Orlaug sat by the pond, sharpening his dagger and occasionally stirring
a pot over a small fire. Tentatively a young orc approached him, lured by
the smell of food.
"Whatcha doing?" the snaga asked, curious to see what the bigger and
better fed orc was up to.
"Mind your business," Orlaug hissed at him, and the snaga drew back out
of arm reach. Orlaug was known as a short tempered brute with a nasty
habit of snuffing out snagas he found objectionable (or tasty).
"When I was a young orc we knew our place," Orlaug continued. "We hid in
the shadows and ran when another orc approached. I guess you Goblintown
scum don't follow the same rules we did in the old caves."
"Old caves?" The snaga asked, sitting across the pond warily.
"Yeah, down the old south road a bit. A cave rat like you probably don't
know what I'm talking about. Well, we had a nice home there to Elrond and
his raiders found us."
"Was just off the main road, where we could snag lots of fat and juicy
travelers unawares. Dear old mama was the greatest orc cook in the caves
though she was better known for her other talents."
"What talents?" the snaga asked, edging a bit closer to the fire and the
bubbling pot. The smell of elf flesh filled the cave.
"Mama traded her 'services' for food. She kept all her brood fed, and
that was no mean trick! At one time I had over twenty brothers and sisters
in the caves. That was before I learned to steal larger portions of food."
"Then what happened?"
"Well," Orlaug said, licking his lips. "More food means bigger Orlaug."
"Bigger Orlaug means no more brothers and sisters, which means more food."
The snaga raised his eyebrows in surprise but said nothing.
"That shock you, my tasty one?" Times were lean back then. We were a
large tribe shoved into a tiny little hole, not like this spacious cavern
you got here, though most of it is old mining caverns and such."
"When I was but a lad a big Zaugurz strangled and ate my mother. While he
slept I cut his throat. Rules were different then."
"You little guys here think you're tough because elves hunt you in the
mountains and you fight all day with the orc guards. The whiteskins were
CONSTANTLY coming inside and attacking. Sometimes we'd beat them back but
mostly I just hid. The first orc law was that the strong must survive and
the weak are to be eaten."
The snaga had sidled around the edge of the pond, closer and closer to
the pot and its tantalizing aroma of stewed elf. Orlaug, wrapped up in his
tale, appeared not to notice.
"Yeah, times were tough back then, but many great orcs were born in those
halls and some still roam the world. Living in Goblintown has made you
weak and slow. I don't know how the Dark Lord expects to win a war with
you pitiful little things."
The snaga, drawing close to his prize, reached out an arm towards the pot
and its contents. Quick as a flash, Orlaug's hand snaked out and wrapped
the younger orc's wrist in a viselike grip.
"Elf meat is served best with stock of snaga. Especially slow ones with
no patience."
The young snaga screamed in terror as Orlaug raised his blade, a wicked
smile on his scarred face.
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