[Kransha]

The day would be a tiring one for most, and lethal for some, but for Thrakmazh the Mighty, it was a simple waltz, an endless and repetitive one, and still monotonous as it dragged on with no illusion of beat and tempo behind. He had done such things time and time again and was so used to this chaotic, anarchic conflict that its subtle and barbaric movements came to him as second nature. He was ready again for blood, the blood of elves, and had come within range of one foe, only to be locked from it by his own men. That elf had only been a distraction in the struggle for a moment, and was, no doubt, being taken down at this very moment. He’d taken many orcs down, fallen under his hand and weapon clasped within, but surely would succumb, or already had, to the uruks’ greater numbers. Now, Thrakmazh searched, darting across the shaded field of battle. He’d heard that the numbers of the enemy were few, but more than one or two. There were others, or another, somewhere. The orcs around him scurried, rodent-like, around, their heads dancing from side to side and gazes searching the plain for the remaining opponents. Thrakmazh’s eye, though, was the one that caught first sight of the final elf, or so he assumed.

Over many slain orcs, who lay like discarded rags, their lifeless, contorted hulks scattered beneath the sky, was an elf, panting and looking incensed, who staggered now across the field, dispatching orcs as best he could. As shrieking uruks flew carelessly towards him, he took them down with grace and speedy ease. A thin smile peeled over the orc captain’s mountainous features, illuminating his shadowy face, and he headed forward at a quicker pace, outracing the other orcs of his company and men, who’d now fallen back, ready to let him do this last aspect of their tiresome mission. Thrakmazh’s fingers tightly clutched the hilt of his blade for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, and his sweat-soaked hand went stiff and still, no longer quivering with anticipation. He stopped within a short distance of the elf, a guttural snarl billowing in the back of his throat and oozing out slowly. The elf, breathing hard but steadily, looked up at him.

“Ah, another.” Thrakmazh exclaimed, almost pleasantly, his voice dripping with a plain hatred masked by this jovial sound, “Perhaps you shall not fall as easily as your kin, hmm?”

The elf did not respond, nor did he move. He stood stock still; waiting and handling his finely crafted blade with precise care, letting it sit in his hand. Angered at the lone elf’s apparent lack of fear, standing intimidated by Thrakmazh’s might and combat prowess, the orc took a menacing step forward, but the elf still did not move. His eye narrowing yet again and coming into exact focus, he took another step, his scimitar raised above his head and back, ready to strike like a venomous serpent, its tip warily searching for a new home in the chest of this next opponent. They looked solemnly at each other, the orc’s expression one of anticipating, demonic glee, and the elf’s one of calmness and infuriating serenity (infuriating mostly to Thrakmazh, who could not remember a being living who had not flinched when he neared them). It was a game, as it always was to Thrakmazh, and he would win in every respect. Now, he stared down his opponent, but the elf did not blink, did not turn his eyes. He just met the one-eyed gaze.

Suddenly, as if they had timed the event with cautious care, both warriors, orc and elf, soared forward nimbly. Thrakmazh leapt through the air, crashing down with a rhythmic thump on the earth, and slashed with his blade, lashing out thrice at his foe who stepped back lithely. Growling under his wheezing breaths, the orc moved forward still, flinging his sword-arm about in an attempt to catch his hooked and jagged weapon upon the enemy. It was in vain, though, for the elf, who still seemed stilted in his swift, unhesitant movements for an unknown reason, still managed to evade and narrowly avoid each mighty stab and hack at him. At last, their blades clashed, striking with a thunderous chord. Then again, as Thrakmazh thrust forward sharply, the elf knocked his sword aside and slashed down, the weapon of the elf missed its initial target, but sliced right through Thrakmazh’s upper leg, slicing deep into his coal-black flesh and leaving a dank trail of foul orc blood behind. Thrakmazh flinched uncharacteristically, a jetting lance of flame shooting up the length of his body. Strangely, though, the blast of pain threw Thrakmazh onward, deeper into the fray.

He was now aware of the fact that he was merely playing out the fight for a new audience, a gathering of orcs and men who, for lack of something better to do, had began to encircle the arena of combat between the two mighty foes. Some whispered amongst themselves, many stared stupidly at the fray, cheering in some ways for their leader, and some for the elf. In all honesty, many of them would rather see Thrakmazh dead, but if he won he would at least have some renewed respect from them. They still fought, disregarding the crowd, jumping and swerving and crouching and diving, constantly maneuvering to gain an advantage. They were both weary soon, both pained by such activity, but fought on. Thrakmazh was the more agile combatant, and stronger, but the elf had grace on his side. He swung himself aside each time Thrakmazh lunged, but the orc captain swiftly became of aware of a weakness, an opening in the elf’s defenses. He was battling on one side, and not on the other, as if he could not expose that. Thrakmazh dashed around, removing himself from the thick of the fight, trying to catch a glimpse of the reason for this technique.

Suddenly, as time hovered aimlessly and noises were eerily silenced all around, it hit Thrakmazh. The elf was injured! His side was bandaged with great care, and he had fought with less than his full power, trying in some respect to keep the wounded area away from harm. Thrakmazh’s battling look, one of grimace and frown, split into a bombastic grin. He plowed forward again, but whipped around as the elf’s blade stabbed at the hazy air where the orc had been. He spun on his heel, swiveling about, and arched his sword through the air, excitedly yelping as the edge of the blade struck the now open side, which had been made vulnerable only for a second. The blade sunk in only briefly, and was pulled out before its job was done by the movement of the elf, but it was in part successful. The wound that had been tended there was opened, pouring forth blood barely retained onto the grass below. The elf stumbled as Thrakmazh pounced on the opportunity, driving his blade down at a diagonal through the elf’s shoulder. At this, the hapless, but courageous enemy of the orc captain wobbled and fell to his knees; his weapon falling from hand after the grip was loosened by weakness.

“Come now, elf,” Thrakmazh jeered as he backed away, trying not to look as if his own wound was causing him a steady stream of searing pain, “I’ve heard such great things of your kind. Can you do no better?”

Again no reply came. The elf knelt, his breath slowing, on the ground. Around him and the uruk who’s fought him, the orcs and men held silence with their own unanimous breaths baited. Whispers could be heard among them again as the looked upon predator and prey. The elves were to be captured, not slain. But Thrakmazh knew this elf might not survive captivity for long. Either way, he was doomed to death, and better that he day beneath an orcish sword now than to the tainting of his blood later. The silence of the elf enraged him beyond reason. Where were his insults, his curses, his Elvish taunts? Did he actually think himself noble? Every aspect of such a concept confused Thrakmazh. If he wanted to die in a fitting manner, he would still be fighting. The fool was going to sit there and let himself be killed.

“Have you given up so soon, little elf?” He hooted again, and solicited a conservative laugh from his ‘audience.’ To his further fury, the elf still said nothing. But, now he was muttering, whispering so softly that Thrakmazh could not detect his words. He was probably begging in his own foul tongue. Yes, that must be it. But Thrakmazh, confident as he was, didn’t know or care. The elf was simply tuning him out, ignoring him! It was simply more than the orc captain could bear. It was all he could do not to explode then and there with incendiary anger.

“Pitiful worm!” Thrakmazh roared harshly, the words surging out of his mouth and shooting in a torrential wave at the elf, who barely winced. The elf stopped his murmurs and looked up, a truly terrible fire reflected in his fair gaze. “There is only one such being here," he said grimly to the orc, "and that is you.”

Thrakmazh’s eyes lit up, lit up with an insane, murderous, unbridled hatred. The snarl gurgling in his twisted throat burst out into a barbaric roar that shook all who heard it, but the elf didn’t flinch. He knelt where he was, looking as if he was ready for something. Thrakmazh knew what he was waiting for, what he had steeled himself for, and, somehow, he didn’t want to give the elf the satisfaction of death, but his instincts drove him. The other elves were captured and he, Thrakmazh, One-Eye, Captain of Dol Guldur, needed to make an example of this resilient being, here and now. This one would fall, and he would fall now, and his men would see it, hear it, and live it as he did right now. The dank feeling, suddenly ablaze and incendiary, rose in his throat, and in his heart, and in his foul, merciless orcish soul. Lust for blood, for that taste again and that light that shone down upon him. His dark scowl broke again, and quickly, shaping into a disgusting grin, in which he bore his mouth of rotted knives and his eye’s fiery depth seared the air around it. He raised his blade coldly and slowly, drawing it up at the pace of a snail and staring with his one, glowering eye, which burned like a great pyre, into the tranquil, half-closed, ever ready and waiting eyes of the elf.

As, again, the time and noise around them both halted, Thrakmazh drove his sword forward.

A suspenseful second later, the elf fell with just as much grace as he had in life, and lay motionless on the ground. Thrakmazh, who’s chest was heaving uncontrollably, which surprised him almost as much as it did his troops, who began to close in around their captain and his fallen foe. Calming down, regaining his dark composure, Thrakmazh slid his crimsoned blade into its sheath and turned, grinning madly from ear to ear.

Many elves, countless ones, had been slain by him over the course of years, but this one was an accomplishment, though a sickening one. Yes, the elf had been injured, yes, he had been weakened, but this one gave Thrakmazh a dark, terrible satisfaction that he hadn't felt in years. Another elf was slain by his clawed, grimy hand, one in a hundred at least, but there was that subtle sensation, one of achievement. Thrakmazh did not know why the kill was so rewarding, but he did not question it. His master's work was his master's work, and it would be done...it wasn't his fault if a few elven lives were lost in the process, as they surely should be. A shrill, quiet cackle crossed Thrakmazh's lips as he began walking away from the body, which was now closely encircled by curious orcs and Southrons. For the first time in more than a year, Thrakmazh the Mighty felt really, truly happy.