Pippin drinks the orc-draught on the march across Rohan.
Pippin pulled himself to his hands and knees, gagging. The foul brown draught ran down his chin and onto the grass.
He tried to forget the taste, remembering pleasanter drinks: Ale at the Golden Perch and around Farmer Maggot's table. Gildor's amber drink. The miruvor in Moria.
He spat out the rust from the flask and some of the foul brew but could not keep from swallowing the rest. It seeped down his throat, invading his gut. His blood boiled. A thousand flames burned his flesh. His spirit fumed.
The Took staggered to his feet. Yes, he could go on.