Reyn found himself between two of the smelliest excuses for orcs he had yet scented. Their effluvia was rank and reminded the crippled elf of a midden heap, though their odor was perhaps not quite as pleasant. They had left him his crutches, preferring that he do the work of moving himself along, rather than having to carry him. One of them, with a mean-spirited, if not too intelligent, smirk, put the butt of his spear between Reyn’s leg and his crutches, causing the elf, who was still figuring out the temporary replacements for his leg, to stumble and end up almost underneath their heavy boots.
“ ‘Ey, lookit this ‘un ‘ere! ‘E ain’t all there!” There was loud guffawing at this remark from the other orcs, who were all quite amused at this attempt at wit. Reyn was not so amused, though there was little he could do with only one leg and no weapons. If only he had his knives, they wouldn’t be laughing at those. He’d have died very quickly, of course, and probably painfully, but it would have been so satisfying to take a few of them down with him. It was probably a good thing that he was gagged, he reflected, or he might have said something that would make them angry, instead of merely amused. And while it was uncomfortable in the extreme to bear the brunt of their amusement, it would be much worse to be the target of their anger.
“ ‘Ere, lay off, fellows. ‘E ain’t goin’ anywheres, an’ we kin do as we loike t’him later,” remarked another orc, with a glance at the fallen elf that Reyn did not like in the least. It reminded him of the look he sometimes gave to a specially ripe bit of fruit…
“But wot yew want is a deal diff’rent then wot we want, ain’t it?” smirked the one who had tripped Reyn in the first place. It looked at him with an almost proprietary air, as though Reyn were his own special amusement.
Under their various scrutinies, Reynion had but a few thoughts running through his pain-and-rage-fogged mind. One was that he hoped Taurëwen didn’t see him thus humiliated. The second was a vague wish for some sort of super-weapon that would be useful to him even bound, gagged, and one-legged. He might as well wish that Manwë would come down in person and send all of the orcs to the Void where they belonged, destroy the tower and renew the valley, revive all of the captured elves into their former state, and replace his missing leg. Both were equally likely. The third thought wasn’t a proper thought at all, more of a boiling rage at the beasts’ treatment of Taurëwen, the others, and himself. He surged upward, futilely trying to at least get a kick toward one of the stinking, filthy creatures.
CRACK!
An armored boot crashed down onto his right leg, not quite breaking it, but definitely causing a great deal of pain. He would have cried out, if it weren’t for the gag, which he was almost grateful for. He’d lost enough dignity in the past few days; no need to add to it.
[ September 25, 2003: Message edited by: Tinuviel of Denton ]
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