[Kransha]

A decade and a half of emotion being played out remained an invisible sight on Brór’s face as his unkempt beard of murk and grayish hue was whisked aimlessly around his head. His eyes lay transfixed on Dwali and the anonymous orc who had threatened them all. He seemed to be musing, as did Dorim, though their stances had eased steadily into battle-ready positions. Brór had outfitted himself amply, bearing the crude, imposing mace he clasped in his hands, two small, differing axes stuffed into a cord of leather he’d bound about his waist as a belt (which he’d use for throwing when the time was presented to him), and a long, ragged-edged dagger. Plates of randomly assorted mail, chain and leather alike, had been used to clothe him foolishly, as he had piled layers over his current fashion of rags and shreds. He cut the figure of a barbaric primitive, some foul individual, purposeless and senseless. A minute blaze flickered behind his eyes as he saw the fight.

At long last, or at short last, it was Dwali who was defeated, to Brór’s slight surprise only. Dwali’s fit of murderous, incensed, and passionate rage had peaked and ebbed, now failing him. He was thrown aside as the hapless orc stumbled up and turned his head. The remaining two dwarves, still retaining no emotion in their furious faces, did not hesitate to head forward. Dorim leapt as nimbly as dwarves could over the panting form of Dwali, who seemed to have been knocked out in the fray. The now duo looked ominously upon the orc, who looked to be inadvertently caught between a devilish smirk and a pitiful whimper as his curling lip quivered with anticipatory confusion. It could not be told whether he was gleeful or afraid.

Brór, the more experienced, older warrior, went at it first. His mace swung, but missed purposefully. The uruk stumbled oafishly as the spiky cudgel bashed the stone below, sending up a sudden spurt of dusty mist that clouded the vision of dwarf and orc. He raised the mace again and swung, this time hearing the satisfying crash of metal on metal that resounded eerily, carrying as if pulled by dark, shadowy hands past every crevice of the tower and crammed within. Twice more he swung, pulling his blows short as the orc, fumbling with his smaller blade, tried to parry and to dodge. After several of these arching, bashing swipes at the pungent-smelling air, Brór’s mace found home in the side of the orc, though not well. With a blunt blast from the cudgel hilt, Brór struck the uruk in the arm. The arm gave a protesting groan, as did its owner, and the uruk turned, limping back and slashing madly as he turned. Brór hurried after, but the orc suddenly spun and planted a fist in his chest, raised up. The dwarf fell, cursing in Khuzdul, and the orc scurried off like a rodent towards the nearby stairwell, disappearing down those stairs a moment later.

In an instant, Dorim was at Brór’s side, pulling him up with forceful care. “Quickly,” he cried, raising his weapon as Brór managed to find composure on his feet, “we must follow him!” Brór glanced at him, his face as it had been throughout the brief scuffle, calm and blandly serene. He looked up studiously, and gestured back towards Dwali, who remained unconscious behind the two of them. “What of Dwali?” he queried swiftly, tensed and ready to dive after the orc, but still tranquil somehow, “If other orcs yet live he may be slain, left here.” Dorim looked back at him with understanding and nodded, but Brór quickly shoved the other dwarf forward. “I will take him to down, you descend before me and pursue the creature. If he escapes, tell the man who freed us of his presence…but not the others if you can…Send him to his doom if you must, but leave what you can for me. Go, go swiftly! Baruk Khazâd!”

And Dorim was off momentarily, his own weapon ready as he plunged, throwing himself down the winding stairs two at a time. Meanwhile, as fast as he could, Brór stuffed the rough mace into the bowels of his newly armored tunic and hefted the husk of Dwali, a lighter and smaller dwarf than he, even after emaciation in Cirith Ungol, onto his shoulder, trying to encourage the form to use his limp legs and walk as he dragged both himself and the living burden down the stairs slowly, towards the lower level, courtyard, other prisoners, and his the dwarves’ orcish quarry, possibly the last living orc in the Pass of Cirith Ungol.