[Kransha]

“They’re all dead!” cried Búbkûr, “all of ‘em.”

His eyesight was not particularly good, but the blackened hue and shadowy, bulky appearance of the orcs on Weathertop was easily distinguishable, in contrast to the Elves, men, and monstrous trolls. Squinting and blinking, Búbkûr peered up at the ruins that marked the summit of the earthen lump of rock as it jutted from the plains below. He could see that the initial force of six uruks had been easily slain, though they had done some damage. Búbkûr, as usual, was suffering from a belligerent mood, and wished to be involved, personally in the battle. He was hungry for blood, an unsavory lust that came upon him often, and was practically salivating at the possibility of staining his jagged hook hand with Elvish blood. In Gundabad, it had become increasingly harder to find such an admirable living quarry as Elves, since those seldom ventured deep into the Misty Mountains. Of late, Búbkûr had only had access to wretched Bree men like the fool Fen Sheperdspurse, and roaming hobbits far from their accustomed element. Eager, with a thin line of saliva seeping from his crooked lips, Búbkûr glanced at his commander, who stood nearby, gazing at the battle.

“Doesn’t matter.” Said Bâzzog astutely, “We’ll send more.” He said this with a great deal of nonchalance, which was not particularly common for him. It surprised Búbkûr, and Gráthgrob as well, who sat not far off, contemplating battle stratagems with the assistance of a knobby stick and a patch of grassless dirt, that Bâzzog, the ruthless chieftain of uruks, had not already sent in his whole, massive force to overwhelm the few meager remnants of resistance against him. Instead, he was being incredibly coy and reserved with his tactics. But, he was not utterly altered. Slightly irate because of this conservatism, Búbkûr ventured a frustrated query to his commander. “How many this time?” he said, “The whole bunch?”

“Eight.” Bâzzog replied, turning on his heel, “Eight more.” He indicated a number of orcs, who leapt up merrily, with sadistic grins slapped onto their grotesque faces. Bâzzog then gestured to Búbkûr and Kransha, who had been carefully examining the hill above and scoping out the situation warily. “Búbkûr,” the uruk chief said then, pointing a thick stump of a finger and the tapered claw at its end toward Amon Sûl, “you lead this group. Kransha,” he shot a dank look at his gangly lieutenant, who turned dutifully to face him and nodded before he had even been issued a command, though Bâzzog proclaimed the order anyway. “Go with ‘em,” he growled, and then paused, smiling like a hungry wolf; “…Make sure you leave some for me, yes?”

Kransha nodded again, more promptly than before, and slid a red-tipped bolt nimbly from the quiver dangling at his side. He pushed it against the hard wood of his bow and nocked the arrow, holding it up as if he were about to fire. But, instead of taking careful aim and loosing the shaft, he broke into a dead sprint towards Weathertop. Búbkûr, after a grimacing glare from Bâzzog that incited him, rushed after Kransha, lumbering slowly in comparison to the swiftness and speed of the other orc. Behind him, the other six orcs, an assortment of large brutes, surly and muscular in appearance, began to run, until the group had arrived at the bottom of Weathertop’s slope.

It did not take long for the orcs to scale the hill and engage their foes in battle