[Kransha]

The attack began well, despite the number of uruks that was brought down at first. Búbkûr and Kransha, with eight orcs immediately behind, swarmed as locusts onto the field and clashed noisily against their enemies. The eight orcs practically fell onto the hill, and spread out, as the troll reinforcements arrived and engaged the enemy as well.

It was a man who slew the first orc. He was blond, perhaps of Rohirrim descent, or one directly, though orcs did not care for genealogical quibbling. The man was armed with a dizzying array of ranged knives, sharp as the teeth of dragons, which he had at the ready. His soaring blades closed the meager distance between the man and his targets easily, piercing the back of an orc who had thrashed and bashed his way to the front of the squad, aiming his burly self towards a small, miserable form, curled up in a pathetic position at the edge of the hill. Writhing and grabbing at his inaccessible back just before he went pallid and stiffened, the orc, still in mid-motion, was thrown forward by the impact and rolled to a limp and lifeless halt on the ground. No sooner had he fallen when a second hulking orc leapt over the crumpled body and galloped, whooping and hollering darkly, towards a supple she-elf who had just severed combat with one of the trolls. The orc, fancying himself a master strategist, dodged and weaved about as he drew nearer, ready to pounce on his lithe prey, but the female spun with great, but expected, Elven agility, and drove the tip of her sleek knife through the orcs throat, killing it instantly. The wave’s second casualty fell, twitching fitfully, to the earth, and the fair Elven maid easily extracted the orc’s crude weapon from its chilling grasp.

The third orc to fall, along with the fourth, was taken by a dark-haired man, certainly a tark by orc standards. The man tore forward as the line of orcs, now consisting of only six beings, closed around him and his righteous brethren. He jumped and fell upon an orc, tackling the beast. The orc rolled and twisted away from the man and clambered frantically forward while the man, instead of finishing him off, turned to a second orc and, with a fervent blow, severed his bobbing head from his lanky shoulders. The orc’s headless body fell onto its knees, dropping the spiked club clasped in its useless fingers, and slumped, while the head rolled idly behind. The orc who’d been tackled, weakened but not slain, made his way towards the fair-haired Rohirrim. But, before he reached his quarry, the Rohirrim ran straight into him. There was a brief tussle, and the orc fell beneath the Rohirrim’s blade. The man then hurried doggedly onward, and, in a matter of moments, took out the two remaining uruk grunts. As he completed this grim task, the Rohirrim turned and swiveled swiftly on his feet, flying back at a great speed towards the trolls, who were now besieged.

Only Búbkûr and Kransha remained now. Both soon busied themselves. The Rangers and Elves became immediately preoccupied by the trolls, though some were still beleaguered by the duo of uruks. Búbkûr, searching, anticipating a kill and lusting for blood, at last found suitable prey in the form of the skilled tark. His brazen hook-hand flailing madly above, he plowed into single combat with the man. Grinning like a fiendish madman, Búbkûr swung his blade, and the cleaving falchion in his left hand, at the man, but managed only to rend the fellow’s clothes. Angry and inwardly steaming, the orc forced the man backward, towards the hill crest, berating him with further attacks, but the man soon got a swift strike in, in between the massive arcs made by Búbkûr’s fearsome arsenal of weaponry. The blow penetrated Búbkûr’s defenses, the tip of a broad blade slicing at his arm and cutting a thin gash, which oozed coal-black blood that began to well up, streaming down the length of Búbkûr’s left arm. Growling and gnashing his teeth, eyes ablaze with murderous fire, Búbkûr surged forward again, and began to stab with his hook hand, raking at the man. At last, he made contact, his hook looping over his enemy’s shoulder and, as he pulled back his muscled arm, impaling it. The hook pierced through the back of the Ranger’s shoulder, and the man cried out, and Búbkûr was instantly filled with the pompous belief that he had already won, but his fantasy was cruelly disrupted when, instead of melting into a quivering mass of fear-stricken man flesh, the Ranger whipped his own blade around, lopping a chunk from Búbkûr’s leg. With a dejected groan, Búbkûr pulled his hook hand from its place and began to stagger backward, fending the man off feebly as he fled.

As all this was occurring, Kransha, one eye carefully closed to further hone his aim, was searching the flattened roof of Amon Sûl for a target. An arrow was nocked to his bow, and vibrating minutely, as if it to was anticipating an impending kill. Kransha, though, held out little hope. He was not a creature who wasted perfectly good killing utensils, and did not plan on firing unless he knew he could hit a target. So, he waited, pacing along the edge of the hill, uninvolved in the struggle directly. He blinked, scanning the area, and raised his bow several times to fire, but lowered it again each time after he lost site of each target. In the muddled fray, he was able to get a good look at each combatant, and took a mental note of all faces, appearances, and the average battle prowess of most, until he had a rough idea, bottled up in his head, of the capabilities of his enemies. Once he resumed searching for a target, he finally discovered one who was not moving to speedily to be locked onto. It was a man with an unsteady, weaker build, and looked more like a farmer or a vendor than a warrior. He seemed to have no idea what he was doing, making him the ideal target. Licking his pursed lips, the orcs raised his bow and gently tugged the bowstring backwards, until it was pulled taught, and…

A cry rent the air, destroying Kransha’s concentration. “Retreat! Retreat!” It cried. It was Búbkûr.

Scowling, Kransha lowered his bow again, having lost his target again, and sprinted swiftly after Búbkûr, who was already retreating down the side of the hill.