[Kransha]

So far, the party had gone rather well, despite the incident with the belching. After that, Kransha had engaged himself in a pleasant conversation with that pile of pots and pans who he splattered Turkish Delight over and left the tent feeling pleased with his social skills. Then, he’d been approached by a group of Beornings who said something about ‘watching his aim, next time,’ and headed off into the crowd. Now, he was ambling in an ambling fashion (as amblers often ambled) and trotting with brisk resolve past the buffet tables. As he strode along, his posture as fine as always, he heard a duo of calls from two directions. One was recognizably female, belonging to his friend Roa, and the other much more regal and terrible, which undoubtedly belonged to his other friend, Fordim Hedgethistle. As the monstrous being and delicate female alighted near him, he heard the deafening roar of Fordim’s question.

“Balrogs have wings, Fordim? Why, isn’t that sort of obvious? I mean; what sort of a question is that anyway? Do elves often have blonde hair and now how to surf? Are wargs actually hyena lemming hybrids? Are Dunharrow’s Dead Men green? I should say so…I mean, I should say not…or so…or, well, I’m not entirely sure what I should say, but I know what I will say, and that is ‘I have no idea.’”

The orc just realized that he’d completely and utterly dodged the question, but he didn’t care. Looking at Fordim Hedgesthistle, he really couldn’t perceive whether the shadowy silhouette, wreathed in crackling flames, had wings, stylish epaulets, a billowing cloak, or an up winded skirt, so he never even pondered a guess as to what those 'appendages' sprouting from Fordim really were.

Kransha had always thought Hedgethistle was a funny name for a balrog, but he never dared question the screen nom de perre his cohort had chosen. He’d seen, or at least heard what balrogs could do from his estranged second cousin, Raksha, a Moria sort of fellow, who’d told him several painfully excruciating and detailed stories about Durin’s Bane. They were a scary lot, though Kransha had eventually lost the perception that Fordim was scary, since many considered Kransha himself rather intimidating (he wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he was an orc, or the fact that he was an orc who wore trimmed tuxedoes on a regular basis and enjoyed vodka martinis). At the moment, Kransha just stuck out his hand, still contemplated Fordim’s apparent scariness, and shook the huge, almost shapeless mass of shadow and flame that was Fordim’s hand with his own rough, clawed, gnarled one. He ignored the incredible heat, grimacing to himself as he masked that same grimace with a smile and extracted his smaller hand (still big by human standards) from the heated grasp of his quite-possibly-winged-but-not-entirely-sure-about-that friend. He turned, with an only semi-confident grin plastered on his face, towards the Wight’s barrow nearby as some person who Kransha didn’t know made a very loud, very noticeable announcement about a robbery.

“My, my, my, a gift stolen from the Wight. Now that’ bad news if I ever heard it…and I’ve heard it…a lot…Well, regardless, that’s very unfortunate. Fordim, why don’t you just fly up into the sky and see if you can spot that rapscallion who appropriated the old fellow’s trinket, hmm?” Kransha laughed an orcy laugh, which eventually degenerated into nervous chuckling as he saw a slightly disapproving look on Fordim’s face (if it could even be called a face).