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December 4 Writing Mathom Angmar tapped his fingers on his desk and scowled at Gothmog. The Orc general couldn't discern the Witch King's expression, though he was quick enough and smart enough to sense his boss' displeasure. "That platoon of Isengarders are not working out," the Witch King hissed. "They have filfthy habits, never pick up after themselves, leave half eaten food wherever they feel like it. They completely disregard the rules." Gothmog grumbled. He personally felt that Angmar's insistance on spotless quarters in Morgul was a bit excessive. He'd reminded the Witch King again and again that developing cleaniliness habits ran against the Orcish culture. But he had to admit to himself that the 21 who had come all the way from the North as a gift from Saruman were not, well, working out. "They are lazy," Gothmog admitted. "Maybe the warmer climate makes them tired and troublesome. It's cold territory up there near the Misty Mountains." "When did cold ever stop you?" Angmar continued, in a pissy mood. "No, I am going to have to redeploy them out of your forces." Gothmog was about to say, "Good riddance," but he held his tongue. Instead he asked, "And just what do you have in mind, my lord?" A strange chortling drifted from the shadowy cape that outlined where the Witch King's head would be. Angmar said, "They are assigned to muck out the Fell Beast's eyrie." "Hmmmm," Gothmog responded. "Since you've denied me their services on the field, I hope that you will let me use them in my little guano business. They can help load the carts and possibly even work in the caravans going East. It's been cold this winter and those human scum over in Rhun will need to burn more guano for heat." |
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