr’Ilzgûl, Lûp’Ilzgûl."