[Kransha]

Here is the edit, with thanks to pio for re-sending the bio.

Durelin, this new version has it that the camp is near Dol Guldur, but not at it. Since I've already edited thus, feel free to nitpick anything else and I'll willingly oblige.

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Kransha - for Orc Captain

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? - Yes, The Legacy of Traitors and A Land to Call Their Own

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in? - The Legacy of Traitors

3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? - Yes, the Green Dragon Inn and the White Horse

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NAME: Thrákmazh

AGE: Unknown

RACE: Orc

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Thrákmazh carries a number of weapons, but uses his bow most. He has an orcish short bow with bolts that still have the lingering dried blood of his slain foes on their jagged tips. He uses tough, leathery animal hides for his quiver and bow’s handgrip and has smeared the life blood of his enemies over the wood as a sort of prize (some say he can still remember the owner of each dulled scarlet path on it). He rarely obtains new arrows, instead retrieving the original shafts after combat. He also carries a common orc scimitar, rusty and chipped in many places with contorted, twisting, gnarled curves designed to elicit the utmost pain from those foes smitten down by it, which he uses in close combat, and a smaller dagger-like scimitar for emergencies that is always tucked into his belt beneath the folds and dangling fringes of his tattered excuse for armor. He carries no shield, rarely coming into close combat. He can adapt to most lightweight swords and knives but is not half as good with them as he is with his bow.

APPEARANCE: Generally orcish in appearance. He is very thin, almost emaciated, but still muscular. He is stumpy-legged, long-armed, has piercing red slits for eyes and has skin the color of charred wood, though it is still lighter in color than many orcs. He wears pilfered metal plates and patches of chain mail riveted together to make a crude kind of armor with some leather, cloth, and fur to keep it in one piece as a primitive hauberk and tunic. He bears one full plate of armor which he patched onto his chest and painted, in bright red, the heraldic device of his master, the Eye of Sauron. Spikes and an assortment of blades are also attached to his ‘uniform’ to make him more intimidating. His eyes are narrow slits of green, despite the fact that he only has one. He lost his left eye in a fight and still bears a jagged scar across that side of his face, but it is rumored that the loss of his eye actually made him a more acute archer. He is swift and has a steady arm, but is otherwise weak and small. His face, minus the one eye, is bird-like in its sharpness. His nose is like a hooked beak and neck is craned forward. His mouth is filled with broken yellowed teeth, with many bicuspids missing. He has a small hump on his back with skinny arms and legs that hang down limp when not in use.

PERSONALITY: Thrákmazh is a cold and calculating orc who probably talks too much for his own good. For an orc, he is clever, and always seems to have the right response for everything, even though he’s really very dim-witted by human or elf standards. He knows a lot of big words in the common tongue, which impresses some orcs. He has a sniveling and disgusting nature, seeming to crawl around everywhere and always be right behind when you least suspect it, but that is overshadowed by his growing ego, which he has developed into an art form. He is a particularly sadistic orc, to back up all his talk, and gets a sick sense of pleasure out of causing pain to anyone, including other orcs. His strength lies in his archery prowess and cunning, but his overly talkative and insulting attitude, as well as the fact that he often leaves opponents alive for too long, toying with them before the final blow, serve as major weaknesses. The latter flaw cost him his right eye, but he continues to indulge it despite that.

Thrákmazh was once rarely overconfident, but his firm backing by other orcs sometimes goes to his head. He likes to come off as stronger and more regal than he appears, though it is harder for someone of his irrepressible nature to seem the least bit noble. After numerous minor war wounds, he has become a little stiffer, and is probably older than many other orcs, though he does not know his own birth date anyway. He is not wise in his age, but maintains a youthful orcish verve and all the experience he gained after many years in the field, mostly battling elves. Above all other things, he despises elves and trees, and would take any chance he got to dispose of either one entirely. He thinks himself (and others agree) that he is a mighty orator among orcs, and an equally strong booster of orcs’ bloodthirsty morale with his fanatical devotion to his master, Sauron.

HISTORY: A devoted servant of Sauron, Thrákmazh worked his way up through the disorganized ranks of the orc military by gaining ill-gotten respect from his uruk peers. Those who serve under him and share his position talk of him with a legendary air, as if he is some mythic enigma among orc-kind. Thrákmazh always knew that he was not, but there are many tales told about him that were true.

Before Thrákmazh had seen many battles, he entered a battle with elves that overwhelmed a large raiding party of which he was a member, during the days long before the Necromancer occupied Dol Guldur, an age prior. During the course of the battle, the orc party was forced to flee deeper into the forest. Only Thrákmazh and a few others remained, by now forced to embrace defeat but not submitting. Thrákmazh, in single combat with one of the Silvan elves, was gravely wounded, losing his eye in the process. But, amazingly, he continued to fight. Using his bow, he slew the elf had who had wounded him and several others before being forced to flee the field himself, an eye shorter and several Elvish looted trinkets richer. Other stories abound about Thrákmazh, like how the loss of his eye honed his skill as an archer, making him, supposedly, on of the best orcish archers who ever lived. He also knows this to be a fabrication, but he is one of the better archers in the orc forces of Dol Guldur. He is a skilled uruk warrior, and well-renowned for being so.

When the Wise discovered the Necromancer’s whereabouts in Dol Guldur, he was forced to flee to Mordor. Thrákmazh and the orcs who had fallen under his command as Dol Guldur began to organize had to disperse as the surrounding lands of Middle-Earth took notice of Sauron’s presence in Mirkwood. For roughly ten years after the discovery, many orcish companies were reduced to becoming primitive raiders in Mirkwood, taking stabs at the Elves of the wood with several unsuccessful ventures. After ten years, in the year 2951 of the Third Age, the Nazgul of Sauron returned to recapture the fortress of Dol Guldur. They easily did so, bringing many of their own commanded uruk parties with them. Thrákmazh, by now leading many of the dispersed orcs who’d remained in Mirkwood, gathered together those who followed them and went to Dol Guldur, vowing allegiance to the Nazgul. Though Thrákmazh did not appreciate the presence of the Ringwraiths, he paid lip service to them all the same and was repaid with a second promotion.

Now a renowned figure among orcs of Mirkwood, Thrákmazh began embellishing his own image. He developed that image carefully, molding himself into a formidable role model for other orcs. He became, unlike other orcs, a cleverer, less blunt military figure, a tactician and strategist looked up to in some ways by those he commanded. He remained an orc at heart, as cruel and as single-minded as ever, but was trusted by the other uruks of Dol Guldur to command many. He was swiftly given command of a section of the army mustered on Amon Lanc, which was headed for yet another, stronger, more decisive attack on Lorien.

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Kransha's post

One cold eye, a narrow slit set deep into the bare skull of the eye’s owner, scanned the tranquility and peace around them. The eye, though icy like winter frost, bore a shrouded fire behind it that glowed like a dying ember, still persistent enough to glow with pale and sickly light. The limpid orb moved from side to side, over viewing the surrounding area, the eyelids that held it narrowing further each time the looker saw something that displeased him. His single dark pupil would focus and shrivel into a precise dot as it scoped out the undesirable object obstructing his line of sight. The hill of Amon Lanc was devoid of trees, a piece of barren rock and earth jutting up from the forested plain of Mirkwood not too far from where the orc squatted contemplatively. From that hill spurted Dol Guldur itself, the malevolent fortress, its reaches stretching upward into the cloudy sky and its shadow looming over all things nearby. Unfortunately, some trees, though in their final days of life, still stood at the bottom of the hill.

Like many other of his kind, Thrákmazh hated trees, even the broken, dead ones. He hated all trees, every solitary leaf, arching branch, twisting root, and wooden knothole, everything about them. There were too many blasted trees in Mirkwood and Thrákmazh had long dreamt of taking a sturdy ax to all of them. As he knelt, rough-skinned knees creased beneath him, he could almost here the snapping of splinters from great trunks and the whistling in the wind as each column on natural beauty plummeted from its niche in the earth and crashed into Mirkwood’s rich soil. Slowly, the uruk’s hand lowered, the gnarled branches jutting from his dangling hand, which some might call fingers, and his jagged-nailed digits dug thoroughly into the dirt, closing slowly and drawing a handful of the crumbling substance out, lifting it into the air and letting stray particles slide out of his ruthlessly clenched fist and back onto the ground.

Slowly standing, Thrákmazh’s fist tightened around the dirt, stopping the meager slippage. He stood fully, still hunched over as he took a step forward, letting all the crumbs of earth fall. He was surrounded by others of his species, still lingering and talking in tense whispers in the dirt, just below the vaguely looming mound of the hill of Amon Lanc far off. They were slowly gathering, with the reinforcements of wretched men in the service of the Lidless Eye who had camped on the dusty, forested plain some unknown distance from the fortress of Dol Guldur. It was to be a great force indeed, rivaling many armies rallied in the Misty Mountains and the South, but still not as great as the grandest of Sauron’s hosts. To Thrákmazh, it was merely an event, an event in which he could shed all the blood he wanted, ever standing out from the blind, raging hundreds of orcs who swarmed into this foully shrouded clearing of what had once been Greenwood the Great, on the slope of Amon Lanc. They were to depart shortly, heading from the place that very few of them had ever considered calling home to the detestable woodland home of the Elves, Lorien, which Thrákmazh had already fantasized about razing to the ground, severing every one of the grandest trees from their hold on Arda and setting flame to the land. At this shadowy thought, he grinned, lips peeling back grotesquely. He let the rest of the gripped dirt loose, opening his palm to the ground as he began to speak aloud.

“This earth lacks something” he growled through a mouth of dagger-like teeth, his raspy, deep voice resonating like the hiss of a serpent and the croak of a toad as its volume slowly swelled. The other gurgling uruks, perhaps fifty who heard, turned to him, his cold and grim tone too recognizable to many of them. Thrákmazh, as if he hadn’t noted that their deep-set eyes had turned to him, continued with a kind of excited sobriety, “…It lacks the seasoning of blood…This soil has gone too long without tasting death upon it.”

At this, the other orcs nodded in agreement, some smiling horrible smiles, other simply acknowledging his ‘correctness’ about the matter. Many responded with orcish jubilation, thumped their hands and weapons on the earth to signify their support. Those orcs sitting or reclining sluggishly out of earshot still picked up the brief reverberation, and answered with thrilled grunts and roars of their own. Thrákmazh’s grin widened murderously, but it was brimming with an unusual self-satisfaction as he continued pacing, kicking up the dust. Making these melodramatic tirades against the foes of Sauron was a gimmick, one that furthered his persona. At first, it had been a morale booster, which was something the conniving uruk was good at, but soon enough the habit swelled into a method of casting a new façade over himself, which made him all the greater in the eyes of those around him. He could cultivate his persona, re-inventing it daily, and bring more eager young orcs to him seeking advice on who to slay elf scouts, or to ambush patrols from the north, all because of the pseudo-epic mythos he’d allowed to spring up. The orc captain did not care for glory, but the feeling of hearing orcs behind him and only him, comparing the number of kills they had to his own, heaping praise upon him for things he new to be false, but still filled him with that same satisfaction of knowing that, to a world of villains, he was a hero. As he paced away through the ranks of resting orcs, seemingly countless in their number as the dotted the innards of Mirkwood, he feigned serious contemplation as he shot a roving glance back at the orcs behind.

Some of these, Thrákmazh knew; orcs who’d followed him for a longer length of time than these new recruits, who seemed to be spilling into Mirkwood these days, but Thrákmazh didn’t care. He had orcs to do the will of the Eye, and he had himself to issue those commands that the Eye required. He had all he needed in Mirkwood, all he needed that his masters in Mordor would ever give, and was content as long as he could still kill men and elves and dwarves as the monotonous days passed. One thing he did not need, or want, were the foul things that had infected Mirkwood…men, Easterling men, suddenly spurting up from the ground like those confounded trees. They had mostly populated this camp, were the army was preparing, and more came by the second. Their forces were not as great when compared to the numbers of the uruks, but they were formidable all the same. They had gathered in camps that speckled Mirkwood, mostly centered on a single camp where the weak mortal clans were congregating.

‘Too many filthy men.’ snarled Thrákmazh mentally, breathing harshly like a furious predator after his prey has eluded him. ‘When this is over, and we have the blood of the elves on our blades and our bolts they can fall too. The Great Eye has no need of traitorous mortals in his service. Slaying them would be a service to Lugburz.'