Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Arry]

The Elves were swift in their response, the arrows from their bows flying thickly at the two lines of attack the Orcs had mounted, before and behind their small group. The Orcs had let their own bowmen begin the attack, and under cover of the deadly black arrows, they moved in closer to the Elves.

One of the Elves, in the flurry of first encounter, had been wounded by a black-fletched Orc missile. Gromwakh, Snikdul, and two other of their companions rushed in, clubs and blades held at the ready intending to finish off the hapless Elf. The rut of war was full upon them as they harried him.

And on the edge of their awareness was the sense that the others of their group had put down their bows and raced in also . . .

[Orofaniel]

Once again Herding had thrown himself over his bottle - or should I say bottles-drinking the liquor faster than anyone could guess was even possible. The more he drank, the more distant he became from the world around him. It was only himself, his bottles and his endless swarm of thoughts left now. He tried to concentrate, but it was impossible as the liquor affected everything the man tried to do. His walk was a bit unsteady caused by the dizziness, so he stayed seated most of the time, except for when it was time to find a new bottle. He couldn't remember when he'd felt like this before; so utterly confused over his own confusion.

The man grew in rapidly tired of just sitting there with his own thoughts, opening another bottle now and then; he started to wander about in his tent. It wasn’t such a bad idea at the time, since he could still keep himself on his feet. He hummed a tune he had known long ago, although he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before or if he'd ever hear it again. He wondered where everyone had gone off too, as he longed form someone to accompany him and his lonesome thoughts. Who would want to spend some time whit some drunk Captain, he wondered, and laughed while he pictured the image of himself there he walked around with a glass and a bottle in his hands. Well, he wasn't completely drunk, was he? No, he could still walk without problems, although he felt his legs were somewhat weaker and perhaps not so trustworthy as they usually were, as Herding was a man of stern and steady steps. His mind was not weakened either, he assured himself, as his thoughts were still reasonable and clever.

Koran...

Once again, as every so often, his thoughts turned to the other Southron Captain. Why did Koran always appear in his thoughts, haunting him in his dreams like a disturbed ghost? He wondered. Of course, the annoyance by his present was slightly frustration, he continued, while he sighed. As he seated once again in his chair, he bumped into the table. Another glass, filled with wine, was caught by his clumsy hands as it almost hit the ground. He cursed; there was wine all over him. He found a cloth, trying to wipe it away, but to no use. The Captain’s rage was within reach. He wanted to bring an end to this. He wanted to get Koran out of the way. Then a thought hit him; what if Koran was planning on assassination of him? Koran would most definitely be thinking the same way was himself, wouldn’t? Of course, Captain Cenbryt wasn’t stupid.

The question was; how could Herding get further information about Koran's plans? By talking to Koran of course.

"Get Koran for me!" Herding yelled out from the tent. “Tell the Captain that Captain Herding wishes to speak with him over a nice glass of wine…” Hopefully the Cenbryt would receive Herding’s most gracious ”invitation", although nothing was for certain.

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Captain, do you know where it is we go next, and what it is we are going to do?"

Koran looked back vaguely at Ehan for a moment, his eyes seeming to look straight through the younger man before he blinked, the cloud of dark thoughts clearing from his eyes.

"Captain?" Ehan tried again, his voice more tentative this time. Koran held his eyes for a second, his gaze quite serious, then he gave a great, melodramatic sigh and looked away. "Ah, well, we have got that business to attend to..." he replied heavily, as if some loathsome task lay ahead of them. Ehan looked alarmed. "'Business', Captain Koran?"

Koran grinned, his white teeth flashing brightly in the dying light and for a moment Ehan caught a glimpse of the carefree, charismatic Koran that sometimes rightfully asserted itself from within the solemn Captain's exterior as he clapped a hand on companion's shoulder. "The most serious business, dear boy, of finding the best dice and drink this camp can muster!"

~*~*~

"Cheat, it must be!"

Koran glanced up at the Southron who had spoken, his voice loud above the gasps, and gave a small grin at the red-faced man whose eyes were fixed on the double flames that showed on the two dice which Koran had just rolled - again. Picking up one of the coins he had just one, he flipped it in the air and caught it expertly, as he looked around his audience and gave a mock bow. "Well, I try..." he said softly in mock humility. The others around him roared with laughter in appreciation, and various comments were shot from all around the ring of firelight amid the trees where a score or so Southron's sat.

"Luckiest bloody man here, ain't that right, Koran?" said one man, rolling his eyes at Koran's good fortune at dice as the captain collected the little pile of bronze coins he had just won.

"'Tis fate, that's what it is," another ventured, clumsily stabbing a finger drunkenly at the tatoo on Koran's forearm, visible because of his rolled up sleeves - the Cenbryt flame, a black tatoo that seemed to flicker of it's own accord in the dancing firelight. "Guided by the flame of his forefathers..."

"Ha! Poetry doesn't suit you, Parrel, you're much better as your own dull, sober self!" It was the man who had just lost who laughed at the comment, spitting on the ground contemptuously before he took another huge quaff from the chipped and travelworn cup of ale in his hands, wiping his mouth clumsily with the back of one beefy hand. But his voice was slightly less joyful than the others, and in the depths of his drunken, piggy eyes circled a resentment against the man who had just won over him. He gestured with a violent motion towards Koran's long dagger where it lay beside him, then lunged towards it viciously, grabbing the weapon. Holding it with exaggerated delicacy by it's silver blade, he held it up to the firelight so all could see it, yet even the light of the flames didn't seem to full pierce the smoky red depths of the pommel. The man's eyes flashed wickedly as he laughed racously and looked across at Koran. "What say we up the stakes, Cenbryt? And hey, not just a pretty little dagger...what about that necklace you wear?" he added, in reference to the wooden necklace which the young captain wore, inscribed with the same flame motif - the symbol of his leadership of the tribe.

Koran hadn't moved from where he sat, casually leaning against a tree, his elbow resting loosely on one raised knee, the other hand holding his drink. But unlike most of the other Southrons in the circle, Koran had drunk little of the ale, and his eyes and mind were clear. The firelight danced dangerously on his calm features, alighting now on the scar that ripped across one cheekbone, now on his sharp, dark eyes unblinkingly fixed on the other man, now on his lips, slightly turned up at one corner as if in amusement. He raised one eyebrow and beckoned with his head. "Give me the dagger, Tanner," he said softly.

Though voiced as a request, some element of the silky smoothness of Koran's voice made one think not of civility, but of the hidden blade that could lie beneath such a tone. Something subtly changed in the atmosphere, as those gathered privately brought to mind all they had heard about Koran's reputation.

However, it seemed the drunken Tanner was completely oblivious to this - or at least, he was quite determined not to back down now he had made the challenge. He laughed again bawdily, but this time fewer of the other men joined him. "Hah! Haha! Ah, Koran, come on, go out on a limb for once - sure, you're young, risks are what being young is all about!"

"I'll quite happy beneath the tree rather than out on one of it's limbs, thanks," Koran replied, the corner of his lip rising a little more in a smile. He tipped his head to one side. "Come, Tanner, give me the dagger..."

"Come get it!" Tanner was on his feet now, holding it out in front of him. The man was either very drunk, or had an exceptionally strong death wish. He held it out, waving it slightly, like a child taughting a pet cat with a ball on a string. He grasped it more tightly in his huge fist and his tone lowered as he growled, "Come on, boy, let's see what you've go-"

The huge man got no further than that as Koran rolled to one side, ducking around effortlessly to come up behind the man where his strong arm encirled the thick neck tightly. Seizing the man's right hand, the one that held the dagger, he twisted it sharply behind his back until a sudden, grotesque click was heard, causing several around the fire to wince. Koran smiled chillingly, his black eyes seeming like terrible, empty voids, devoid of soul, demonic.

"Sorry, what was that you were saying?" he questioned quietly, his lips just beside the great man's ear. The drunk gurgled something from behind Koran's death grip and from his numb fingers the dagger dropped to the forest floor. Various expressions showed on the faces of the Southrons, from admiration and appraisal, to fear or resentment, but one thing was held in common as the dagger fell.

Not one man among the group moved to pick it up.

"Captain Cenbryt?"

The voice made all in the circle turn in surprise to the owner of the gutterally obnoxious, yet unnaturally nervous, voice: a small orc, standing half seen at the edge of the firelight as if the firelight burnt it with it's goodness. From within their circle of protection, the Southron's seemed to gather as one being, and their eyes and moods darkened against the monstrous intruder who dared to disturb them. The power of the mob seemed to quell the orc slightly, but it stood it's ground, looking straight above Koran and avoiding all eyes and any excuse for trouble.

Koran lifted his chin from behind Tanner, relaxing his grip. "Aye, that's me."

The orc didn't move from his rigid position, paused like a cat caught in suddenly lamplight, ready to flee at the sign of trouble or unwelcome movement. "Captain Herding wishes to see you in his tent, quickly, for a drink of wine," it stammered out in a rush, before vanishinhg as quickly as it had come.

Koran paused for a second, then let go of Tanner, who instantly turned and caught him a clip on the side of the head. "Bah, cheeky youngling!" He roared, but it was accompanied by a drunken laugh as he staggered back to his seat. Koran put a hand to the side of his ringing head and grinned back, then knelt quickly to retrieve his dagger, putting it back in it's customary place at the back of his belt, hidden by his open jerkin. He thrust an arm out after the orc. "I wonder to what means I owe this[/i] pleasure?"[/i] he said loudly to the circle, his voice mocking, inciting laughter and rowdy comments. The violent and unpredictable captain Herding was not popular among most of the Southrons, and it was well rumoured that he seemed to despise his own people. As the games of chance resumed and Koran turned to leave, he felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Ehan.

"Shall I come with you?" the younger man asked, his voice low so that the others would not hear. Koran shook his head, putting his hand on the other's arm.

"Nay - I shall be but a few minutes. I doubt the good captain will want to talk about much at this hour," he reassured his squire. Turning to the others, he doffed an imaginary cap and took a deep bow. "Gentlemen, I bid you goodnight!" he called in a singsong voice, before leaving the circle and becoming enveloped in the darkness.

"Hey Koran, you should be honoured - for once, he's sharing a drink rather than taking the whole lot!" The comment and the laughter that ensued followed a grinning Koran into the darkness. Taking a breath of the fresh night air, he made his way to Herding's tent, a rough, dimly lit shape beyond the edge of the trees. Casting a furtive glance around him - who knew what the Captain's real motives were? - he walked briskly across and opened the tent flap with little ceremony...to see a sorry sight in front of him: the captain, slumped across a chair, surrounded by split wine and bottles on the sawdust of the floor. The table was in the same state: altogether there had to be about five or six empty bottles and a few more full ones.

Koran smiled infuriatingly. "To what do I owe this...pleasure, Captain?" he asked, his voice mocking the captain, a night of drinking and dice making him bold. Herding's head came up from where he slumped and his eyes burned with drunken anger as his lip sneered with sudden and unexpected disdain.

"You tell me, boy," he hissed into the still, heavy air.

Koran's eyes narrowed, and he mentally felt for his dagger, making sure it was exactly where he needed it. Bracing himself, he forced himself to be more careful - he had to be civil to the captain, rashness wouldn't do. Not until this mission was over. "Pardon, Captain Herding?" he asked courteously, painfully aware of the atmosphere as it grew and lurked like some all-consuming monster at the sides of the tent...

[Orofaniel]

"Pardon, Captain Herding?"

"Don't be cheeky with me!" Herding said, raising his voice. He then calmed himself down, while he offered Koran a seat. Koran, surprisingly enough, accepted the chair that was set out for him and found himself seating just across Herding with a table in between. A glass was then offered, something Koran not too unwillingly accepted, just as he had done with the seat. It was a strange atmosphere.

"Some wine?" Herding said, causally, looking at Koran's empty glass. Koran nodded. After pouring some wine into Koran's glass, Herding himself, needed a refill. "What is this all about, if I may ask....?" Koran then asked him seeming confused, and curious. He obviously wanted to get some kind of understanding why Herding was in this mood. "Why had Herding invited him for a nice little "chat" anyway?" He must have wondered about that, Herding concluded. His face expression became stern and he didn't try to conceal any of his feelings towards Koran's question; ”You ask this question, as you didn't know, Captain Cenbryt...." he started curling his lips. Koran looked even more confused, but Herding figured it was just one of those masks this Captain wore when he didn't want to show his real intensions or feelings. "But you do know..." he continued. His voice had all of a sudden become quite harsh. Koran seemed offended by this, or at least in Herding's eyes.

"Excuse me, but I do not understand what you mean. Nor do I think you have any intension of telling me what you mean...so why am I here? To what do I owe you this.. pleasure....?" Herding noticed Koran's sudden change of tone when he used the word "pleasure" and he looked at him with great disgust. Besides, he was tried of that question; He had heard it too many times from this young man, and Herding could hardly control himself. "Get a grip", he told himself. "This will not me the time to kill him. Only scare him a little…Make him understand that..” His thoughts were interrupted by Koran; “Captain?” One moment there, Koran almost fooled Herding into thinking that Koran was completely innocent, but Herding managed to see though him. You don’t fool me, you filthy… He thought before he snapped; "You owe me nothing..." He smiled evilly, yet there was still something else about that smile that would everyone uncomfortable. He took another sip of his wine. He could feel that the huge amount of wine wasn't far of going straight to his head. The dizziness, he couldn't stand. Still, he managed to hold a straight face, keeping his tongue straight in his mouth.

Koran was surprised by the hostility and got up from his chair. "You summon me to your tent, asks me to drink you wine, yet you do not tell m why I'm here!" He almost yelled at Herding. Herding too, got up from his chair. "You know what I'm talking about! You are plotting against me you fool!" Herding said as he punched his fist into Koran's cheek. It was a hard punch, but not hard enough for Koran to fall. A red flame was seen across Koran’s eyes as he cursed. "You didn't think you'd get away with it, did you?" Herding then asked him, looking at him. "You...despicable..." He had completely lost his temper, not to mention that he had had too many glasses of wine.

Not many seconds passed before Koran replied with his own fist....

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran reeled, stumbling slightly, but the punch was too clumsy to make him fall. His right hand rising to his face, he gingerly touched the area where Herding had punched him and fierce anger flashed through his dark eyes. His fists clenched, but he kept his right in full view so the captain wouldn't think anything of the fact that the left had vanished behind his back. Herding didn't care a thing for Koran: the young Southron doubted he would remember such a little thing as the fact that he could fight just as well left handed as right.

"Herding, what in the name of your ancestors do you think you're talking about?" he hissed dangerously.

"Don't you use the name of my ancestors!" Herding bellowed. Lurching to the side, he grabbed a half empty wine bottle and hurled it at Koran. The younger man ducked, hands over his head as the glass shattered on the tent's central supporting pole behind him, showering him with drops of blood red. Despite the captain's drunkenness, the bottle had been well aimed: if not for Koran's reflexes, he did not doubt it could have caught him full in the face. But Herding was still ranting. "Their names become soiled from your lips!" he bellowed again, continuing from his last statement. His eyes narrowed and he stabbed a fierce finger at Koran, at the dagger in his left hand where he had grabbed it from the back of his belt. "Look, even now, even now - dagger in hand he enters my tent, sneaking and creeping, all the time ready to worm his way in and murder me!" Herding's voice rose from a whisper to a yell.

"You think I come to murder you?" Koran responded, his temper finally getting the better of him and flaring up. "If I had wanted to kill you, Herding..."

Herding's lip curled contemptuously as his eyes narrowed and he spat on the ground between them. "I would like to see you try, boy," he replied.

Koran covered the ground between them in less than a second, and this punch knocked Herding to the ground. Reaching down, he grabbed the man by his shirt front, pulling his face close. "You know I could do it, and do it without blinking," he hissed menacingly. A sudden white hot pain lanced across the top of his right arm and he winced, letting go of Herding as he grabbed his arm, staring at the long patch of red spreading on his rolled-up shirt sleeve. Herding laughed, pulling himself to his feet a few feet from Koran. "I have experience, boy, where what do you have? A young life of cotton wool and childish fights..."

Koran pointed at his cheek, where the long white scar shot across his cheekbone. "What, and nearly losing an eye to a man with twice my experience? That is childish fighting and cotton wool, Captain Herding?" He sneered. "You don't deserve such a title."

The older man sneered and rushed at Koran, pulling a long, serated knife from a hunk of bread on the table. But Koran was faster: dropping to the floor, he whipped out one leg in a wide arc, whipping under Herding's feet and dropping him. The older man grunted but rolled with surprising agility and stabbed towards Koran's foot, only narrowly missing as Koran dived backwards. Both retreated for a second, Herding sobering up quickly, Koran's fierce eyes hooded, waiting for his prey to attack again. He didn't wait long - Herding leapt at him, knife held high, and by sheer force he knocked Koran straight backwards. Winded, Koran barely got his arm up in time, knocking Herding's knife away as it came within a few centimetres of his eyes but slashing his arm at the same time. The bread knife flew away, embedding itself in the floor a few feet from Koran, his blood staining the sawdust around it. Taking advantage of the stunned Herding, Koran punched him solidly with his right fist, then again. His dagger came up and he rolled suddenly, legs pinning the older man's arms to his side as he knelt over Herding, the knife held at his throat.

"Give me a reason, Herding, and I will slit your throat-"

"Slit my throat?" Herding interrupted, his adam's apple bobbing over the knife as a few pinpricks of blood were drawn from it. "Well, that would make a fine end to this whole thing, wouldn't it? All would know, Koran, how you plotted against me, how you got me drunk and murdered me-"

"But my men know it didn't happen like that - I have been with them all night-"

"If my followers and I have found out over a long career of subordination, it is that anyone can be bought, boy!" came the snap, like a suddenly rising crocodile. "Bloody naivity, you foolish little whelp - anyone can be bought, and anyone taken out of the picture for a while!"

"And that is what you planned to do with me, is it? Hmm, Captain? 'Take me out of the picture'?" Koran's voice was soft but harsh. He held down his captive with almost no effort, his knees kneading Herding's elbows painfully as he sat back, knife still pressing on the older man's throat. Somehow his quietness was worse than when he shouted, and Herding didn't reply this time, although his sneering, dead eyes looked up at Koran with all the emotion of a fish. Koran leant forward suddenly, hissing fiercely, "You wanted the glory of my victory. You would have taken me out."

"Your victory?" Herding laughed, as much as he could past the dagger. "What victory, boy? The whole operation would be mind! Why would the eye taken any notice of a mere pup, a nothingness-"

"I am not nothing, Herding!" Koran bellowed.

"Koran!"

The young captain didn't look up as he recognised Ehan's voice, and heard the sound of other feet at the opening of the tent, breathing heavily, his eyes locked on Herding's, his knife steady against the man's throat. In the stunned silence that followed, his finally looked across at his companion - and one of Herding's men took advantage. Having crossed quietly behind Koran, he now pounced, grabbing Koran's arms and spinning him around, punching him sounded across the face. Koran reeled from the shock and his approaching tiredness, but replied quickly, ducking around behind the man as he made for another shot, and using both hands to thump him powerfully at the base of the neck with the hard, heavy pommel of his dagger. The man fell silently, but another came forward and Koran threw himself into the fight blindly, until he felt his arms grabbed and locked behind him. Struggling, he stopped as soon as he recognised the voice that spoke urgently behind him. "Captain, Captain, it's me, it's Ehan!"

Koran stopped struggling and relaxed, but Ehan kept hold of his arms. Having got up from the floor, Herding limped towards him, acting as if his injuries were actually far worse than had been inflicted. Koran watched him steadily, his gaze fiery, until Herding laughed in his face. "Nice try, boy," he taunted mockingly. Koran retaliated by spitting in his face.

Herding cried out and thumped him across the face as Ehan belatedly let go of his arms. He reeled, but was ready for it, and his head whipped back with lightning speed. "Those who plot against their own men are the contempt of whatever gods wander this earth, and they will deal with whatever is left after I am done with Lorien - after I am done with you, good captain Herding," Koran whispered. Then, bending down to take his dagger from where it had dropped, he turned and ran from the tent.

[Kransha]

Thrákmazh took his time wondering the length of the orcish camp. Each night, when the army made new camp in the time of the sun’s setting, roads were soon worn into weary earth by stampeding feet. Well-traveled paths had been forged by passing soldiers, paths that Thrákmazh now trod upon, watching as his sentinels and trusted lieutenants aroused there men, forcefully yanking them from their nightly slumber and wrenching them into harsh, humid reality. The air was crisp as the familiar blue of daylight skies began to overwhelm the dawn’s red which bled over the blackness that had been before. A flurry of color filled the sky, red tinged clouds billowing around the golden orb of the sun as it arched its way up into still darkened heavens. Thrákmazh’s one eye peered up, glaring straight through the thick plumes of gray cloud at the luminous sphere. His eye protested, trying to close, but the orc’s dark resilience held the lid back, torturing the eye into staring directly at the bright light that extinguished the sky’s more desirable cloak of shadows. It was barely morning, as heralded by the rising of the sun, but Thrakmazh wanted the day to begin, and, with nature’s passing irrelevant to his power, he sought to begin the march anew. He knew that the Southrons were not yet awakened, and cursed them for their lethargy.

They would betray him, all of them, unless he did it first! He knew this know and was surer than ever of what he had to do. He had to take control. Elven eyes were everywhere in his clouded, and Southrons breathing down his neck. The images of them, swarthy, dark, traitorous, riddled his infected, infested skull, deep down where they could not be purged. ‘You must slay them, slay them all!’ he told himself, his own voice darkly augmented, booming like some strange metallic thunder, grating on his being, ‘This is your chance, your day. The time of the orcs has come. Only the urûks of Gorthaur the Cruel, the mighty Eye, shall survive. A great flame has settled; a great a terrible fire that will scorch the land, darken the sky, shake the pillars of Middle-Earth and bring its lands crashing down, split asunder. Then, when the dust and smoke clear all that will remain are the orcs, mastered of their own designs, masters of all. You, Thrákmazh the Mighty, will be a lord among orcs.’ But, the only way to get these dreams, to fulfill them, was to destroy all the enemies of Sauron, and that included the disloyal men in his service. He knew this too, for, in his state of madness and paranoia, all the orcish naiveté in him had disappeared, evaporated from him fully, leaving his senses honed and sharpened like the tip of a jagged blade, or one of the blood-tipped bolts in his quiver. He needed to eliminate those who would eliminate him, or diminish the value of his deeds.

‘Herding, Herding is susceptible!’ he almost said aloud, still walking slowly, feigning supervision of the waking orcs, ‘Herding will turn. Koran is a righteous fool, a stupid boy. But, he is strong. They hate now, but soon they will hate with a passion so great it will tear them apart…just as this accursed sword devours me, they will be devoured by their suspicion, their anger. Use it, Thrákmazh, use what you were given by the Eye. You have power, Thrákmazh, and that is all you need to destroy those wretched fools. Make them feel the fear you feel, make them fear each other. Naught can go ill if all illness is suffered by others. Make them sick with the parasite of distrust. Let loose the hounds within them and watch them slay each other. Take command, Thrakmazh the Mighty, take what is yours!’

His reverie was shattered by Urkrásh, who, sidling up to him, slunk along beside, avoiding the blade that dangled at his side. As the whole camp knew by now, Thrákmazh had, for no apparent reason, slain one of his troops last night. Many feared he’d gone mad, others said he was producing the proper atmosphere for the fight ahead, and others claimed that he did it purely for fun, Whatever the reason, Thrákmazh’s troops now feared him more than ever before, and mutinous, dark feelings had been welled up in them, bottled up beneath their captain’s unending oppression. Thrákmazh was almost flamboyant in his distaste for them, and cared nothing of their newfound disliking of him. He was their captain, after all, and held all of their useless lives in the grimy palm of his hand. Urkrásh looked to him suspiciously, but remained ever his servant, with familiar unflinching loyalty. “There is something amiss at the Southron’s side of camp, Thrákmazh.” He murmured quietly, after a long, uncomfortable pause.

Suddenly, his eyes blazing embers behind their grate, Thrákmazh whipped around, swiveling on his armored feet, each having taken root like the dual trunks of mighty trees in the earth, and his hand dove up. His groping talons latched onto the hapless orc’s throat, dragging Urkrásh ignobly to the ground and constricting with the hold of a serpent bent on the extermination of its prey. Thrákmazh, his breathing distorted and erratic, pulled the trembling orc serf up towards him, his single eye and hooked nose and inch away from the other’s. “That’s Captain, worm,” he growled gutturally, “Captain Thrákmazh. I am your lord, not your equal, just like everyone else here.” He found his free hand snaking uncontrollably towards the blade at his side again, it’s moon-white gleam, ivory and pure, bathed in sunlight from the new day’s dawning. His eye was widened, trying to pry itself free of his misshapen skull. The veins that could be seen through his rough, leathery flesh bulged outward, making the orc captain look as if he were about to erupt. Finally, his hand quivering in bizarre anticipation, he settled, he tensed muscles relaxing and open hand tugging itself away from the Elven blade. With a breathy snarl, he dropped Urkrásh to the ground. The orc rubbed his sore throat tenderly, looking up at Thrákmazh with a truly fearful look on his face, one of unadulterated terror.

“Are you just going to sit there?!” he bellowed, almost maniacally, causing Urkrásh to sink even lower to the ground. He felt a familiar feeling welling up in him, pulsing in his veins and flowing, mingling with his blood. The same unbridled fury he felt in his sleepless nights, whenever he held the sword of the nameless Elf. Thrákmazh was literally vibrating because of the maddening fury he felt. His hands would not stop trembling, his legs would not stop wobbling, and his vision was obscured by the constant motion of his eye, darting from side to side in its socket. He tried to relax, but he could not. Growling in pain and anguish, he staggered backward through the muddy road. He saw shadows everywhere, dancing across his plane of sight. He saw only shadow, heard only shrill screaming all around him, smelled only the putrid stench of death and decay, and his throat and mouth could form no words. For a moment, he was lost, fading in and out of being in front of Urkrásh, who could not even begin to fathom the madness, the growing insanity of his master. The orc captain seethed and raged, his coughing gasps turning to roars and thunderous cacophony until…

He fell to his knees, level with Urkrásh; his one-eyed closed…He felt oddly better. His eye managed to open, coming into focus, and all things returned to their normal state. His swimming gaze sharpened and became again precise, the screaming and crashing in his ears turned to the vaguely recognizable thumping of orc feet on soft dirt, the smell wafting in his flared nostrils turned from sickly, nauseating stench to that of normality. Thrákmazh almost wretched, pulling in all the air he could after his episode, filling his lungs with it completely. At last, he exhaled, sighing deeply, and staggered onto one knee. He seemed more a feeble octogenarian that the mighty captain of urûks as he pushed himself wearily to his feet.

“Captain…you’re bleeding.” Ventured Urkrásh as quietly as he could, moving towards Thrákmazh to help him up. Thrákmazh felt the warm black liquid seeping from the creased corner of his mouth, forming a river between his fangs. He couldn’t guess where it came from, but he wiped it off all the same with a crude gesture and pushed Urkrásh away. “What…what is amiss?” he managed to say, his commanding voice an angry, disillusioned stammer instead of itself.

“Th-they say there was a fight, Captain Thrákmazh. Herding and Cenbryt were involved.”

The scowl on Thrákmazh’s face turned to a wicked grin. His plan was working. “Good work, Urkrásh.” He said, sounding pleased again, his fit fully ended, “Tell the lieutenants to ready all troops as fast as possible. We have much work to do.” With that, grinning sinisterly from ear to pointed ear, Thrákmazh clapped his servant heartily on the back, a most disconcerting gesture, and began trudging down the manmade path again, mumbling inaudibly to himself. He began heading doggedly past the ranks of awakening orcs, bathed in subtle morning light, and towards the Southron campsite, where his target lay.

He wondered silently who he should go to first. He had assured them both of betrayal, and the seeds of dissent, sewn a day ago, had sprouted in the night’s rain, blossoming into flowers that only held beauty to Thrákmazh One-Eye. He would head to his ‘esteemed colleagues’ and console them. An “I told you so” or two might not be out of place, considering the circumstances. He decided that it would be best to approach the vulnerable, corruptible captain, Herding. Certainly he would turn with relative ease. Also, as if to drive the point home, Thrákmazh was nearest to Herding’s tent, and could see slight commotion outside of it. Smiling to himself, he hurried towards it, ignoring the sharp glances of passing Southrons, and pushed through the small crowd that had gathered, dodging past several men coming from the Southron captain’s tent. Hurriedly, he darted inside, brushing aside the tent flap. He found Herding wandering the length of his tent within, with a few soldiers or guards still working within, perhaps talking with him, and seeking his counsel relating to the conflict. When their eyes fell on Thrákmazh, though, they scurried out.

“Captain Herding,” Thrákmazh said when he finally caught Herding’s eye, an almost mocking air of concern in his raspy voice as his brow softened to look pitying, “I have heard most ill news. Are you alright?” Even though the concern was fully pretend, it still seemed just as inappropriate on the face of an orc as true pity might look. His contorted face showed no semblance of pity, at least not within. Herding looked at him with no more than a glare of contempt, which was followed by a snappy comment which Thrákmazh had expected. “I don’t need your sympathy, orc.” Herding spat, somewhat violently.

Thrákmazh looked amused as he stalked towards Herding. He felt exactly as he had the previous day when he’d entered Herding’s tent. The orc crossed his arms, bemused, and ambled, tracing his steps precisely as he paced the length of the captain’s residence. “Word has reached my ears that you and Cenbryt had a…” he pondered hesitantly over the proper word, or a synonym thereof, “a falling-out. Is this true?” The concern in his voice more sounded like feline curiosity now as the orc glanced, one tuft of eyebrow strangely raised.

“What of it?” Herding snapped back. He was as quick as ever, and his senses seemed sharpened. He was angrier than he’d been yesterday, though in a more reserved fashion. He managed to look and sound very composed. He kept his face turned from Thrákmazh, stooping over an unidentified piece of furniture in one corner. He seemed to be brooding, and Thrákmazh knew why. Hammering down on the deceitful nail endlessly, Thrákmazh continued on, fulfilling the script as it was written. “You know well enough…I was right.” At this, Herding spun, not angrily, but with a concealed emotion fueling him. Thrákmazh now saw that Herding’s face was bruised and discolored, the lingering stain of dried blood on his lips. The fight had been more than a little scuffle and the orc found himself disappointed that he’d missed it.

“Were you, now?” Herding said, still gentle-voiced, but obviously seething, “You spoke to me of youth and foolishness. Cenbryt may be young and foolish, but he is a shrewd devil as well. You spoke in riddles, and that has gotten me nothing but a black eye and a broken bottle of good wine.” He jabbed a finger at the numerous crystalline shards of bright scarlet that speckled the ground around one of the tent’s support beams and then jerked the same finger at his bruised face, then turned away. Grinning undetectably – again – Thrákmazh advanced, hungry for satisfaction.

“He tried to kill you, but failed,” Thrákmazh murmured, “and so he pretended that his intentions were noble.”

“You truly think so, do you? Cenbryt is a fool, just as you said, but that is useless to me.”

Herding found Thrákmazh’s hand suddenly present on his shoulder, resting there nonchalantly, “To us, Herding, to us,” Thrákmazh whispered, in a most disquieting fashion. He paused, as if he had something truly revolutionary or controversial he was about to confess. His words sounded forced, unlike they usually did, and his eerie smile was most certainly not. “…I have a…proposition for you.” Herding looked to him, incredulous.

“Another conspiracy theory? Save your breath.”

“Koran wants you dead.” Thrákmazh stated bluntly.

“I had figured out that much.” The Southron nodded.

“He will attempt again on the eve of battle to slay you.”

“Once again the orc speaks the obvious.” Herding growled, his tone dark and sardonic, he spun, bearing down on the orc, who was shorter than him only because of his squatting, drooping posture. “Get to the point.”

Thrákmazh nodded back knowingly, taking a wary step back, and continued. “But…” he hesitated again, drawing out the silence in the air, “what if we attack him first?” Herding’s gaze turned to a very mild curiosity, possibly even interest, and Thrákmazh could tell he was at least hooked by the orc’s delectable bait “…On battle’s eve,” he continued, droning, “when we are camped near Lorien, we must strike, you and I, together. There will be some manner of signal we share, one of your choosing. The orcs under my command will gladly attack the Southrons of Cenbryt’s, and your will surely follow you to the same end. All at once, we cut off the power of our foe. He will be surrounded and only a few of his men will remain loyal. If we offer them the spoils of war…and the option to live, many will surely come to our side. Then, we take Cenbryt and the remaining ‘rebels’ captive (most unfortunately, we could not kill them all right away, for the Eye would look upon that as unnecessary action). Then, after we have proved they were traitorous to the troops, they will corroborate the necessity to slay them…Then; you can have your way with Koran Cenbryt.”

He stopped, letting silence return again and Herding absorb all he’d said. The Southron was looking down at the ground, his eyes averted from the foul, single-eyed [i]uruk[i]. Still grinning, though more noticeably now, Thrákmazh took back the ground he’d lost, taking a step towards Herding. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand, palm open, towards the captain of Southrons, index finger twitching strangely (though, as far as he could tell, Herding didn’t notice). The man looked up at Thrákmazh, taking note of his outstretched hand. Thrákmazh knew that the moment of truth had come. What level would the wretch stoop to? He could only hope his ploy would be a believable one. All he could do was quietly wait for Herding’s response.

“What say you?”

[Orofaniel]

Wasn't this the best time to discuss such matters? Herding thought and gave a deep sigh. He thought for a moment about what the Orc Captain had said; “He tried to kill you, but failed,”

Herding gloated. It was true; the young lad had tried to kill him, with his very effort, but he had failed. Koran was defeated by a drunk Captain. Herding suddenly burst into a great laughter, feeling nothing but joy, the pain from his wounds were long forgotten. "What are you laughing at?" Thrákmazh growled seeming both annoyed and offended that Herding wasn't taking his question seriously enough. He didn't know though, that Herding was thinking about something else. Herding was too caught up in his own thoughts to even notice the annoyance in the Orc's eyes and continued as before, until his thoughts returned to Thrákmazh's question.

He didn't really know what to do about it. To kill Koran was of course what had to be done, and it was going to happen as well - it was only matter of when it was going to happen and how. Herding then concluded that Thrákmazh's idea wasn't bad at all. In fact it could work pretty well, with everything well planned of course. Herding was still suffering fromgreat hesitation regaring the Orc's porposal; Herding wasn't too sure though if Koran's men would betray him. Would his own men do that? Herding swallowed, as he realised the answer to his own question; if they were given the option to live, then perhaps, some of them would betray him. Some would stay truthful, wouldn’t they?. He was aware of the situation now- so all of a sudden.

"But what if Koran's men still remains true to him when we strike?" he then asked the Orc. Now fully returned to civil manners, without any obnoxious thoughts or ideas of his own. "If they remain true to him, we'll kill 'em anyway. They are fewer than us; we'll rip 'em before they even lay a hand upon us. Believe me," Thrákmazh said. It seemed comforting on Herding's part, but Herding was too wise to think that this would be likely; Koran's men were great soldiers. They wouldn't have any problems at all killing several of those filthy Orcs each. But then again, it was the question of those who would stay faithful to Koran Cenbryt in a situation like that.

"You still haven't answered my question," Thrákmazh then reminded him, speaking quite loud. "That's because it's folly to make such a decision right now," he said, looking at one of his wounds. "Ah, you're right. I didn't expect that though," the Orc said mischievously.

"Didn’t expect what, if I may ask?" Herding then asked him politely, bur curious about the meaning of Thrákmazh's most recent words. "I would have thought you'd figure out a plan of your own to revenge Koran's attack on you. But here you are, not willing to take any risks, nor even considering anything of your own. Besides, my proposal is as good as it gets, still you are hesitating..." The Orc Captain then said, looking at him with the only eye the Orc possessed. Herding felt annoyed; he could kill Koran all by himself, if it was needed; Today Koran had tried to kill him, but even if Herding was a bit drunk he hadn’t managed it. Cenbryt was weak, and Herding could crush him whenever he wanted too. As simple as that. But instead of telling this to Thrákmazh he said;

"You're wrong…"

"I haven't found time yet to plot anything against Cenbryt after the fight; remember, you entered my tent, with such a proposal in your mind as the only intention of coming here," Herding the continued. "I don't reckon there has been much time for me to think about anything yet...See my dilemma?" Herding then said finally without any interruptions.

"I see," Thrákmazh then said, unwillingly. He obviously didn't like Herding's conclusion. "You've had a lot to drink this evening..." he said, looking at the broken empty bottle..

"I'll let you rest, and think about it until tomorrow morning," Thrákmazh said trying not to seem too annoyed over not having an answer until tomorrow. Herding felt treated unfairly, as he didn't see himself as drunk to be incapable of making decisions of importance; he was fully capable of making any decisions, no matter what decisions that needed to be made.

"Hold on," Herding said, as the Orc was about to take his leave. "Captain..?" he answered. "We'll do it; we'll surrender him near Lorien, then we'll kill him," Herding then decided spontaneously, feeling the blood rush to his head. A twisted smile came across Thrákmazh face as he heard the news, and he didn’t try to hide it either, as delighted as he seemed to be. "Alright Captain Herding," he said, respectfully;" You'll get your revenge....I promise you...we'll both get what we want.."

"Let me kill Cenbryt when the time has come," Herding then said; "Let me finish him off...Let me be the very last thing he sees upon this earth until he falls into shadow...”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ambarturion sought shelter from the rain of black-fletched arrows that streamed toward them from the underbrush, cursing the fate that had left him unequipped to respond to the attack. Megilaes pressed himself behind the tree adjoining Ambarturion’s own and the two waited with eager impatience for a break to come in the archery battle so that they could engage the enemy. Coromoswyth had taken up a position not far from theirs and she was firing into the brush, but without apparently much success. The orcs had come upon them with some plan in mind and, as Ambarturion had feared, they were making the most of the time the Elves had given them. They were being assailed now from both sides, and though the eyes and arrows of the Mirkwood Elves were keen, it was a hopeless battle: no group of archers, no matter how accomplished, could long withstand an attack upon two fronts.

Ambarturion whipped out his sword crying “To me! To me!” and stepped from his shelter. A movement in the corner of his eye made him swirl to one side, but not quickly enough to avoid the vicious barbs of an orc arrow. There was a sudden pain and then nothing as it sank into his arm. Ambarturion knew instantly that the arrow had penetrated no vital artery and that it had missed the bone, and without further thought he ripped it from his flesh with one agonising motion. His cry of pain became one of rage as he and his student ran toward the nearest group of orcs.

Two of the creatures had been slain by the arrows of the scouts, and the other four fell before the blades of the enraged Elves. Ambarturion’s stolen orc weapon shattered upon the armour of his last victim so he was forced to take up the only weapon that came to hand, a short jagged dagger. He then spun and ran back toward the other force of orcs, but the scouts had finally found their nerve and engaged them. Three lay dead, and Megilaes quickly killed a fourth. Ambarturion ran at the remaining two who tried to flee before him, but he quickly outpaced them. He punched the larger of the two in the back and sent him spinning into the trees. The other whirled upon him, snarling out his hatred through his yellowed teeth and lunged at him with his blade. Ambarturion easily avoided the blow and struck the orc upon the head, driving him into the ground. He drew back the orc’s head and prepared to slit its throat but a voice commanded him to wait.

Ambarturion looked up in surprise to see the leader of the scouts advancing toward him with his hands raised. “No!” he said. “Do not slay them. We might be able to discover from them where their army is headed.”

Ambartuion nearly spat at the idea. “They are but the maggots of Mordor, they do not know anything of use.” He made to slit the throat once more.

“NO!” the captain cried. “I said do not kill them!” And he took hold of Ambarturion’s wrist.

Ambarturion rose to his feet in fury of the insubordination. He gripped the orc dagger and advanced upon the captain, and had it not been for Coromswyth’s hand upon his chest he did not know what outrage he had been prepared to commit. “Ambarturion!” she said softly, as though to a maddened animal. “What would you do? Are you not ashamed to offer violence where you should be paying gratitude? Were it not for these our brethren we would surely have been taken and…killed by the orcs.” Ambarturion noted her slight hesitation as she omitted the unspeakable word that had haunted her since the incident at the Southron’s tent. She saw this but continued as though she did not. “Do not forget yourself! Our duty is to the Lady, and Calenvása is right, these orcs might know something.

The rage in his heart faltered and failed, and for a quick moment, he almost felt the shame that Coromswyth spoke of. But rather than respond to her appeal, Ambarturion dropped the orc upon the ground and strode off in search of better weapons.