[Kransha]

When there was nothing to kill, maim, devour, annihilate, or ‘play with,’ life got very boring for orcs. Bâzzog was pacing, in the center of his camp, probably thinking, though it was hard to tell when one looked at him. He would crouch down; squatting, every now and then, and survey the land to some extent, but all exercises were designed merely to occupy him. Nearby, Búbkûr sat, letting sparkling golden coins, which he had clutched in his hand, drip through his fingers and watching the sunny waterfall fall onto an ever-growing pile arranged in the dirt. Gráthgrob was also squatting, and sketching an illegible series of drawing in the moister dirt with his sharpest claw, that tipped his stubbly forefinger. Kransha, as mute as ever, stood in the distance, looking over the camp in silence, while other orcs busied themselves with counting their respective shares from the spoils of the Whittleworth Farm raid. At last, the steady tedium was disrupted by distant sounds of horse hooves, and the approach of the hunched over, wretched shadow called Fen Sheperdspurse. At his arrival, Búbkûr leapt to his feet, but Bâzzog was unfazed, and only nodded to acknowledge the man’s arrival.

“Bâzzog.” He said quickly, “I bring word of the interlopers.”

“Not ill news, again, is it.” Búbkûr growled, his grimy teeth poking out of his continuously blood-stained mouth. He growled, a deep, throaty noise that swelled and gasped in his throat, and Fen flinched visibly, but did not waver otherwise, and managed to continue, despite the residue of Búbkûr’s unsatisfied sounds. “No, not ill at all.” He said; grinning like a devil, all wrapped up in his villainous cloak, “I know of where they will meet, on the morrow. Upon the hill of Weathertop they will be meeting;” he pointed a slightly quivering finger, bony and gnarled like detestable tree branch, in the direction of the ruined watch-tower of Amon Sûl, “a more than perfect opportunity for you to ‘make their acquaintance,’ yes?” He chuckled under his breath, thinking that the orcs might join in with raucous guffaws, but they did not.

“Roight.” muttered Bâzzog, scratching himself. Fen looked repulsed, but Bâzzog and his cohorts ignored the disgusted look. “Whadda we do, then?” interjected Búbkûr loudly, his boor voice filling the area and shattering the illusion of silence. Bâzzog looked back at him, his beady eyes narrowed in a dank scowl, and he responded in a terse fashion, as was customary for terse orcs. “Kill ‘em.” He said, “Simple enough.” The other orcs did not entirely comprehend, especially the duller lieutenant. “Just…kill ‘em?” Búbkûr looked confused, his thick, jutting brow wiggling in bewilderment, “Just like that?” Bâzzog looked sourly at him, and responded, “Of course ‘just like that.’ Whaddja think we were gonna do.”

Gráthgrob’s voice was heard next, meek at first, but then strangely confident as its volume rose. “Well,” he said, “…we don’t ‘ave ta kill ‘em.” Bâzzog and Búbkûr glowered back at him, both confused and slightly insulted by this questioning of Bâzzog’s authoritative power to have the last word. “What’s ‘at supposed ta mean?” shot back the chief orc angrily, rising swiftly to his feet, his shadow falling over the smaller figure of Gráthgrob, who immediately cowered, but spread his arms and attempted to calm Bâzzog. The chief was half-enraged, but knew Gráthgrob to be a decent, respectable, and intelligent uruk, and moved back, allowing the sniveling orc to waddle forward and make his scheme known. “Maybe,” he began quietly, constantly looking to his captain for approval, “…We just kill some…I mean, there ain’t many of ‘em, right? So, we ambush ‘em at Weathertop, but not all of us; just a few o’ us. That way, we can still ‘ave our fun with ‘em, eh? Let the trolls have their gold. I say, we can take whatever the tarks and the Elfies got.” At this, he spat condemningly, upon the name of the Elves, and was joined by Búbkûr, who did the same.

Bâzzog, though, was busy nodding in agreement, and was joined shortly after by the other orc grunts crowded around, some of whom whispered and murmured to themselves or others. Without a single exchanged word between the whole band, the decision was made. They began to gather closer, and huddle, and speak more loudly, as Bâzzog and Bubkur considered quietly, and Kransha stood mutely by. Búbkûr broke the reign of hushed voices, by speaking with his usual oafish tone. “Wha’ about him?” he said, jerking a clawed thumb at the figure of Fen Sheperdspurse. Fen jumped, slightly ecstatic at the thought of gaining more riches for himself, and could not stop himself from blurting out, “Yes. What of my share?”

Bâzzog smiled evilly. “Ye want yer share, do ye?” He shot a glance at the thin, quiet orc lieutenant nearby. “Kransha?”

Suddenly, the narrow, emaciated arm of the silent orc shot forward at lightning speed, and the orc’s icy fingers, closing like a mighty vice, wrapped around Fen’s scrawny neck and hoisted him speedily off his feet. Confused and horrified, Fen squirmed about as a caught fish might out of water, but to no avail. Kransha’s hold on his needed throat constricted and tightened, though the uruk himself bore a completely unemotional expression on his face, one of utter, incomprehensible bemusement. Behind the hovering man and orc, other orcs, licking their lips ferociously, wormed forward, forming a voracious semicircle just behind Fen. Bâzzog took a step forward, grinning maliciously. Fen had outlived his usefulness – though not entirely. Quietly, he spoke. “We orcs don’t really like sharin’.” He said, sardonic and cold, “But, I think we can manage it, just this once.” He looked past the dangling Bree man, to the orcs under his command, whose eyes were glowing horrifically, and whose mouths were hanging open. “Boys:” he cried, “‘e’s all yours – and don’t ferget ta share.”

The orc threw Fen backward…and he never hit the ground. As he fell, the orcs swarmed over him, growling and roaring.

Giggling sadistically to himself, Bâzzog turned around and, in one sweeping motion, pulled his weapon from its place in his belt, hanging in neglect at his side. He drew it forth, and held it up. “C’mon, you maggots!” he cried, hearing his lieutenants and the other orcs (those who were not currently “busy”) begin to sidle around him, “We’re goin’ ta Weathertop!” The orcs slowly drew all their weapons, many laughing and hooting in mad anticipation. Soon, a mild uproar had sprung up. Bâzzog laughed deeply, and Bubkur joined like a good thrall, laughing stupidly, but also considering the benefits, and the fun to be had, from Grathgrob’s ingenious plan. The uruk troops began to ready themselves, gathering what they required for the hunt ahead, but their murderous jollity was interrupted by a breathless goblin messenger, who dashed into the area, panting furiously, and addressed Bâzzog as soon as he was near him.

“Cap’n.” said the messenger, in between sharp breaths, “The trolls are here. They say Elves are about, and they wanna speak with you.”

“Sha!” cursed Bâzzog, a sentiment seconded by many other orcs in far more obscene ways, “That means they’ll want a piece of the action, they will.” He paused, looking to Gráthgrob, Kransha, and Búbkûr. They did not reply to his gaze, looking, instead, to him for leadership, and a decision, despite the fact that most other uruks in the camp were too wrapped up in the business of preparation to notice what was occurring. Finally, Bâzzog begrudgingly shrugged. Best that we let ‘em tag along” he said, half in defeat, and then considered what might come of such an action. “…They ain’t bad in a fight, fer sure.” Búbkûr nodded heartily.

And so the matter was settled. The trolls, still thinking that they were the ones that had alerted the orcs to the Elves’ presence, and a band of selected orcs under Bâzzog, as well as his chief lieutenants, set off for the hill called Amon Sûl, to wreak havoc on their foes.