Havoc of Isengard - Prologue

"Garn, Shikzâg told me you'd be lazy scum! Get up, sluggard, or I'll have you sent to Sharkey's Pits for Slave-work!" A voice roared.
Morgulg opened his wary eyes and found himself staring into the eye of his fellow companion, Burguz. His first instinct was to spit into the Orc's face and tell him to leave him alone, but Morgulg resisted every urge to do so under the fear of getting throttled.
"Up now, eh, Morgulg? Well, good for you, the Chief wants everyone up before Sunrise, and you're the first! Time to raid these Elf-ruins, yea?" Burguz gruffly grabbed Morgulg by the shoulder and prompted him upward, leering at the Orc.
The first streaks of red were indeed visible as Burguz pointed out, merely reflected on the surface of white puffs of clouds dotten in the still-dark sky. Morgulg, the gangly, pig-faced orc with calloused hands, simply smirked at Burguz with an all-knowing look. He was dressed in poor scraps of armour and only wielded a very long scimitar, a pitiful sight in comparison to the well-armoured Orcs and Uruks dotted around the camp, sleeping soundly and snoring into the night. He looked as if he had simply been tossed the scraps and made to bend them to mimic his thin body shape. In clear contrast, Burguz was muscly built, and carried a pair of lethal-looking axes on each side of his hip, sporting better armour, but the craft of it was on par with Morgulg's shameful ensemble. They were stood in a grove of trees in Glad Erêg, shielded from the view of the nearby Elven ruins of Gwingris.
A rough push from Burguz saw Morgulg thrown to the ground as Burguz guffawed and mocked him, pointing a clawed hand and jeering.
"Hey! Wha's you doing that for?!" Morgulg demanded, face flushed red with anger. The Orc sprang to his feet and raised his scimitar threateningly towards Burguz, who had begun to eye his fellow with curiosity and malice.
"So you can get angry too, eh?" Burguz jeered, "Good, because the Chief wants you for a special mission!"
Morgulg stopped in his tracks. Special Mission? If it were hunting Elves, he'd hardly stand a chance. But then again, he was considered one of the more cunning orcs within the Warband, able to formulate some good tactics, but never using them due to his innate laziness. Morgulg simply stood there and brooded, only looking up when he realized the Chief's grotesque face was staring directly into his wretched eyes. Burguz had summoned the Chief to Morgulg as he was pondering. He was a burly Uruk with overgrown, Ape-like arms, lumbering towards Morgulg with a permanent sneer on his face.
"Well?" The Chief demanded, eyeing Morgulg with distaste, "Are you up for it, or do I need to rip out your ears to get you to talk?"
"What do I need to do, then?" Morgulg spitefully hollered. The chief grabbed Morgulg by his greasy, ill-kempt tangle of hair and lifted him off the ground, elliciting foul curses and swearing from the Orc.
"What you need to do?" The Chief prodded his chest with a menacing look, "What you need to do?!"
Morgulg regretted his question instantly, as he was thrown to the ground with a lovely kick from the Chief to make up for his snippy response, "Listening is what you do first! Disgusting wretch... shouldda feed you to Sharkey's pets!"
The Chief began ranting about the uselessness of many orcs within the camp, as dawn began to break over the land. Thankfully, the grove shielded the Orc-company so that they did not have to complain about the brightness of the Sun, with only tiny flickers of sky visible in the occasional holes made by the swaying canopy of leaves.
As the chief made his explanation, Morgulg gathered what he had to do; Scout the Elf Camp, report his findings, and muster the Dunlendings working on a near Lumbersite. As simple as the plan sounded, Morgulg couldn't help but feel angry. It was a death mission, he was certain, because Daylight was now to be seen entering the grove in small quantities, causing the sleeping orcs to rouse and begin complaining over the Sun's presence, and if he were to go out, he would stand out like a Weed in a sea of flowers. Still, one couldn't argue with the chief, and being slain by Elf-arrows was a better fate than to face the wrath of the Chief.
"Right boss, I'll go and get those Men-folk for you." He dully sneered towards the Chief. He made his way towards the exit of the grove immediately, wanting to get the errand done as soon as he was able, and slowly navigated his way through the forest of Glad Erêg, taking great care to avoid patches of Sunlight, and making sure to avoid the Wood-Trolls, savage Troll-like Beings who often attacked to defend their territory. Every now and then Morgulg would stoop on the ground and pick dirt off the grass, sniffing it, before raising himself and continuing on. He would often swerve this way and that, and many times he covered his nose as well whenever Elf-stench entered his nose, making sure to avoid the trail in case of an unlikely and unlucky meeting.
After what felt like hours, Morgulg breathed out relief and swore as he spotted the Crude Workplace of the Dunlendings. It was a small camp of perhaps ten to twenty of them, and they had made small huts made out of animal skins and straw roofs to house the workers. As the Orc approached he could feel the eyes of many of the Men and Women in the camp staring at him, and he would often stare into the painted faces in return, giving an occasional sneer or snarl. The leader of the Camp, Biden, a man in his forties, with matted brown hair and feverish, swarthy brown eyes, rested his gaze on the Orc. He was clothed in leathers made of mostly animal hide, which was rather poor even for Morgulg's rudimentary scraps of amour, but his brutish stature made up for the lack of armour. At first Biden drew his sword, but only as Morgulg flashed the symbol of the White Hand on his chest did Biden stop.
"Welcome, Emissary of Saruman!" Biden attempted to make his voice sound as welcoming as possible, but Morgulg could see through his feeble attempts at stiffling his laughter for this pitiful orc.
"Emissary of Saruman? A lofty title." Morgulg worked to keep his voice polite in the face of his growing annoyance, "I come with a message from the Chief."
"Aye? You have my ear." Biden sat down in his chair and surveyed the scrawny orc messenger with a smirk of amusement.
"The Chief calls for the Dunlendings of Sâd Rechu to report to him immediately..." The Orc stated.
"The Chief? What chief?" Biden mocked him, "I do not serve any "Chief", only the Will of Saruman."
"Gah!" Morgulg spat on the ground at the Chief's feet, "And it is Saruman's Will that you join the Warband and go North!"
To Morgulg's utter rage, Biden began laughing, "Yes, and it is also his will that I join a scrawny, specky Orc and watch him die a miserable fool!"
"Listen here you, swarthy man!" Morgulg roared, causing Biden to do a double-take. At the boiling point, which could easily be attainted, Morgulg could be terrifying despite his scrawny build. He began advancing slowly towards Biden, "Saruman the Wise wants you to do his bidding North. If you don't comply, I will tell the Chief if your failure to comply. Wouldn't want that, eh?"
The Orc's foul breath caused Biden to wrinkle his nose, but he held his own nonetheless and hissed, "Oh, and why should we go North? What is there to do?"
"Distract." Morgulg said softly, and mischief glimmered in the orc's eyes, "Give them something to occupy those Elves and Men."
"And why would I do that?" Biden growled, seeming angered by the implications the Orc was throwing at him; That his people were expendable, "My people are not tools for usage and discard."
"See here, Dunlending. Saruman the Wise has plans for the Horse-men's country, and your job is to make sure nobody in the North is there to give him problems." Morgulg glared at Biden. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a glimmering sparkle of something hidden beneath the forest. He turned his eye towards Biden, who was beginning to look uncertain as to the Orc's words.
"And what are his plans?" Biden said slowly. He too had caught the glimmer, and he was not too fond of it. He perceived there was something ill amiss, and if he did not act soon, something bad might befall him.
Then he saw it. The tip of an arrow-head pointed directly at him and his advesary, peeking out of the trees. He wanted to cry out an alarm, anything to make his fellows aware of the looming danger, but the orc hushed him by laying a dirty finger on the Dunlending's lip.
"Isengard goes to War, Dunlending..." Morgulg whispered.
And that was when the Arrow lodged itself into his throat.