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“You won’t do it.”
“...what are you willing to bet?”
Zog stood arms crossed and hips cocked to the side. This wasn’t the first time older uruks had prodded him to do something simply idiotic and beyond riduculous, but being as hot blooded and stubborn as he is, he finds himself unable to back down from a challenge, no matter how lame or stupifying the request may be. He eyes the injured morgal bat with a cautious eye, noting how one of its wings curled awkwardly in on itself. The creature glared and spit in their general direction, and it was, quite literally, the dumbest and most dangerous dare that he’s received yet.
These little bastards wouldn’t kill an uruk, but they would make him wish that it did. Blindness, painful growths, chronic rotting flesh… All of them particularly nasty and things that Zog would like nothing to do with. But for a dare… He couldn't bear to allow these old arses to spread around that he was terrified of a mere bat, and an injured one at that, so, with his head held high, he reiterated: “What are you willing to bet?”
“So you are willing to do it!” Zog scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“I asked ‘What are you willing to bet’ ! Why the hell would I do something so dimwitted without even knowing what is being betted?!” A curt laugh sours Zog’s expression further.
One of them, a fellow necromancer much older than Zog, throws his thumb over his shoulder in the creature’s general direction. “You’re just scared of that lil’ thing, ain’t you, whelp?” Something inside of Zog twitches. Whelp..? WHELP?! Who the hell is he calling a damn whelp?! Over some damned bat?! Without so much of another word, he shoves his way past the much larger uruks, ignoring how they bark thinly veiled threats at his back. A strangled hush falls around him. Other uruks crowd around, unable to resist the show of someone likely about to get seriously injured.
Kneeling down, Zog inspects the bat once more. It’s a puny little thing, wry and scrawny, but not likely a runt. Most likely starved from being injured. And unbelievably still alive… Something else should have already eaten it by now, but for whatever reason, they didn’t. And this little bastard is still ready and willing to put up a fight, as well… Hissing and clicking and extending its uninjured wing to its fullest, so that it looks bigger than it actually is. A little whelp, hmm..? Zog raises his ungloved hand and pauses, looking the creature in it’s fear-feral eyes.
Continuing his slow and careful approach, the creature spits angrily, then draws back slightly. Instead of attempting to take Zog’s hand off, it merely haunches over, doing it’s best to look as small as possible, all while still squealing and hissing at regular intervals. Without so much as flinching, Zog gingerly scoops up the irate bat, ignoring how it angrily flaps its one wing in his face. Holding it in front of himself, Zog walks forward and towards the uruks that were now uncomfortably shuffling away from the feral bat still screaming its head off. Standing in front of the necromancer that had called him a ‘whelp’, Zog smugly asks: “Now, what were we betting..?”
…
If there was one thing that Zog detested, it was blatant weakness. Even so, he somehow couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to this little creature. Despite its injuries, it still clung to life fiercely and independently. It was something that Zog could respect, and why, instead of wringing its neck and putting it out of its misery, he released it inside a cave, a ways away from the little settlement that his tribe had founded.
Maybe it would last the season, maybe not. It would be a lie to say that he wouldn’t enjoy seeing it once more, when he’s finally on his own and making something of himself… If it lasts that long… I’ll get it out of this damn cave… He thought as he gently lowered it to the ground. It hopped off and looked back at him briefly before leaving to explore its surroundings. He hates to admit it, but Zog has certainly grown attached to the little annoyance. Even if he couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud, he would come back for it. Someday…
…
It had been more than a few years. The newly awakened necromancer fully expected his old friend to be long gone, but he couldn’t stop himself from checking. It’s probably moved on… or died… He pauses just before crossing the threshold of the cave. A part of him didn’t want to know and would just like to keep pretending that old bat was still alive and still being a nuisance, but an even greater part of him needed to know if that was true or not. Taking a deep breath, Zog enters the cave, uncertainty gnawing at the back of his skull.
Quiet and still… of course… What was he expecting? He scoffs, ignoring how his gut suddenly dropped to his feet. Of course it's long dead. It was a miracle that it lived for as long as it did in the first place. Zog plops down onto a raised rock, allowing his eyes to slip shut. He’s… disappointed. Why? It’s just a damn bat… Why is it affecting him so? Growing annoyed, he prepares to leave. There’s nothing for him here, anyways, so why linger. But as he’s about to stand, a sound catches his attention.
Soft, but strong, and strangely familiar. Annoyingly so… Against his better judgement, Zog became excited. It was a specific kind of noise, high pitched mixed with wet hisses. Just like- Before he has a chance to stand, a little blob of red and greyish black swoops down and lands somewhere at his feet. No- It can’t be… It stared up expectantly at Zog, looking aggravated and simply bored. One of its wings was awkwardly bent at one of its joints, but was completely healed and mostly functional. It shouldn’t be possible, but… Holding out his hand, Zog lowered himself until his knuckles touched the ground. It was a gamble, but something in his gut just knew that this wasn’t a bet that he would lose.
Sure enough, the pest clambered into Zog’s gloved palm, making itself right at home. He was relieved that no one else had accompanied him on his little journey, because he couldn’t stop himself from smiling giddily as he inspected his old friend. Nothing out of place and just as I left him… Huh. Him… Yes, that’s much better. This little creature isn’t a random annoyance and nuisance. This bat is a survivor. A pest and a mouthy bastard, yes, but an old friend, nonetheless. It felt… wrong to merely call him a thing, especially since he remained here, waiting for Zog to return.
Though he is only a bat, Zog had given him his word that he would come back for him. And his old friend had remained here , waiting even though he was more than capable of leaving. How could Zog possibly abandon him now..? For whatever reason, this little pest has decided to stay for his sake, and it truly touched Zog in ways that he never thought possible. So this is why Ferals are so attached to their caragors… It certainly is a special bond that he holds with the bat, and he supposes that he could stand to have one more mouth to feed…
…
“No, YOU do it! I did it last time!”
“Wha-?! HELL NO! I’m not getting anywhere near that damned thing!”
“Well, someone’s gotta do it!”
Acolytes were arguing amongst themselves. They were completely devoted to their master’s cause. Already they had vowed to follow him to the grave and back, and were unafraid of death and the mysteries shrouding it. Even then, there was a catch. One simple thing that they all struggled with on a daily basis.
Pugrish…
That damnable bat was a fucking menace, and Zog knew it. It despised any Uruk that wasn’t him, and blatantly refused to cooperate in any way. Though the acolytes eventually wisened up and began to use thick leather gear while handling the monstrosity, it was nonetheless a stressful and harrowing task.
They usually had to resort to drawing straws in order to find a ‘willing’ volunteer to feed the bastard thing. Even the new recruits would quickly learn of its presence and refuse to go anywhere near it, though they were the most likely to be chosen by the more seasoned acolytes. Sometimes, though, they don’t have to choose who the unlucky soul that day is.
“What are you lot arguing about now?” Scrambling, the acolytes move out of the way of their master. Zog doesn’t look impressed, if not a little irritated. It was his default state of being, and it was always an active struggle to garner his praise. Especially when it came to that damn bat…
The young acolytes clammed up, finding it difficult to speak in front of their master. Even the uruks that have served under him longer lacked the courage to speak outright to their master. Without another word, Zog removes the key from around his waist, much to the discomfort of those around him. The older acolytes knew what he was about to do, and they hated it. The young ones, however…
An audible gasp shifts around as Zog opens the cage and shoves his hand into the cage. They didn’t want to watch, but couldn’t look away, either. It should have been a blood bath, but to their shock it wasn’t. Though the hell bat hisses and spits, it makes no move to attack the necromancer. Instead, it clambers into his palm and with a flap of its wings, makes itself comfortable as Zog removes it from its cage.
“How is my little hell bat today, hmm?~” Zog cooed, all but smiling as the creature blinked lazily up at him.
It was as impressive as it was terrifying. Some acolytes wondered if Zog was once a member of the Feral tribe, with how he seemed to have a way with the beasts of Mordor, but it simply wasn’t so. It was simply an odd coincidence, and one that worked oddly in his favor. It was just another reason that his acolytes were in awe of him and feared him all the same.
For whatever reason, that little monster adored their master, and though they couldn’t stand the beast, they forced themselves to tolerate it for his sake and his sake alone.
…
This was inevitable. All things of flesh eventually wither and rot away, even if he’s broken the cycle in ways never intended. Of all living things he’s encountered, Zog has only made promises to a handful of them, and most of them involved death and revenge. This was a death promise, but oh so different to the ones he’s made throughout his life.
There was something about that bat, about Pugrish, that he adored, though he was loath to admit it. He was a brutish little thing, wild and vile just as all things in Mordor are. But for whatever reason, the little devil had attached himself to Zog, and the necromancer didn’t take such privilege lightly. That is the very reason that he made such a special promise, one that he’s never made to another living creature.
For something to die of old age in such an inhospitable land is truly a feat. It was the first time Zog has seen such a thing with his own eyes, and it was an oddly… humbling experience, most definitely because it was something so dear to him that had passed. That bat outlived many things, Zog included, though a necromancer never truly dies, and he was now experiencing one of the many drawbacks of such a feat. Out living something you care about…
He had placed Pugrish back into the cave that he first released him into. It was the only place that felt… right for him. Somewhere he felt safe. A place that should be honored by his eternal rest. Uruks rarely buried their own kind, mostly from lack of time and resources to do so. But Zog couldn’t bear to not do something for his old friend, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem.
Using some rocks to mark his grave, Zog left a small, carved trinket behind. Nothing large or intricate, just something to mark the importance of this place. He had carved a few words on a flattened stone that he had found not far from where he originally found Pugrish. It read “A feral bastard and treasured companion” and nothing more. That’s what he was. A bastard and a friend…
Zog was going to miss that old bat for the rest of his miserable existence, but he wouldn’t bring him back. He somehow loved that bat more than he loves himself, and he wouldn’t dare force suffering onto something so beloved such as he. Even if it broke what remained of his shattered heart.