[Kransha]

“C’mon. Lemme kill ‘im.” whined Búbkûr, a grimace maligning his already grotesque features. He was tired of listening to the rumble of commotion that issued from the trees beyond his reach. The trolls were doing their duty, of course, but that did not mean that he had to be pleased with the progress of the ridiculous plan underway. It was not his style, this hit-and-run harrasment of the enemy. He preferred head-on engagement, simple, blunt, crude, barbaric combat.

“Show some patience, will ye?” Gráthgrob snapped back, irked and cross, “This is a gradual process, one that takes time.” He was, as always, the voice of cold, ruthless orcish reason, which was not exactly to Búbkûr’s liking. The other orcs, though, worshipped his oversized brain, a fact that severely nauseated Búbkûr. He had never wished for intelligence, or the gratuitous gift of pretty speech. His own tongue was a fine tongue, and a tongue that suited him fine. Knowing big words and how to properly use them did not impress Búbkûr, and he thought it ought not to impress any other orc. As the orcs nearby, squatting, sitting, kneeling, and reclining on the forested earth, nodded in agreement, Gráthgrob continued. D’ya want to have fun with the fools, or just plain kill ‘em?” He was pushing his luck, assuredly, but Búbkûr was in no mood to get physical, or overly emotional about his opinions. Bâzzog had doubtless placed his affiliation with Gráthgrob, and thus, inadvertently, defeated anything the Búbkûr could think up.

“I’m quite partial to killin’ ‘em, actually.” The other orc retorted, wittily, for him. He grinned in an oafish manner, looking away to conceal the expression, as he considered the cleverness of his comment, but his moment of mental glory was severed and abruptly beheaded by a quieting growl and words from his commander, Bâzzog, who was peering darkly through the gnarled, low-hanging tree branches at the opposing camp far off. “Quiet!” he roared, though stifling his thunderous bass voice and is rippling, throaty undulation, “Ye want to wake the very dead with yer voice, glob? You’ll rouse the Elves and the tarks, that you will.”

This annoyed Bubkur further, but he thought back to the trite specifics of his wishes. His eagerness was fueled primarily by anger, and a want for vengeance. He’d never been as vilely injured by any man as he had been by that foul ranger. In fact, the most grievous incident and wound he’d experienced did not come from a Dúnadan, thus making the injury he’d been dealt all the greater to his easily inflatable ego. He was, within, filled from his bulky head to his talon-tipped toes with mad, incendiary rage at the nameless Ranger. This had been long considered since the skirmish at Weathertop, and afforded Búbkûr no little amount of grief and anguish, though only the kind of fiery, molten grief that an orc can experience.

“They’ll be up anyway, soon ‘nuff,” the lieutenant grumbled, sitting again, “…Jus’ lemme kill the one tark: the one who gave me this.” He indicated, coldly, the wound he’d been issued in the last combat, which now bore a ragged, tattered cloth bound across it tightly, stifling the flow of black, near-acidic fluid. “Lemme fill my hook up with his flesh and then ye can do what ye want.” He clawed and raked the air in illustration, but Bâzzog waved him down again. “Ye can have ‘im later,” he responded, unemotional and void of real feeling, “when the time is right.”

“It’s the bloody right time now! Sha!” Búbkûr cursed loudly, springing to his feet and sweeping his rusty hook hand in a simple arc, “If we don’t get to ‘em, the bloody ologs’ll kill ‘em!” Bâzzog turned, nearly swatting at him in his rage, and the mere look in his eye stabbed through Búbkûr, and the orc crumbled back into his seat feebly. “Worm!” Bâzzog spat, “The trolls couldn’t kill a paralyzed ox. They’ll just soften up the goodies for us, they will.” Búbkûr was, obviously, subdued by the statement, but he was determined to resist another defeat, and so, after his captain had glumly turned, he struggled to his feet, with a meeker air, and waddled over to the gangly orc bowman, Kransha, who stood erect in his usual place, somewhat distanced from the clump of orcs at this fringe of camp. Kransha’s calculating eyes were occupied, but a couple of rude pokes in the arm alerted him. Búbkûr, thinking of a vague, but workable possibility, posed a question to the seemingly mute uruk.

“Kransha, you figure you can hit one if’n ya get in a tree or somethin’?”

Eventually, Kransha nodded.

“See?” Búbkûr exclaimed, turning and yelling excitedly to Bâzzog, “‘E could hit ‘em! ‘E could kill ‘em as easy as those trolls! We oughtto jus’ let ‘im stun ‘em, or wound ‘em, or somethin’ and we can have ‘em all to ourselves!” Bâzzog spun again, moving, despite his rugged bulk, like a shadowy wraith borne on the winds, and flitted right up to Búbkûr, to within an inch of his flat face. Shocked, Búbkûr staggered and slipped into the dust with a heavy thud. “Pushdug,” the orc captain rasped, “o’ course ‘e can hit ‘em. But, if ‘e does it, we can’t ‘ave no fun. Now then, sit down and shut up. When they cross the Big Bridge, we can hit ‘em. Then ye’ll get yer chance. Ye can have all the tarks if ye really want. Kransha and I’ll handle the Elves. If all goes well, the trolls’ll get killed in the fray, and we can get back to Bree-land.”

Búbkûr nodded dumbly, questioning his own action, and scooted back into his place. After the outburst, the camp seemed dejected, and many eyes fixed on Bâzzog, each pair set before a different thought, a different contemplation. Some might have even been entertaining the possibility that Búbkûr had the right idea. Their voices dwindled, like the withering light in there eyes, and they turned their minds and words to other things, speaking in morose, conspiratorial whispers. But, Bâzzog did not seem content with their inaction. Suddenly, his dank grimness turned to a sickly merriment, and he swiveled and trounced forward and back, past his troops. “Don’t be down, lads.” He said, a smile twisted onto his face, and gleaming teeth peeking out of his mouth, “T’night’s a good night, with a sky of red, the kind that Gundabad was under. We’re in luck, boys, I assure ye. Let’s ‘ave a song fer the night, fer they’ll be blood in the mornin’.”