Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Good...for I fear what I have to say will."

That wouldn't surprise me... The orc was evidently trying to hide any pleasure at what he was about to say though, and that made Koran suspicious. Koran had had little to do with the one eyed orc thus far, but from the short times in which they had been in the same tent, the Southron had felt the other's disgust. That wasn't unusual of course, but it amused Koran in a black way - usually it was the other way around.

But despite himself, the Southron captain was curious - not that he would let the orc know straight out. "I think anything from you may have that effect, Captain," he replied, every inch of his tone impecably courteous. If the orc understood the insult, he didn't let on - Koran wasn't sure a slight widening of his perpetual sneer counted as recognition. Every second that he was near the orc, all Koran could feel was is growing disgust at the orc's being. How is it that this creature and the female elf could have been of the same descent...the same creation...

"Captain, I have some things to attend to, if you will excuse me..." Koran moved to go past the orc, but Thrakmazh blocked his way with an arm. The Southron stepped back, hand moving unseen to be close to the dagger in the back of his belt, and made eye contact with the other, his eyebrows raised. "Captain?" he said curtly.

Thrakmazh paused dramatically, then whispered hashly. "It's about Herding..."

Koran didn't respond to the bait, but something in his expression must have changed, for the orc's leer grew slightly and he leant forward a little towards Koran slightly so that the Southron could feel his breath, the stench so heavy that it seemed almost tangible, assaulting Koran with it's foulness. "It's about Herding's...real intentions."

"What do you mean, orc?" Koran asked scathingly.

Thrakmazh hesitated, then continued. "You know the captain doesn't want you to succeed in this mission. He thinks you too young, too inexperienced, too foolish...vulnerable." The orc relished the word before continuing, his voice low and understated. "He told you as much, you know what I am saying is true. But...well, more than that. In his arrogance, he thinks he is sure of success when it comes down to the battle against the elves - but what if he could win a double glory? Yes, Cenbryt - what if he could have your glory as well?"

"And how exactly would be do that?" Though the question's tone was still mocking, Koran cursed himself for asking - to let on he had any interest in what the orc was saying was exactly what he had meant to be avoiding.

"Ah...Herding is older, and has fought with these men before - he's much more experienced than you, Cenbryt," Thrakmazh added nastily, including a little dig of his own against Koran in the proceedings. "They trust him, Cenbryt - they would follow him over you. Haven't you thought the same thing yourself? On the eve of the battle, he will give the signal - and overthrow you."

"Ridiculous, orc." Koran pushed past Thrakmazh roughly, actually making the orc stagger as he walked away through the trees to his tent.

"Ridiculous? I don't think so, Cenbryt!" Thrakmazh called after him, his voice now angry as he lurched to be even with Koran. Grabbing the front of the young captain's shirt, he slammed him against the nearest tree forcefully, pinning his arms. Koran, though winded, acted almost through reflex, his knee jerking up. He wasn't even sure of whether it would work for orcs, but it had some sort of effect, for Thrakmazh let go and staggered a few steps backwards. Koran's dagger was out in an instant, levelled towards the orc. "Never make the mistake of threatening one of the Cenbryt's, orc," he hissed dangerously, his eyes narrowed to slits.

"Threaten you?" Thrakmazh snorted and gave what might pass as a laugh, holding one hand to his chest as he watched Koran through one beady eye. "What does it matter to me what clan you're from, boy? When Lorien falls, my warriors can finally reap the blood of the filthy elves. Men? Why, I distrust Herding as much as I distrust you!"

Koran must have hesitated, even simply for a split second, before he sheathed his dagger and turned away. "Come, Ehan," he snapped, not awarding the orc another glance - avoiding him with his eyes as he walked away.

But something, some part of what the orc had said, had insinuated itself with him, burying itself naggingly inside his mind, appealing to the paranoia that raged inside him. But Thrakmazh knew of this, surely - all of them suffered from it, any leader in the black troops. No honour among thieves, however the saying might go. And one would not try to overthrow the other - Herding knew how much this victory meant! And he knew how foolish it would be to try to stop it for some petty dislike of his own - fear, if nothing else, would stop him conspiring.

...but hadn't the orc spoken the truth? The captain disliked him, but surely he hadn't made it that clear to just anyone - what if what the orc was saying was true?

Ridiculous.

...but all the things he had said...that Herding thought him too weak, too inexperienced, basically too young, that he would let them all down, not knowing how to lead them properly-

The orc could have guessed that himself. Probably thinks that himself.

But what if he isn't?!

And so on, the battle raged inside Koran's mind until he shook his head angrily, trying to clear it of the paranoia that grew, grown and tended from the years under the watchful vultures that were his cousins and now newly watered by Thrakmazh's words, like a maggot gnawing away at Koran's confidence. And all the time, two sets of eyes watched him: one set outward, the one good eye and one closed eye of the orc, a growing smile on his leering features from where he crouched unmoving, watching the seeds of his dissent grow in the young southron's mind; and the second in Koran's head, a pair of fair grey eyes, ageless and ancient all at once, set with knowledge and the light of the elves...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The failure of his plan galled Ambarturion only in that he would not be able to slay the orcs who had dared try to parley with him, as though any of their ilk could be trusted beyond the sharp point of a dagger’s tip. He lay with his face to the wooden floor of the cart and once more began straining against his bonds. This time, however, they had bound him with the tough hide of some foul beast, and he was tired from his previous efforts. It would take time…

His mind went back to the image of the eyes that Coromswyth had sent him, and for a wild moment hope unbidden and unfounded came to his heart. The Elves who tracked them were too few and too inexperienced. That they had been seen at all, even by another Elf, bespoke great carelessness. Ambarturion closed his eyes and felt outward through the land, seeking for their presence. For a long time he felt nothing, but then there they were – disunited and bickering, they travelled ahead of the party of orcs, looking for a place to waylay the caravan. It had been many years since Ambarturion had last had dealings with the Elves of Mirkwood. Not since he had completed the training of Thranduil’s son had he set foot beyond the eaves of that wood. They were, like him, Silvan Elves, but few were of such lineage as himself, and none were as ancient nor as familiar with the ways and minds of the Noldor. They were a failing race, in danger of becoming quaint and amusing.

His mind flew back to the green woods of his youth, when the Elves were full of life and hope, and even the darkness of Melkor could not dim their accomplishments of hand and mind. He heard as clearly as the first day the song of Melian, and beheld the great doors of Menegroth, crafted by the Dwarves before their corruption by the Dark Powers. Soon, he was lost amid the glowing halls of the ancient kingdom, blinded by the brightness of the torches and deaf from the ceaseless sound of music and fair voices raised in laughter. Further and further into the past he drifted, but then there arose in his mind the image of a great darkness that fell upon the land. Thingol fell, and in despair Melian fled the shell of her body and returned in mourning to the West. There were cries and screams, and a vast shape crowned with fire and torment swept toward the land…

Ambarturion awoke with a start. He heard Coromswyth’s breath beside him and he turned toward her. “Do not believe that they are capable of any good, lady,” he said. She looked at him in amazement, a surprised retort springing to her lips. “I do not mean the orcs, lady, I speak of the other – the one whom you feel saved you in his tent. Do not think that he saved you; he merely preserved you for a more terrible fate before the Eye.”

Coromswyth paused so long before speaking that Ambarturion feared that perhaps he had said too much, and that she had taken offence. “He is our enemy, I know,” she said finally, a note of quiet resignation in her voice. “But there is something different about that one, that captain. He did not relish the thought of the orc’s…depravity, and there was gentleness in his manner to me – at least, such gentleness as mortals are capable of.”

“You merely compare him to the orc, and there is no Man who will not be the better for such a comparison. If he were to keep better company it would suit him the worse.” He felt Coromswyth acknowledge the truth of what he was saying, but without the full conviction that he would have desired. “If I have the opportunity,” he said quietly, “I will not hesitate to slay him. He is sworn to the destruction of the Golden Wood, and for that he is worse than any orc, for he is not just the mindless slave of Sauron, but a willing ally.”

“You are quick to judge mortals, Ambarturion,” she replied, with some warmth. “I fear, a bit too quick – and too harsh in your judgements as well. Men are capable of more than you think.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he replied acerbically, “for no Elf can fully understand the full extent of the triviality and selfishness of Men. I have met the highest and noblest of the race and they were but as children newly out of swaddling cloth to even the youngest Elves I have ever trained.” His mind went unbidden to Caranbaith, and as quickly as he tried to push the image of his student’s bloodied corpse form his mind, he knew that Coromsyth had seen it. He knew too that she had felt the blood-soaked rage that seethed within him about the image of the one-eyed orc who had slain the youth. Coromswyth sighed and sought to reach out to Ambarturion with her mind.

You must not allow yourself to fall into such evil thoughts. If vengeance becomes your only goal, then you will find your life an empty one – for even if you do revenge yourself upon the orc, what will you do then? Caranbaith will still be gone, and you will still bear the burden of his passing.

“At the very least,” he replied coolly, “I will be able to sleep at nights with the knowledge that the orc has been sent to the howling void that was made for him, and that I was the one who sent him there.”

“No,” a voice said weakly. Ambarturion moved his head and saw that Megilaes had finally woken up. “I will be the one to send the monster to his torment.”

[Arry]

The light from their small cooking fire had burned low. A large pot of stewed squirrel laced with bitterroot had appeared at the Captain’s table, keeping him well occupied for a good while, and then drowsing after. A small skin of wine from the larder of the main force had enhanced the effects of the heavy meal and soon the sounds of deep snoring issued forth from the reclining figure of Gâshronk.

Gromwakh and his companions withdrew some distance beneath the scrubby, twisted trees that grew in patches in this area. Their meal had been light . . . strips of some dried meat, a few of the dried tubers they had brought, and a few mouthfuls of water. There were grumblings from the little band of Orcs, soon quelled by glares from Gromwakh.

‘This place makes me uneasy . . . we’re too much out in the open for my taste. I want you alert and ready to move should something happen.’ He shivered a little in the warm night. ‘Feels like there’s eyes on us. Can’t see ‘em though.’ Snikdul nodded, recalling for them the story old Kreblug had told of scenting the other Elves in the other campsite. ‘Stands to reason,’ Gromwakh said, ‘that they’d come after their own kind, don’t it. Unlikely they missed seeing the battle, don’t you think – and us dragging the three live ones off with us.’

Gromwakh looked out from the cover of the trees and low-lying bushes to where the Captain dozed by the fire. Three of his specially chosen Orcs sat opposite him, their bellies full of his leftovers. The remaining four Orcs had been stationed round the wagon, weapons in hand, as if the prisoners might escape their bonds and jump out at them. The Elves, he noted, now lay face up, their arms bound behind them still. A few drops of water had served for their meal, nothing else save the jeers and pokes of their captors.

Late evening was moving quickly into night. And soon only the embers of the small fire glowed in the deepening dark.

[Durelin]

“Then do you have any plans for an ambush? Or do we have yet to work those out?”

Calenvása was slightly annoyed at the frustration that was clearly in Thorvel’s voice. He knew that this frustration could have been directed generally to the entire situation, but it annoyed him nonetheless. It annoyed him only because of his own irritation, of course. He did not bother to turn and look at his companions, knowing that both Targil and Thorvel looked to him, anxious for an answer to the question, their eyes demanding. The Captain did not need to see that. He did not appreciate anything being demanded of him. Finding a certain comfort in focusing on the ground before him, on his pace of breathing and that of his feet hitting the earth with a gentle softness, a certain respect shown to the Earth. When he finally answered, he found his voice was strangely cold, and distracted. He would not look at them.

“We will have to see how the orc camp is laid out first, and decide exactly what to do then.”

The only response to this was a grunt from Thorvel, and what was in this grunt, Calenvása was unable to tell. He hoped this was again simple aggravation. But the Captain was not at all sure. And so he worried in the silence that followed, that grunt the last sound heard from any of the elves. He fretted over its meaning to a greater extent than a simple grunt deserved. He was discouraged to think that this grunt might be an expression of dissatisfaction in his Captain’s words. And Calenvása needed no more discouragement. He spent his time mulling over the dispiriting thoughts, all the while avoiding thinking of what he had to. For he knew he had to reach a conclusion, at some time, and was afraid of what he might reach. And what it would take to reach any conclusion at all… There was so much to consider, so much guessing to do, so much judging and weighing. Judging left him with so much responsibility. The weight of it hung upon him as he ran and the world grew dark around him.

Knowing that it was time to stop for the night, stopping early to wait upon the orc party. At any other time, Calenvása would have chuckled at this. They would wait upon these orcs, yes. But he did not laugh, for he did not know what they would do after their waiting was over. Another thing he would have found quite hilarious. The convenience of returning trees and of various bushes as they drew nearer to Mirkwood once more was almost laughable. Coming upon a surprisingly thick, forest-like patch, Targil, Thorvel and Calenvása quickly spotted Lómarandil among the branches of the tallest tree. The silence of the air was broken by the young elf’s voice, as he spoke rather loud to be heard below. Calenvása practically winced with each word. Targil sighed heavily, while Thorvel’s mouth worked, waiting for words to come to clearly express his anger and irritation.

“I believe a rest is in order?”

The surety of his voice overstepped the border that separated confidence from arrogance, and Targil responded most fittingly with a snort. Thorvel was still preparing to speak, and though Calenvása knew that the elf’s anger should not be released at this moment and in such a way, he remained silent. As cold, harsh words emerged from Thorvel’s mouth, mirroring the tightness of his face and the burning of his eyes, Targil glanced at the Captain. Calenvása avoided his glance, and stared blankly in another direction. He heard a sigh come from the elf, but still did not turn to look at him. Thorvel barely kept his voice below a shout. Calenvása looked on, while Targil looked to him.

“I believe it best that you get down from your position, for the moment, Lómarandil.”

“And you, of course, voice the wishes of the Captain.”

“Of course…”

Calenvása shot a glance to Thorvel. The elf avoided his gaze, and it felt odd to the Captain to be in such a position. Tagil’s gaze passed from Thorvel to Calenvása. Lómarandil was of little importance. Thorvel was biting his lip, his voice had trailed off as the words were spoken on impulse, and a foolish impulse. The Captain frowned deeply, but his frown was not an angry one. It was one of sadness and resignation. What could be seen in his eyes were these feelings multiplied, for the eyes were windows to the soul. Calenvása was silent, as his soul felt that there was nothing to say. And as the darkness deepened, and the orc party escorting the prisoners was found camped nearby. Lómarandil had judged a strategic position surprisingly well. But I should have known that by Targil’s silence…he would have voiced his dissatisfaction. For some reason, Calenvása had to doubt this. But then, he doubted so many things that he thought…

Lómarandil has finally complied with what Thorvel had ‘suggested’, and they were gathered among the shelter of the trees and brush, all of them. They all sat close to each other, but Calenvása felt so far away from the other elves. And he refused to acknowledge that they looked to him, and rightly so, as their Captain. He had never thought of himself as the Captain, but for fleeting moments of some kind of triumph when Targil or Thorvel showed their approval of a decision he made. But what it took to reach these rare successes was so much; too much, his mind had decided for him. His mind was weary, and it looked for a way out. It found a disturbing comfort in avoiding what was directly before him. All three sets of eyes were upon him for some time, but the pair that pierced the most was Targil’s, for if Calenvása had the strength to look into them, he would see a certain understanding. He would not see sympathy or pity, but a grim realization and a small amount of disgust, not hatred, but simple revulsion at this behavior. And that was what Calenvása felt, coming from the right of him, the revulsion. The silence remained to be broken, but it seemed that Targil was prepared to do so. It was several moments before he brought his gaze away from his Captain, and spoke to Lómarandil and Thorvel. Calenvása was no longer there, in his mind, and the Captain felt happy about this. He also felt sick to his stomach.

“We will wait till dawn. And we will wait, once more, in a position that will allow us to, for our enemy. Our patience has served us well, thus far. Let it remain so.” Targil cast a meaningful glance at Lómarandil. He would not simply watch what the foolish one did, sitting on his anger. “We raced ahead of our enemy for the purpose of an ambush. Upon beginning their march, it is hopeful that they will be less organized, as well as less wary, with a time of rest just passed. But they will have had this rest to replenish strength, a strength that we know they have.”

“And I suppose we should take advantage of our time of rest, as well,” Lómarandil cut in. Targil met his gaze, and let the coldness and lack of interest in his eyes silence the young elf. He then continued, focusing more on Thorvel. “The prisoners are aware of our presence, cor-” he stopped, and he quickly brought his eyes from where they had passed to Calenvása. While Targil recollected himself, Thorvel finished his thought in a strangely soft voice. “And they should be aware of when we attack.”

Taking his mind away from the gloom that surrounded his ‘Captain’, he nodded. There was much yet to consider, and much that would not have time to be considered. For now, Calenvása was on his own in his thoughts. Targil thought he could imagine the torment those thoughts must bring. Out of the corner of his eye, he took a look at the silent elf, and saw a battle raging in his eyes. The elf was torn.

Calenvása noticed Targil looking at him without turning his gaze. He knew the elf could not understand what kind of torment his mind brought to him, for Targil would never understand that a mind could be such an untamed thing. The Captain had fought his feral mind for long enough, and now he decided to let it run free, and, o! he had not a care in the world, and yet every care he could.

[Firefoot]

“The prisoners are aware of our presence, cor-” Targil was saying. Thorvel’s mind worked quickly. How would they know of us? And how would Targil know this? He supposed it was possible that the other Elves had sensed their presence; their senses were much sharper than those of the Orcs. That would mean that the captives most certainly had their wits about them, and the realization brought hope to Thorvel, and that hope was strangely comforting. He finished Targil’s sentence when he showed no sign of doing so himself.

“And they should be aware of when we attack.” But how to let them know? He glanced at Calenvása, and caught him nodding. The Captain appeared to be thinking, if thinking was a strong enough word. Debating with himself. Targil was watching Calenvása, and Lómarandil was frowning, undoubtedly because of the many harsh words and pointed glares from himself and Targil. Thorvel winced. Why did I do that again? One side of him asked. Because he is a foolish young elf who is always assuming everything... Stop it! Stop it now! What makes you think you’re so much better than he is anyway? That was surprising, and rather subduing. He shut the thoughts away. He was getting quite good at that, these days. He looked to Calenvása, who Thorvel thought would be the next one to speak, but to his surprise it was Targil who took charge.

“Here is what I think we should do," said Targil. "We will set ourselves in a position that will be in the Orcs’ line of march that they should reach early tomorrow morning. Three of us will hide in a stand of trees - a fairly large one - and one will hide further away, on the other side of the Orcs’ assumed path. The three will then let themselves be known to the Orcs with a loud noise or some other such distraction. With any luck at all, the Orcs will go to investigate. This is where the lone Elf comes in. The Orcs will probably leave a scanty guard if any, and that Elf will go in to rescue the Lórien Elves.” Thorvel nodded slowly, thinking the plan over. It made a good deal of sense, but...

“It’s mighty risky. A thousand things could go wrong,” said Calenvása. He did not seem to be opposing the plan, but simply stating a point. Lómarandil took it further, however, and was clearly arguing the point. “They might not decide to investigate, or send only a scout or two to find out. Where would we be then? I do not think we will have much more chance to ambush them.”

“And yet it seems to be the more sensible than anything else we can think of,” said Thorvel thoughtfully. “In addition to distracting the Orcs, it will also let the other Elves know we about to do something. And we will be at a clear advantage in the forest for the fighting that will need to be done. We will have to take those risks.” Unconsciously he reached up to finger the green-feathered end of one of his arrows.

The next thought that occurred to him, however, was who would be the single Elf. He almost shuddered at the thought of Lómarandil going. However thankful the Lórien Elves might be to them for rescuing them, Thorvel did not think they would get off to a good start between the two groups if the arrogant young Elf went after them. He himself did not want to go; his bow had gone unused for too long. Targil appeared to be contemplating the same situation, and did not look as if he wanted to go either. Thorvel thought that Calenvása might also want to stay with the group, as he was the Captain even though Targil seemed to be taking control right now. Lómarandil appeared to be about to speak up, undoubtedly to volunteer. It would be just the sort of thing that he would volunteer to do. Thorvel wanted to avoid another debate, another division in the troop. Maybe he could make up a bit for letting go of his anger at Lómarandil - not towards Lómarandil, but to the Captain, and to himself. So he spoke up, half wishing he hadn’t and hoping the words didn’t sound to forced, for that was exactly what they were. “I will be the one go to the Lórien Elves.” Lómarandil scowled at him fiercely, but Calenvása’s look of gratitude and relief was worth it.

“Yes,” said Calenvása. “That would be good.”

“I will whistle when the Orcs are approaching my hideout,” said Thorvel. “And also the Elves are free and we are gone from the area of the wagon, like a bird and close enough that the Orcs will be unable to tell the difference.” Targil nodded.

“Our plans are ready then,” said Targil. “The night is growing late. We should find our positions, and rest in preparation for our ambush. I believe that this stand of trees will do as well as any. It is large enough to get the Orcs a good distance away from the wagon, and also provides good cover for us. The way we took to get here is the way that the Orcs will probably take in the morning. Thorvel, early tomorrow morning go find your position on the other side from this thicket. We will await your signal. We will find such rest as we may until tomorrow.” Thorvel nodded, and moved out without a word, walking quickly and silently. He soon relaxed against a tree. He was slightly surprised to be taking orders from Targil, but he accepted it, since it seemed to be what Calenvása wanted. Our plan will work. It has to.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Thorvel looked round to seeif Lomarandil had gotten to his position at the top of the tree. He didn't see him there, so he looked around the trunk, then looked right around the forest surrounding them. Lomarandil was gone, completely and utterly gone. Thorvel looked back up and down the tree, and then around him again. A small rustling of leaves caught his eye, but he saw it was nothing more than a squirrel. It was a long while before Thorvel winced as he though what this could mean, perhaps Lomarandil had keep captured, perhaps even killed...Shaking slightly he walked quietly over to Calenvasa. The older elf looked round as he approached. "Lomarandil is gone..." Thorvel whispered into his ear. Calenvasa's jaw dropped spectacularly and Thorvel could almost see the cogs in his mind grinding, trying to find the most likely solution. After a few seconds Thorvel saw the change in the captain's expression which could mean only one thing, that Calevasa had found the same conclusion as he had.

A way away, Lomarandil perched on a tree. He could see the orcs well from here, and could see them walking around the captives. His blood boiled and he slowly notched an arrow to his elaborate bow. He waited for an orc to stray into the forest, far from the camp. One did that, and came right underneath his tree. Lomarandil drew his breath quickly he flattened himself against the tree. The orc grunted and started to walk away. With the arrow still notched he let it fly with pinpoint accuracy. It penetrated the orc's skull, busting through his head and coming out of the left eye socket. The lifeless orc staggered for a moment before crashing to the ground. Luckily, not even Lomarandil heard him fall over the din of the other orcs, which meant that they couldn't possibly have heard it. Dropping lightly to the ground he extracted the arrow from the orc, leaving no trace of himself. He was about the climb the tree again when a whistling noise turned him around. He saw the arrow a fraction of a second too late, it embedded itself in his right shoulder, just below the collar bone. Coughing blood, Lomarandil sunk slowly to the ground in front of the tree, the last thing he remembered seeing was the orc that had shot him coming towards him...grabbing his legs and dragging him toward the camp. The arrow jolted violently in his shoulder as he was dragged, and Lomarandil tried not to let a cry escape him. He opened his eyes once more, and saw, in the distance, Calenvasa and Thorvel's crestfallen faces as they watched him dragged away...Lomarandil willed for them to help, but he knew they could not...he was too near the camp now...With one last gasp, he black out...

[Arry]

Just before dawn . . .

It was the foul, irksome birds who woke him - that hour just before dawn when they felt compelled to caw and warble as if the very day depended on their noise to rouse the sun. Gromwakh pulled his rough blanket up about his ears in an effort to block out the disturbance, but to no avail. Peeling open one eye with an effort he considered what might happen if all the bothersome birds were to suddenly drop dead. Would the sun not rise? Would the easeful darkness stay constant? He gave an Orcish sigh, wishing it were so.

Snikdul was already up, or perhaps he had never gone to bed. Gromwakh could see him moving about their little camp poking their companions awake. It was their duty that morning to start the cook fire and make the captain his morning gruel. Nasty stuff, thought Gromwakh, pulling out a strip of dried rat from his pocket to chew on as he lay abed. Never mind that it was a bit linty from whatever had been shoved in there previously – tasted all the better in his mind.

Gâshronk was still sleeping, a consequence of the pinch of valerian root they’d put in his stew last night. Late sleep for the Captain meant a leisurely start for the group. Gromwakh could see the night watch still guarding the prisoners in the wagon. And good thing the Elves were tied tightly he thought, since three of the four Orc guards were sitting down, slouched in the dirt, their backs against the wagon’s wheels; asleep - their weapons idle at their side. The fourth Orc was no better. He’d wandered a little ways away and was warming his hands at a small fire he’d obviously kept going through the night. His back was to the wagon; his sword leaning against a rock several feet away from him.

His breakfast finished, Gromwakh threw back the blanket and heaved himself to his feet. He scratched himself across the chest, yawning widely – his usual morning ritual. Hurried steps brought him to the nearby shallow ravine, dotted thickly with low growing bushes, to answer nature’s early morning call. Behind him he could just hear several of his companions cracking a few of the thinner branches from one of the downed trees for the needed fire . . .