(Flail wildly!)

Unable to properly defend himself, Zukka finds himself being pulled off the beast by his hair. He falls flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him as he is dragged off the road and into the ruined structure nearby.

Kicking and yelling, he demands to be unhanded, only to be roughly thrown to the hard, snowy ground where his hair was grabbed yet again and the point of a dagger was shoved into his face.

“Wasn’t expecting to see a black-cloak out here, but you’ll do!”

Zukka cringed at the smell of sour breath washing over his face. The uruk that had yanked him off his beast was hard on the eyes: older than he was, with an ugly grey-green skintone and leathery, worn skin that was marked up with scars and wrinkles. He made a face as the uruk got even closer to him, keeping his hair in a firm grasp and his blade against his throat as he spoke.

If he waits for the right time, Zukka can easily take him out...

“We’ll be taking all your kit off ya! Be good, ‘n maybe I’ll only leave one maggot hole in ya instead of twenty!”

Zukka couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“‘Twenty’! I didn’t expect a cur like you could count to twenty!” He would have laughed if his scalp wasn’t screaming in agony from the robber’s tight-fisted grip. His head was violently shaken side to side, and Zukka stiffened and struggled not to swallow when he felt the dagger poke into the soft underside of his throat.

“Don’t get smart with me, arsehole! You fucking sorcerer types are all the same!” His spittle flies in Zukka’s face, causing him to wince in disgust. He’s close to his face- too close- as he begins to rant.

“You think you’re better than uruks like me! You think that-! You… You think-”

He begins to trail off as he studies Zukka's face.