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"Making more orcs is the best part of life."

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"Because of the process or because of the children?"

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"The children. We're supposed to fill the world with orcs who serve Melkor. It's a good job and everyone is very proud of it."

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"Ah. I'm sorry I can't do more to help; I wish very much that I could. In - probably not more than two hundred years, which is too long and I hope it's less - but in probably not more than two hundred years I should have a spell ready to go to other realms and we can see if other healers can help you."

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"We will do as Melkor desires of us. We have sworn to serve him."

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Loki puts her hand on Vár's shoulder. "Thank you. For understanding. Can you explain to the others?"

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She nods eagerly and runs off.

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"Wait, I had one more question!"

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She turns around.

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"The Quendi are planning to have a party tonight; will that bother any of you?"

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She shrugs. "They're not Elves, what do we care? Do they want us to stay away? Do they want to tie us up so the ones who guard us can join?"

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"...They didn't mention tying you up for the party, they just wanted to make sure it wouldn't alarm anyone."

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"We will not be alarmed."

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"Good. Thank you, Vár."

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"May I go, Loki, to convey your words to the others?"

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"Yes."

And Loki looks for the nearest Quendi, makes sure that the right people were listening to that conversation, and then flies.

To Angband.

Invisibly.
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The smoke is gone. Just rugged mountains, with orcs nearly everywhere. Some of them are riding starved-looking oversized wolves. There are bat/vulture things circling. The fortress itself is straightforward: black stone, tall thick walls, very very large.

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Eugh, bat/vulture things. Loki steers well clear of those.

She circles the fortress, flying slow, getting a good look at it so she'll be able to make a reliable model illusion later.
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There are bodies shackled, each by one hand, to some of the sheer cliff faces, three hundred feet or so up, dangling over the trails below. Some of them are skeletons. Some of them clearly died recently.

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...Loki skims closer. In case someone morbidly asks her who died.

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Elves, all of them, most of them grotesquely disfigured: eyes stabbed out, genitals mutilated, scars running down their bodies that appear to have healed and been reinflicted repeatedly. Some of them might be recognizable if she were to show an illusion to their relatives. It is not obvious that would be wise.

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Well. They can show her osanwë, and she can say whether she saw them or not.
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Around the next cliff face there are two who are still alive.

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She brakes.

She clings to the cliff-face, feet silent on the stone.

Are they conscious? Is the ground below clear? How bad is the drop?
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One of them looks conscious, one not. The drop would probably be fatal; two to three hundred feet. There's no one on the ground immediately below, but there are orcs not far off.

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