[Kransha]

“Idiots.” Thrákmazh snarled beneath his breath, the final syllable terminating with a long, serpentine hiss as his single usable eye rolled sideways in its sunken socket. He was glowering over, though the gnarled windows of trees with patches of dappled sunlight coursing through their branches, at one of the many discontinuous bands of uruks that had congregated. A guttural, canine growl rumbled ominously in his throat as he got to his feet and took several steps towards the other group, placing an open palm on one of the trees and impatiently tapping his ragged talon against it.

“Bloody, stupid fools.” He said grimly, the digit beating faster, less rhythmically on the bark of the half-dead tree. “Yes, bloody, stupid fools, sir.” Chanted Urkrásh behind him, his voice comparatively smaller and less imposing, but equally gruff, as the dank tone of an uruk should be. The other uruk, standing partially hunched over in Thrákmazh flickering shadow, continually nodded, waiting for the opportunity to do something his master desired. Usually, Thrákmazh would’ve snapped angrily at his lesser cohort, but he was far too busy being angry with something else. As his finger tapped faster and faster on the bulky tree trunk, it began to steadily scratch off the bark as his solitary eye narrowed into a thin line of sickly color. The mountain orcs he was looking at, with fierce and frustrated intensity, actually had the gall to be entertaining themselves with foolish pursuits when the army was supposed to be preparing for organized departure. One orc had been oafish enough to stab himself accidentally, but was now concerning himself with a game of dice. It disgusted Thrákmazh, who’d never really thought much of other orcs, but was set upon the success of this attack.

The plates of armor strapped around his feet and legs clanking noisily on the grassy, earthy ground, he made his way towards the group of wretched uruks, who seemed totally unaware of his presence in the compact clearing. Blinking momentarily before his gaze steadied again, he ambled into the midst of the orcs, watching with a satisfied grunt as several of them turned and took notice. At last, his single, yellowy orb scanning the limited vicinity, Thrákmazh spoke, his raspy voice filling with a commanding air. “C’mon, you lot, we’ve got work to do. Not time for these…games. Get up!”

Most of them heard him, heads snapping sideways or backwards at implausible angles to see him. Several uruks spun around dazedly and managed to throw themselves onto their feet, ready and waiting for his next order. Some just crawled around and looked at him despondently, as if they had no idea what he was saying. Some just cocked their heads boorishly, shooting dumb glances at him, and some didn’t take notice at all. A venomous grimace forming on Thrákmazh’s face, he stalked over to two orcs who had not acknowledged him, one of which being the imbecile who’d nearly cut his own hand off and was now shooting dice across the clumps of dirt with a tattered rag used as a makeshift bandage to stifle the bleeding of his hand. Thrákmazh stood, looming over the uruk, his shadow cast like a dark cloud above him, and the brute didn’t even notice. Some of the other orcs were starting to become self-conscious, but Thrákmazh was heedless of their concealed whispers. “Did ye hear me? I said, NOW!”

Before the orc, or anyone else could react, Thrákmazh’s coal-colored fist had clenched around one of the bolts jammed into the leather quiver on his back, whipped it out, speared the orc’s open hand with it as he released the bone-dice again, and carried that impaled hand upward into the tree’s side. The orc yelped with pain, new and old blood intermixed from both wounds now coursing over his whitened knuckles and onto the tree bark. As the orc roared in agony, Thrákmazh yanked the arrow out, letting loose a brief spurt of dark liquid, and unsheathed the rusty, jagged falchion that hung at his side, driving it in a fearsome arc across the trunk of the tree and the orc who had been helplessly nailed to it a moment ago.

A moment later, Thrákmazh stepped back, plopping the arrow back into his quiver and sliding his dripping blade back into its scabbard with a metallic shriek. He looked down as the orc, a great gash cut across his chest at a diagonal, crumpled onto the ground in a twisted heap, jerking back and forth for a second before he went still and stiff. There was no sound from the other orcs except for the noisy panting of their breaths. Many jaws hung slack and faces were slated, but again, Thrákmazh dismissed it. Most of them had seen comrades slain before, and would not care to see more fall. He was not in charge of keeping them happy, it wasn’t his concern wether or not they liked him as a commander.

“Filthy worm,” he spat, kicking the limp corpse so that it rolled a few feet, “trying to get himself killed before the elves get to him.” He turned, looking up, as he wiped the remnants of the other orc’s blood from his own hand and the supply that had peppered his armor. “You maggots remember this; I don’t care how many of you I have to kill before you get the message. The Great Eye doesn’t stand for stupid brutes in his army who don’t know the difference between a tree and a rock." Some of the orcs looked around nervously, lumps building in their throats. "I’m in command here and I get the job of making sure none of you rats get out of line, or do anything that might hinder this mission in any way. Now, get yerselves ready, we’re getting out of here.”

Again, not waiting for them to react, Thrákmazh moved along, purposefully stepping on the body and crunching several useless ribs as he walked through the forest and mass of soldiers, gesturing to his self-styled servant darkly, who followed behind him dutifully and obediently, shooting disappointed glances at the orcs behind. “Come, Urkrásh.” He said quietly, “There are other matters to attend to here.”