Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[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 . . .

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It took most of the night and the last of his strength, but eventually Ambarturion was able to once again loosen the bonds that held his hands. There was nothing he could do about the leather binding his feet, but should an opportunity arise he could deal with those much more quickly with the use of his hands.

He lay upon his back and felt the sun rise over the horizon, and listened as the birds tried in vain to overcome the loathsome cries of the orcs. Most of those that had been set to guard himself, Megilaes and Coromswyth were asleep or inattentive, and Ambarturion considered snapping his bonds immediately, but he thought better of it. Most of the beasts that had been sent to bear them to Dol Guldur were stupid and slow, but there were some that possessed some keenness. The leader, for one, seemed more capable, and that other orc that had spoken with him was more than usually alert.

The sun climbed above the trees that lay to the east and filled the Vale with welcome light, and the orcs set about their morning meal, but nothing was offered to the prisoners. It did not matter to them, for none of them relished the thought of what orcs might give them to eat. When they were sure that none of the orcs were nearby they spoke quietly, taking counsel for the dangerous trial that lay before them. “Will they attack soon do you think?” Coromswyth asked.

“I think not,” replied Ambarturion, “for they are few in number and will want to ambush the orcs when they are on the move and scattered. We should watch for them around midday, when the Sun is at her highest and the orcs are subdued by her brightness.”

“What shall we do when they attack Master?” Ambarturion noted that his student’s voice was tinged with an iron now that it had lacked before. The death of his brother had done something irrevocable to the youth.

“We will do what we can,” he replied. “I have freed my hands, but I dare not undo my other bonds. When our kindred of the greenwood comes I will break my remaining bonds and attempt to arm myself. The orcs will undoubtedly try to slay us rather than let us be rescued. I will attempt to deny them that pleasure.”

“Ambarturion,” Coromswyth whispered, “I may be able to help you…” but she was cut of by a sudden outburst of orcish glee from all corners of the ragged camp. Rolling onto his side, Ambarturion looked out through the uneven slats of the cart and saw the orcs, waving their weapons above their heads in triumph, converging upon a small copse of trees. Through their huddled black forms he beheld them leading forth from the trees a wounded Silvan Elf. Ambarturion cursed beneath his breath.

“What is it?” asked Megilaes.

Ambarturion’s voice was as steel through long grass as he replied. “It would appear that we will not be the only Elves in need of rescuing this day.”

[Arry]

‘What’s that?’ asked Snikdul, shading his eyes with his hand. He and Gromwakh had been assigned the honor of packing up the Captain’s belongings and were now just stowing them in the small compartment beneath the wagon. There in the distance, from the perimeter of a small stand of low growing trees came the sounds of Orcs shouting their battle cries and the pounding of feet running toward the trees.

Gromwakh pulled his companion down and they sprinted in the opposite direction, throwing themselves beneath the cover of some densely packed bushes. Hearing no pursuit, they peeked out carefully from their cover. ‘Are we being attacked,’ whispered Snikdul, tugging on Gromwakh’s arm. He had his iron bar gripped firmly in his hand, his eyes wide with apprehension.’

‘Shhh!’ hissed Gromwakh. ‘Let me just creep a little closer.’ He bent low and eased forward to a better vantage point. ‘They’re dragging some one in,’ he said to Snikdul who had followed him like a shadow. ‘Is it one of us?’ croaked Snikdul, his gaze sweeping about for hidden attackers in the shadows. ‘Not unless one of us has suddenly sprouted long yellow hair,’ returned his fellow hider.

They both stood, their heads just peeking over the low bushes. A group of their fellow Orcs surrounded a single Orc who was dragging a blonde headed fellow in by his ankles. An Elf, Gromwakh said, by the looks of him. As the group neared the camp, the Captain came forward to look at the sorry prize. He poked him hard in the ribs with his boot, and when the Elf gave only a faint response, Gâshronk, rolled him over on his back and had several other Orcs hold him down.

‘He’s taking something off ‘im,’ Snikdul said, watching as the Captain’s hand reached down and came up with some shiny, yellow necklace he’d pulled from the Elf’s neck; something red on it, like a drop of shining blood, winked in the sun, before it was tucked into the pouch at the Captain’s waistband. Next, the pretty pin that held the captive’s cloak was undone and found its way into Gâshronk’s pocket. ‘Ooh, I’d like that cloak he’s wearing – looks like a nice warm one.’

Snikdul started to leave the hiding place, drawn by the promise of a possible prize for himself. Gromwakh caught his arm and hauled him back beneath the bushes. ‘If there’s one filthy Elf, there’s bound to be more.’ He looked toward the wagon where the three other captives were bound. ‘They seem to come in sets, I think. And they have those nasty bows with their biting arrows.’

He pulled two strips of dried rat from his breeches pocket and handed one of them to Snikdul. ‘Settle in for a bit . . . chew quietly . . . let’s see what else shakes out of the trees . . .’

----------

Bleeding and unconscious, the new Elf was dragged to the wagon. His hands and feet soon bound with thin, plaited rope. Three Orcs picked his limp body up from the ground and flung it unceremoiously atop the other captives . . .

[Kransha]

Thrákmazh had a good idea why he had been unable to sleep. He rarely slept, but he had actually tried throughout the length of the previous night.

He had taken, for a time, leave of his own tent, and sought the brisk but chilled breezes outside. He had taken with him, grasped in loosely clutching talons, the Elven blade. He had squatted again in the earth, breathing hard as if he’d been running, and pondered in silent meditation. For all intents and purposes, his plan was going well. Koran and Herding surely were at odds now, ready to slay each other in cold blood. When the armies united reached their goal, the unity would end. In the chaos wrought by the warring Southrons, wicked men of their kind, Thrákmazh would step in easily and rally the remaining men. If one either Cenbryt or Herding survived the possible fray, Thrákmazh could use grounds of disloyalty to slay the survivor, or at least keep him out of the way. Mutiny was still a criminal offense to the Eye, and even if the men would not allow their captain to be killed, they would not be opposed to his deposition in the name of their higher lord, the Dark Lord. All would work itself out in the end.

But, if that was so, why was Thrákmazh plagued thus? He knew why, or at least his logical side did. In his hand he held an Elven blade of Doriath, an heirloom of ancient days and a device used for light and its service alone. Thrákmazh was in the thrall of shadow, not of light, and this blade burned him still. Yet, strangely, he could not cast it aside. The last night, when the pale, icy sphere of the moon drifted gently in its customary arc, Thrákmazh had buried it contemptuously in the ground and tried to stalk back to his tent, but his legs would not carry him. He turned back, dragged by a force unseen, and rushed to the sword, both hands grasping it immediately and yanking it from the earth. He pressed it to him, panting again and harder still until his wobbling legs pushed him up. He now stood and raised the blade, is eyes tracing its narrow length and staring, mesmerized, into it. His dark pupil focused on the gleaming ivory of the sword and the watery reflection in the blade as the moon hit it, filling it with a powerful, brilliant white light.

In the blade he saw a reflection…his reflection, augmented by the withered moonlight. But it was not the reflection of himself he knew, not the orc who he’d thought himself to be. He saw one eye, and the rest of the blade held nothing but darkness, swirling shadow. The watery surface of the sword had been tainted by the horrible, nauseating color which coursed over it. It struck him blind to look upon it, and he turned away, dropping the blade again, feeling as if his stomach would turn and lurch from within him. Then, he fell again, and grabbed the sword, ignoring the reflection in the blade. He could not purge it from his hand, nor could he purge those most vile images from his skull. It burned him and held onto him, unwilling to allow its own release. He clung to it, edging back towards the tent to get away from the glimmering moonlight that shone down radiantly upon him. It was sunlight he despised, sunlight, but the whiter, calmer light from above was filling his lone eye and seemed almost as painful, despite its obvious weakness in comparison.

He had lived a long time, in the years of orcs or in those of men. He had felt some age, only in terms of experience, and had seen many conflicts, many battles. He was an orc who knew what his life was about, unlike so many others. He did not remember how or when he came to be. Perhaps in the first days of orcs and perhaps not, he did not know. He remembered fiery frays, minor skirmishes, and countless struggles between his kind and the forces that he’d learned to call ‘enemies.’ It had always been the mighty Eye he served, though a greater master had existed, a darker and more terrible one, an enemy of the Elves, or at least, had existed in his time. Early on in the time called the Second Age of the Sun, he sun that he so hated with a dank and murderous passion, after the first falling-out of his kind, but he had served his most renowned master gleefully and readily when he first began to taint the good and just lands of Middle-Earth when he came there from the island in the eastern waters, now sunken and devoured by raging oceans. In that time, when the orcs of Sauron drove the men and elves back towards the sea and north, into the darkest corners of the world, surrounded on all sides by shadow, Thrákmazh had first engaged the Elves and lost his eye there. To his later thanks, he was not present at Sauron’s fall, the battles in the south that saw the conquering of the Dark Lord and his troops, for if he had been he would not be present in this dark, decaying forest this very day. He had been north, troops newly under his command left with no option but to flee when a greater army hampered them, the army composed of both men and elves, allied for some common good, to besiege Sauron is his dark hold, cast down the peak of Barad-dûr. That Last Alliance had been too great a force for scattered, meager orcish hosts, so they fled.

After Sauron’s fall, the one-eyed captain of orcs had sought more men in the Misty Mountains, hoping their encircling shrouds that fell over him would shield him from outside eyes. There he was named a hero, titled and decorated with the trappings of a king among orcs, for no other commander in the north had lived past the downfall of Sauron. Hoping to counterattack, but dreading failure, Thrákmazh and the other mountain captains led a motley band of savage urûks to seek out some force they could defeat. They happened luckily upon an unsuspecting train of troops belonging to the victorious enemy, the next King of Men. To their amazement, victory was there’s. At the Battle of the Gladden Fields, miraculous to them and catastrophic to their foes, the enemy of Sauron who’d struck him down, fell at Gladden Fields with his kindred, and Thrákmazh brought the tale of the glorious success back to his own brethren in the mountains. Then, despite the harrowing fire of conquest, they halted their spread and the orcs of all surrounding regions let their numbers dwindle quietly as years passed in rapid succession. The next age, a colder, darker age for all, dragged on until the power of the Dark Lord was reared up again, his tainting hands gouging light and trust from the lands, darkening the light of the Elven Woodlands to make dwellings for his spawn.

That was what Thrákmazh the Mighty remembered of his days in the time before. He did not know many orcs who’d seen these things or done such things as he, such accomplishments as he’d achieved. This was what confused him; this was what drove his mind to further shadow than the blackness that enveloped it already. His thoughts swirled uncontrollably, never letting him determine which was which as they grappled together, a muddled mess of consciousness. If he’d seen so much, lived so long, why could he night hold an Elven blade in his hand? Why could he not think of a single living elf without feeling great aches and pains that stabbed at him, unmerciful and unrelenting? He still did not know, and did not wish to seek the answer. Dragging the blade in the earth and leaving an indented trail in the thick dirt, he had dropped the thing again and, with all the might his limbs possessed, he had staggered back to his tent feebly last night and fallen to the floor of it, wishing as he’d never wished before, for sleep. Then, again possessed from within and without, he thrust himself up, left his tent again, and sought the sword out, grasping it and holding it to his heart.

Now the rays of sunlight, bare and cold despite their shed warmth, crested the tree-covered horizon, peering curiously over the gnarled tips of high branches. Thrakmazh still sat where he had all night, clutching the blade, his one eye tightly closed. But, despite his closed eye, the sunlight still pierced him and he saw it through the thick lid over his watery orb of an eye. The one eye drifted open as he seemed to glide onto his two feet, sliding the Elven blade elegantly into his belt beside his orcish weapon. He looked around at the darkly colored tents, now illuminated by dull golden beams. It was time to seek the greatest prey, the greatest prize, time to do the will of Sauron.

“GET UP, WORMS,” he bellowed, his thunderous voice filling the atmosphere hovering delicately over the army’s camp, “GET UP! THERE’S ELVEN BLOOD TO BE SPILT THIS DAY!”