Gnash's return

[Morgeth]

There's no rest here, no peace and quiet. Wetlands gives a simple promise; you'll be knee deep in mud once you are there. With a furrowed brow, the green-skinned creature, obviously a female, looks about a seemingly deserted camp. A few boxes clutter the moist grass, some of them having fared the trip over a bit better than others. Gritting her teeth, the alone orc leans down, lifting one of said boxes to set it into its given position in a kodo's harnass. The large creature prods her with its snout, but is rewarded only with a cold look.

As her hands hoist the second box, some of the wooden planks break, and a few simple wood-chopping axes thump against a thankfully armoured chest to fall down to the wet ground.
"Gul'damned!" The angered exclamation is followed by another ruckus as the female orc shoves the somewhat damaged bow atop its more intact sibling, and leans down to pick up the fallen axes. As she leans down, blue eyes momentarily close, during which her teeth grit once more, giving sound to an unfuriated hiss.
To understand this anger, which obviously concerns more than simple axes, one needs to know about the past. And the past, as is common, is sometimes littered with crap that is best kept at bay. Morgeth's past, as was the name of this particular orc, was no different.

---

With her cold fingers clenching around the fallen axes, she clenched her eyes shut once more, and in her mind she could not help but relive an event from the recent days, that had sent her into this maddening spiral of anger and resentment. Gnash Bloodfist, was his name. She had met him a long time ago, when the thieves had been her family, and she had been plagued with weakness. Then she had fought him, and lost. He had carelessly hurt and cut his way through those she had called friends. But back then, he had also been a victim. Because of that simple truth, she could not hate him for those moments alone. When Gnash had later re-emerged, he had been the leader of a warband, but his careless leadership had led his soldiers either astray, or straight into death's grasp. Morgeth held no sympathy for him, at least not now. He had been invited to join the orcs under the red blade banner after, what she believed to be, a rather pathetic story about finding his way back to the ancestors.

She had believed him them, at least to some degree, and together with the chieftain, she had allowed him in. Never embracing him, but at least allowing him the benefit of a doubt. The price for this, however, had been far too steep. She could feel it still, the sting of shock and anger that had sung throughout her body when she had realised that Gnash Bloodfist was challenging her chieftain for rights of leadership over the tribe. Her chieftain, who had not only saved her from poverty and disgrace, but given her everything; life and something to fight for. Bloodfist had threatened to destroy it all. And thus, she had taken action, rallying the voices of the other orcs to make him see what a wretch he was. But regardless of her promise, that no orcs of the red blade would ever follow Gnash, he and the chieftain had fought. She had watched them from afar, together with the rest of the tribe, as they faced eachother. Gnash had seemed livid back then, as if gripped by the blood curse once more, and she had.. taken precautions. No one had been told, not even the chieftain, and no one had been the orc to hear the warlock's muttering in the dark. She had woven a spell so simple, and its impact had even been subtle. The fury of Gnash's blood had dampened, but not enough to make anyone notice. Instead he had been a proper adversary against Kozgugore, who seemed to draw strength from an inner calmth, rather than anything else. Morgeth, meanwhile, had watched in blackened delight, as the chieftain had beat Gnash down and reclaimed his rightful place as their matriarch-given leader. Back then, she had been the first to draw her blade, urging the chieftain to cut Bloodfist's head off, and make him an example for the others. But the orcs of the tribe held more heart than she, urging Kozgugore to let the hot sun of the Barren's have its way with Gnash's remaining strength. So despite her best efforts, the traitor-orc had been spared, only left to rot out in the heated dust. She had thought him lost, dead and the memory of him long gone.

But then, in the middle of the damned marshes, he had re-emerged like a wicked thing from the past. Full of live, albeit with tired eyes, and with words seeking forgiveness rolling from his lips. Groveling. It had not only sparked hatred from the past, but set a new fire ablaze, and she had found herself infuriated beyond comprehension. Needless to say, had the thur'ruk not put her through a ritual to stifle her powers, this warlock had not found enough pity in herself to spare Bloodfist, regardless of the chieftain's orders. But as thing had turned out to be, the orc had been accepted back into the tribe, under strict supervision and without the right to bare arms or even breathe in the wrong fashion. But she knew, Morgeth could not forget, the simple truth. Because, in fact, it was this particular truth that tied her and Gnash together; they did not belong with these orcs. These creatures of honour, that held together due to an actual past forged within the strength of their race, were far beyond the both of them.

---

Even in the present, the simple touch of such thoughts are enough to bring a snarl to Morgeth's lips. A guttural sound emerges from her lips, and with little skill, but enough strength, she flings both axes at a nearby tree. Neither digs itself into the bark, but instead both rather sadly falls to the wet soil. Regardless, the orc gets to her feet with another angered hiss and spreads her arms as to question the sky, from which the rain keeps pissing down.

"W'atever ancestor tha' kept 'im safe, I fuckin' curse y'! I'll kill 'im t'is time! B'fore 'e 'as th'bleedin' chance t'strike at m' 'gain!"

Regardless of reason, be it because she's a warlock or gripped by insane fury, the grey sky grants no response to ease the orc's mind. The rain keeps up its dull spill and underneath this pitiful judgement, a lonesome orc angrily trudges through the mud, aiming to pick up the scattered goods around her.

((OOC: Just figured I'd throw something together with Gnash coming back and all. Hastily written, so it's most likely littered with spelling mistakes too.))

[Mazguul]

(( Oh but that's so sad Poor orcie. Bravo, Morgeth! Once more I feel so emotionally drawn in to your warlock's world and even though it sounds like I'm totally sucking up I still adore your stories. Thank you ))