[Kransha]

Ahead they trudged, relatively slow at best. Many were lagging behind, at the wispy tail of the unshapely column that dragged itself across gently sloping land. Some slumped, kneeling in the dirt to pant, as if the journey was some more strenuous activity. Yes, they had started only as the morning’s light pierced nightly clouds and the shroud of pale, dappled blackness that peered at all sleeping beings like glittering eyes through the twisted branches of tall trees, had not yet begun to recoil from the heavens, but they had slept deeply, or should have. Many yanked they’re wretched, deformed legs over easy terrain, possibly trying to falsify some acting injury so that they might be excused. Of course, their captain would rather slit their gasping, rasping throats than let them sit and plant their barbaric muzzles in the earth to intake puddles of water that had materialized there. That captain trudged, with a little more vigor than the rest, at the head and front of the mellifluous serpent which wormed its way towards the sight were its miniscule prey awaited it, unknowing and unready. How grand a day it might be, if the serpent struck with enthusiasm and power, but, alas, most of the serpent’s scales had withered wearily.

“They don’t want to go, ye know.” Urkrásh said, piping in quietly. He would’ve been reluctant, under most conditions, to say anything to his master without being spoken to first, but today, Thrákmazh the Mighty seemed subdued somewhat, his single eye darkened, vague and filled with swampy murk, as if it had been tainted by some rank substance overnight. His brow sagged, his arms, usually pulled up at his side as if ready to strike the next thing that cocked an impudent eyebrow at him, were hanging limp, weak and lacking resolution, swinging from side to irresolute side. One hand, though, bore a great, sharp object in it, his gilded scimitar, clutched diligently in the grip of gnarled, rooted digits. His lingering eye, slithering to and fro in its ragged socket, turned to peer at Urkrásh.

“Because they’re all fools,” he snapped darkly, tightening his grip around the surprisingly cold, smooth feel of his weapon’s, “herded beasts who don’t want anything. That’s why they don’t want to go.” Urkrásh, ever faithful, though oft encouraged not to be thus to such a vile and malicious orcish fiend (even considered so by those who followed him) nodded his head without the slightest thought or hesitation. “Yes, Thrákmazh.” He murmured; a glum, bare expression on his face. He continued nodding after the gesture was made, shaking his head rather dumbly up and down and trying to keep up with Thrákmazh, who was persistent in his quicker speed. The orc captain was scowling brutally, his mind continually running over his frustration at his own men’s apparent lack of purpose, as he’d orated in a fiery rant to Urkrásh less than a sunrise ago. Now, as usual, he was more than ready to make another example.

“But, they’re a-goin’ now and half of the rats’ll be dead under Elven blades before the night has come.” He bellowed, a noise which surprised Urkrásh so much that he skidded to a halt. Thrákmazh’s volume shot up, raising an unwholesome octave, and his dank tone resounded through the ranks so much that tremulous shudders could be heard as an aftershock. The other orcs rushed around the two as Thrákmazh halted, turning angrily on his hopeful lieutenant. “Ye know what they think? They think they’ll be doin’ all the fighting! Indeed, and they’re wrong. I swear I’ll gut ‘em where they stand if any run, those bloody cowards!” The words of the last statement were viciously roared into Urkrásh’s face, who staggered involuntarily, and another unanimous shudder overran the ranks of orcs.

“They want motivation, sir…” squeaked Urkrash daintily, “you can give them that.”

“Motivation, ye say?” Thrákmazh snapped, half incredulous, turning his shoulder to Urkrásh, “An orc doesn’t need motivation. An orc needs a sense of what he ought to do, for there is only one thing an orc ought to do, and once an orc grasps that he won’t need to question anything as long as he lives. Being a thrall of the Great Eye is a miserable thing, Urkrásh, but if you make somethin’ of it, see somethin’ in it, all will be clear. There’s only one thing you can do, and that’s serve with all the loyalty, with all the zeal, with all the strength in yer bones and the steel in yer sword. You’ll never be free of yer service, and there’s no consolation in anything else, so ye might as well show who you serve that you’re better at serving than everyone else, and ye can get all the pleasure out of it too.” Urkrásh, looking into the solitary, lonely eye of his master, saw an all-too familiar, faint glow of sickly yellow, yearning to be released from its cage under a wrinkly lid. “The master tells me to kill, I kill, and I’ve learned to like it. If those orcs knew what fun they’re was to be had…”

As his master’s voice withered, faded, and eventually died down into a raspy breathing, Urkrásh raised a finger of suggestion. “They’re scared, Thrákmazh, and tired.” Thrákmazh turned to him, glaring fierily at first, his gaze and face sharpened like the rusty dagger that hung in his armored belt, but suddenly settled, and he cackled with furious, bombastic madness in his voice. “TIRED?” he roared, questioning the sky, rather than his servant. “SCARED? And the Great Eye will give ‘em a break to rest they’re poor little feet?” Again, he looked down, his head swiveling to scan the mounds of orc-flesh moving as waves on the sea would around them. His eye narrowed, shriveling and shrinking into a single gem, twinkling evilly where it sat, and he began to walk forward, towards the front. “I’ll give ‘em a rest.”

Suddenly, he shot forward, plowing through the ranks, his blade up at his side and his clawed feet leaving deep imprints in the ground that looks as if they wished to simmer and suddenly burst into flame, to show the path he’d taken, In mere moments, he’d cleared most orcs, looking past them to the men who walked weakly in another clump not far off. He cackled again, slashing the air before him and turned towards his orcish brethren, his voice swelling to a magnificent roar which boomed like orcish thunder. “PICK UP THE PACE! ANY MAGGOT WHO CAN’T MATCH MY SPEED’LL BE A MEAL FOR MY SWORD!”

And they listened…amazingly well.

“We’ll have those elves begging for mercy, lads!” He cried, again his tone overwhelming the ranks, “We’ll have ‘em groveling on the ground, and those men will still be leagues behind.” For the first time, there was a very bleak murmur of reluctant approval. “The glory of this is going to us and us alone!” Again, another murmur came, and soon enough, more murmurs, many uncomfortable, most impartial, or so it seemed. Thrákmazh didn’t care, not in the slightest, for he was caught up in his purpose, the one he spoke of. He was going to taste elf blood this day, and his men would with him, else they’d be slain with the foul elves and laid in gore alongside them. He ran, and continued, not pacing himself, letting the rest lag behind, the sounds of their panting, sharp intakes of breath beating in his ears and shaping themselves into war drums, signaling his coming victory, a majestic and wonderful herald of blood to be spilt.

“They can’t…match your pace…sir.” muttered Urkrash in between his own pants, trying feebly to keep the speed himself, “…You know that…Not all of ‘em.” He looked back, his head bobbing as he ran, to the smaller group of men who’d assembled for the mission, who were now trailing far behind. They were looking to the orcs, dismissing their new speed as a burst of dark adrenaline, he supposed, but again, this was a fact that didn’t matter to Thrákmazh, who still ran…and ran…and then, very suddenly and unreadily, stopped.

Since the company of orcs was trying to ‘match’ Thrákmazh’s pace, they halted very abruptly when he did, many stumbling awkwardly, tripping over each other and sliding head first into the dirt. They pushed up again, taking the opportunity to collapse, muttering constantly. A new din of angry conversation filled the air, but Thrákmazh’s sword-hand flew up menacingly, and they all stopped. They watched, with a strange, animalistic anticipation on their face, as Thrákmazh’s hooked nose sniffed the air several times in slow, cautious succession. As a new, unsettling silence settled, Thrákmazh turned to the troops he commanded, his next tone as shrill and small as a whisper. “There’s something in the air.” He faintly said, more words which traveled as a rippling wave would across the bustling mass of now silent orcs, “…Smells like…elf-flesh…” he turned away from them all, “They’re close.”

Again, a fire seethed in his eye, and his rusty blade was up.

“C’MON YOU WORMS! MOVE!”