[piosenniel]

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.'