Sauron was distracted from his thoughts when he sensed Draugluin bring up the next group of orcs to report to him. The doors opened, and he watched the group from where he melds with the shadows. Thirteen orcs from Slodagh’s detachment of twenty-six, last stationed by the River Malduin. Originally part of the host that stormed Dorthonion, then Minas Tirith. They were put there as one of the checks against the elves in that area.
“Where is Slodagh?” Sauron asked the orcs, gaze studying them, noting their armor, their weapons – yes, even their stink.
The broadest scarred orc in the bunch, named Garakh, simply peered about in the dark. “Uhhhhhhhhh,” it uttered dumbly, then proceeded to scratch its own armpit. “Slodagh camp,” it replied, grunting out the words as if it didn’t understand what it was saying. “Busy.”
“Busy with what?” Sauron asked next. Sometimes, getting something half-comprehensible from orcs required effort.
“Uhhhhhhhhh,” Garakh murmured again, as if putting its brains to use just to talk was costing the orc every ounce of energy it had. “Scratchin ‘is balls.”
“Is there anyone here with actual working brain cells?” Sauron barked from all directions. He directed his gaze to one of the squat, smaller, but no less narrower orc in the group. “You. Where is Slodagh?”
“P-pardon y-your great d-d-d-darkness, Lord Mairon the b-b-b-b-beautiful, S-Slodagh is at c-c-c-camp.”
“And?”
“S-s-s-s-scratchin ‘is balls, your great prettiness, Lord Mairon, s-s-s-s-s-sir.”
“’E hoardin’ the meats,” one orc complained.
“And who are you?”
“Ghordug, great prettiness, sir.”
Ah, finally, one with enough working brain cells, Sauron thought. “Ghordug, report.”
“Slodagh hoardin’ meats, great prettiness, sir. We hungry. Slodagh not feeding us proper. Want elf-meat, man-flesh. Only give us maggoty bread!” Ghordug snorted with great indignation.
Sauron was getting bored. “Killed many elves and men, then?”