[Kransha]

Ok, here ya go. This has Thrakmazh catching up with the leaving wagon, so place it where it seems appropriate. No need to post it right away, though. If either Arry, Fordim, or Aman would like anything changed, say so now...Point out corrections as they come, or are needed.

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Kransha's post --- POST PLACED ~*~ Pio

It was a more complicated task then Thrákmazh had thought it would be to locate the elves. Before he’d given the order, they’d already been loaded, bound and hapless, onto a vehicle meant to bear them to the hill on which sat Dol Guldur. Thrákmazh, though, was not done with them. In truth, he had hoped for another night to ‘spend’ with them, but that was surely not to be. He had hoped too that Herding, the foolish Southron, would side with him and let him keep the elf a prisoner for the sake of troop morale, but that was not to be either. He could only hope that old Herding would consider his other offer with more thought-out care over the course of the day. Now, he dashed headlong through the winding paths created in the camp, trying to locate the road that the wagon and prisoner escort had departed on. At last he found it, seeing the wagon bumping along, jostled by the rough, unruly terrain, down towards the deeper forest, past grove and plain, headed for Dol Guldur. Mindlessly, not thinking or knowing why, he barreled after it swiftly, raising his voice to catch them as they continued on.

“Wait! Hold!” He roared, flagging down the vehicle, those who dragged it through deep dirt, and those surrounding it, who looked glumly back at their commander but managed to feebly snap to attention…or most of them, at least. The wagon swiveled and lolled from side to side as if its wheels could barely hold it. The harnessed orcs who bore it turned, dragging the wagon to one side as Gâshronk, the lead orc, bounded to the back of the escort, with a miniature escort of his own, and gave a mixture of a bow and a salute to his captain, Thrákmazh, who waved him off dutifully and turned, catching his breath as it was removed from him, and strode toward the wagon back, where the elf-containing cages sat. He easily singled out the one who’d threatened him who was conveniently awakened now, as the others were not. He had not, before, had great opportunity to overview the captive elf and now, as he and his kindred were taken from the army’s camp, he saw the elf truly for the first time. As he headed around to the cages, the elf took notice of his presence, but barely so. His face was that of rock and stone, immobile, it did not shift in fear, surprise, or rage. Thrakmazh, though, ignored this.

“I wished to thank you, elf,” he said, a grim smile of evil satisfaction on his twisted, one-eyed face, “for your sword.” As if to illustrate some unsaid fact, he swung the blade rather majestically through the air, ignoring the ironic beam of light the reflected off it from the hanging sun above and found its way to his squinting eye. He looked back, twirling the weapon in a mocking fashion, and feigned a look of philosophical thought. “I wonder now, how many orcs have been slain by it?” The elf did not fully return his grinning gaze, but replied calmly all the same. “More than you could count, orc, and it shall yet slay one more.”

Again, an unheard of anger arose in Thrákmazh, a madness he did not understand. How was it that the threats, useless and worthless, of this one elf, had so incensed him, angered him so. Roaring furiously, he smashed the hilt and blade of the tapered, gleaming weapon of ivory white against the cold gray bars of the elf’s cage, rattling it, but, too much like the other elf slain recently, he did not flinch. Thrákmazh, passionate and enraged in his cause, continued. “Many threats have been made to me by your kind, but all cut down before they are fulfilled. You may be the only wretched elf ever to make such a promise and escape my blade. Yes, you will die in more horrible a way than ever I could conceive, but I still would rather see you slain now. Thank whatever you hold dear that it was not I who was given the task of ending your too-long life.”

As before, the elf said nothing, but remained, courting death, unable to defend himself in any way. Thrákmazh was beyond outrage, but calmed himself as best he could and, taking a deep, exaggerated breath, took a step back from the wagon. He looked back, his one eye hidden by a dense shadow permeating the air above his head like a following cloud, crouched at his heels and waiting for summons. He glared, but soon relaxed his gaze and gait, beginning to pace before the elf’s prison. “Who was the lad,” he said after a great pause, “the one I killed; your son, brother, student, cousin? I would not have expected such oaths from an elf who had no good reason for wanting my death. Many things, elf and man and orc, want my death. But Thrákmazh the Mighty still lives, and stands before you.” He turned now, stopping his movement, looking to the silent, emotionless being, swinging the elf’s blade again with an overly elegant flourish. “No creature who wished for life has ever sworn to slay me, for it is only a wish for death, foolishness and idiocy. I have killed more living things that any man would bother to count, but I remember every face, so nothing has ever eluded the arc of my sword. Every single face still lies in me, retained by the duties of memory, and now the face of that young elf dwells there too. Think of it, elf; whether or not you are dead before the night is out, you will still have escaped me, and that is a great task.”

The elf gave no visible reaction, but spoke quietly. “You have not yet escaped me, spawn of darkness.”

“What, no gratitude?” Thrákmazh’s voice was that of anger, but he gracelessly mixed that with cruel sarcasm, “No grace and polite conversation? I suppose that what I’ve heard of elves is all a lie. You just seem more civil, more advanced in the ways of war and life, but you are not if you could not save yourselves or do better than petty oaths and insults.” No movement, no sound from the elf, none at all, to Thrákmazh’s further displeasure. How he wished to ram his own sword through those obstructing bars and skewer the fool where he lay, but duty would not let him. Grumbling, he turned away. “But, alas, I cannot continue this conversation. I have many things to do here, many things, and none, thankfully, involve you. So, go your merry way, or not-so-merry, as it is, and enjoy the hospitality of Dol Guldur. Again, I thank you for your sword. Surely many have fallen beneath it, but it will serve me just as aptly as it has served you.” He waved off Gâshronk, signaling that he should continue. Painfully slowly, the wagon began to bounce along the stony earth as Thrákmazh stood, brooding quietly, upon the road.

Soon enough, the wagon had been ferried almost out of sight, about to disappear into the distance. His back turned to it, Thrákmazh’s one eye sought solace in the pure white of the Elvish blade, but it stung him, and his hand burnt as he held it, but he could not let it go. Some lurking feeling, latched onto him, clung to the majestic blade, but in the niches of his small brain, a voice screamed at him to release it, plunge it into the earth and leave it, but he could not. He breathed harder, looking down on it and tracing its subtle edge. The elf who’d lived to swear revenge was somewhere in the blade he held…Thrákmazh was, as never he had been before, unsettled. This elf would not die at Dol Guldur, no indeed. It didn’t make sense to the orc, but, as the symbols blazoned into his rusty blade, the knowledge was imprinted upon his mind. Trying to salvage his own bewilderment, he spun, looking after the wagon, and held up the blade, yelling towards it gruffly.

“Farewell, O elf without a name, and may your death be slow and painful.”

This brought him no satisfaction as the wagon disappeared from view. Disturbed deeply, pained, and with a palm burning with searing pain, Thrakmazh turned and hurried back towards the camp, trying to leave the prisoners, the elves, and his nameless foe behind, praying never to see any of them as long as he lived…which was something that the uruk captain, Thrákmazh the Mighty, One-Eye, Captain of Dol Guldur and the orcs of Mirkwood, had never even considered thinking.

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P.S. Kudos to anyone who recognizes the line I inadvertantly stole from Henry V.

P.P.S. It's feels sooooooo good to be bad.