Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

"Captain, do you know where it is we go next, and what it is we are going to do?"

Koran looked back vaguely at Ehan for a moment, his eyes seeming to look straight through the younger man before he blinked, the cloud of dark thoughts clearing from his eyes.

"Captain?" Ehan tried again, his voice more tentative this time. Koran held his eyes for a second, his gaze quite serious, then he gave a great, melodramatic sigh and looked away. "Ah, well, we have got that business to attend to..." he replied heavily, as if some loathsome task lay ahead of them. Ehan looked alarmed. "'Business', Captain Koran?"

Koran grinned, his white teeth flashing brightly in the dying light and for a moment Ehan caught a glimpse of the carefree, charismatic Koran that sometimes rightfully asserted itself from within the solemn Captain's exterior as he clapped a hand on companion's shoulder. "The most serious business, dear boy, of finding the best dice and drink this camp can muster!"

~*~*~

"Cheat, it must be!"

Koran glanced up at the Southron who had spoken, his voice loud above the gasps, and gave a small grin at the red-faced man whose eyes were fixed on the double flames that showed on the two dice which Koran had just rolled - again. Picking up one of the coins he had just one, he flipped it in the air and caught it expertly, as he looked around his audience and gave a mock bow. "Well, I try..." he said softly in mock humility. The others around him roared with laughter in appreciation, and various comments were shot from all around the ring of firelight amid the trees where a score or so Southron's sat.

"Luckiest bloody man here, ain't that right, Koran?" said one man, rolling his eyes at Koran's good fortune at dice as the captain collected the little pile of bronze coins he had just won.

"'Tis fate, that's what it is," another ventured, clumsily stabbing a finger drunkenly at the tatoo on Koran's forearm, visible because of his rolled up sleeves - the Cenbryt flame, a black tatoo that seemed to flicker of it's own accord in the dancing firelight. "Guided by the flame of his forefathers..."

"Ha! Poetry doesn't suit you, Parrel, you're much better as your own dull, sober self!" It was the man who had just lost who laughed at the comment, spitting on the ground contemptuously before he took another huge quaff from the chipped and travelworn cup of ale in his hands, wiping his mouth clumsily with the back of one beefy hand. But his voice was slightly less joyful than the others, and in the depths of his drunken, piggy eyes circled a resentment against the man who had just won over him. He gestured with a violent motion towards Koran's long dagger where it lay beside him, then lunged towards it viciously, grabbing the weapon. Holding it with exaggerated delicacy by it's silver blade, he held it up to the firelight so all could see it, yet even the light of the flames didn't seem to full pierce the smoky red depths of the pommel. The man's eyes flashed wickedly as he laughed racously and looked across at Koran. "What say we up the stakes, Cenbryt? And hey, not just a pretty little dagger...what about that necklace you wear?" he added, in reference to the wooden necklace which the young captain wore, inscribed with the same flame motif - the symbol of his leadership of the tribe.

Koran hadn't moved from where he sat, casually leaning against a tree, his elbow resting loosely on one raised knee, the other hand holding his drink. But unlike most of the other Southrons in the circle, Koran had drunk little of the ale, and his eyes and mind were clear. The firelight danced dangerously on his calm features, alighting now on the scar that ripped across one cheekbone, now on his sharp, dark eyes unblinkingly fixed on the other man, now on his lips, slightly turned up at one corner as if in amusement. He raised one eyebrow and beckoned with his head. "Give me the dagger, Tanner," he said softly.

Though voiced as a request, some element of the silky smoothness of Koran's voice made one think not of civility, but of the hidden blade that could lie beneath such a tone. Something subtly changed in the atmosphere, as those gathered privately brought to mind all they had heard about Koran's reputation.

However, it seemed the drunken Tanner was completely oblivious to this - or at least, he was quite determined not to back down now he had made the challenge. He laughed again bawdily, but this time fewer of the other men joined him. "Hah! Haha! Ah, Koran, come on, go out on a limb for once - sure, you're young, risks are what being young is all about!"

"I'll quite happy beneath the tree rather than out on one of it's limbs, thanks," Koran replied, the corner of his lip rising a little more in a smile. He tipped his head to one side. "Come, Tanner, give me the dagger..."

"Come get it!" Tanner was on his feet now, holding it out in front of him. The man was either very drunk, or had an exceptionally strong death wish. He held it out, waving it slightly, like a child taughting a pet cat with a ball on a string. He grasped it more tightly in his huge fist and his tone lowered as he growled, "Come on, boy, let's see what you've go-"

The huge man got no further than that as Koran rolled to one side, ducking around effortlessly to come up behind the man where his strong arm encirled the thick neck tightly. Seizing the man's right hand, the one that held the dagger, he twisted it sharply behind his back until a sudden, grotesque click was heard, causing several around the fire to wince. Koran smiled chillingly, his black eyes seeming like terrible, empty voids, devoid of soul, demonic.

"Sorry, what was that you were saying?" he questioned quietly, his lips just beside the great man's ear. The drunk gurgled something from behind Koran's death grip and from his numb fingers the dagger dropped to the forest floor. Various expressions showed on the faces of the Southrons, from admiration and appraisal, to fear or resentment, but one thing was held in common as the dagger fell.

Not one man among the group moved to pick it up.

"Captain Cenbryt?"

The voice made all in the circle turn in surprise to the owner of the gutterally obnoxious, yet unnaturally nervous, voice: a small orc, standing half seen at the edge of the firelight as if the firelight burnt it with it's goodness. From within their circle of protection, the Southron's seemed to gather as one being, and their eyes and moods darkened against the monstrous intruder who dared to disturb them. The power of the mob seemed to quell the orc slightly, but it stood it's ground, looking straight above Koran and avoiding all eyes and any excuse for trouble.

Koran lifted his chin from behind Tanner, relaxing his grip. "Aye, that's me."

The orc didn't move from his rigid position, paused like a cat caught in suddenly lamplight, ready to flee at the sign of trouble or unwelcome movement. "Captain Herding wishes to see you in his tent, quickly, for a drink of wine," it stammered out in a rush, before vanishinhg as quickly as it had come.

Koran paused for a second, then let go of Tanner, who instantly turned and caught him a clip on the side of the head. "Bah, cheeky youngling!" He roared, but it was accompanied by a drunken laugh as he staggered back to his seat. Koran put a hand to the side of his ringing head and grinned back, then knelt quickly to retrieve his dagger, putting it back in it's customary place at the back of his belt, hidden by his open jerkin. He thrust an arm out after the orc. "I wonder to what means I owe this[/i] pleasure?"[/i] he said loudly to the circle, his voice mocking, inciting laughter and rowdy comments. The violent and unpredictable captain Herding was not popular among most of the Southrons, and it was well rumoured that he seemed to despise his own people. As the games of chance resumed and Koran turned to leave, he felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Ehan.

"Shall I come with you?" the younger man asked, his voice low so that the others would not hear. Koran shook his head, putting his hand on the other's arm.

"Nay - I shall be but a few minutes. I doubt the good captain will want to talk about much at this hour," he reassured his squire. Turning to the others, he doffed an imaginary cap and took a deep bow. "Gentlemen, I bid you goodnight!" he called in a singsong voice, before leaving the circle and becoming enveloped in the darkness.

"Hey Koran, you should be honoured - for once, he's sharing a drink rather than taking the whole lot!" The comment and the laughter that ensued followed a grinning Koran into the darkness. Taking a breath of the fresh night air, he made his way to Herding's tent, a rough, dimly lit shape beyond the edge of the trees. Casting a furtive glance around him - who knew what the Captain's real motives were? - he walked briskly across and opened the tent flap with little ceremony...to see a sorry sight in front of him: the captain, slumped across a chair, surrounded by split wine and bottles on the sawdust of the floor. The table was in the same state: altogether there had to be about five or six empty bottles and a few more full ones.

Koran smiled infuriatingly. "To what do I owe this...pleasure, Captain?" he asked, his voice mocking the captain, a night of drinking and dice making him bold. Herding's head came up from where he slumped and his eyes burned with drunken anger as his lip sneered with sudden and unexpected disdain.

"You tell me, boy," he hissed into the still, heavy air.

Koran's eyes narrowed, and he mentally felt for his dagger, making sure it was exactly where he needed it. Bracing himself, he forced himself to be more careful - he had to be civil to the captain, rashness wouldn't do. Not until this mission was over. "Pardon, Captain Herding?" he asked courteously, painfully aware of the atmosphere as it grew and lurked like some all-consuming monster at the sides of the tent...

[Orofaniel]

"Pardon, Captain Herding?"

"Don't be cheeky with me!" Herding said, raising his voice. He then calmed himself down, while he offered Koran a seat. Koran, surprisingly enough, accepted the chair that was set out for him and found himself seating just across Herding with a table in between. A glass was then offered, something Koran not too unwillingly accepted, just as he had done with the seat. It was a strange atmosphere.

"Some wine?" Herding said, causally, looking at Koran's empty glass. Koran nodded. After pouring some wine into Koran's glass, Herding himself, needed a refill. "What is this all about, if I may ask....?" Koran then asked him seeming confused, and curious. He obviously wanted to get some kind of understanding why Herding was in this mood. "Why had Herding invited him for a nice little "chat" anyway?" He must have wondered about that, Herding concluded. His face expression became stern and he didn't try to conceal any of his feelings towards Koran's question; ”You ask this question, as you didn't know, Captain Cenbryt...." he started curling his lips. Koran looked even more confused, but Herding figured it was just one of those masks this Captain wore when he didn't want to show his real intensions or feelings. "But you do know..." he continued. His voice had all of a sudden become quite harsh. Koran seemed offended by this, or at least in Herding's eyes.

"Excuse me, but I do not understand what you mean. Nor do I think you have any intension of telling me what you mean...so why am I here? To what do I owe you this.. pleasure....?" Herding noticed Koran's sudden change of tone when he used the word "pleasure" and he looked at him with great disgust. Besides, he was tried of that question; He had heard it too many times from this young man, and Herding could hardly control himself. "Get a grip", he told himself. "This will not me the time to kill him. Only scare him a little…Make him understand that..” His thoughts were interrupted by Koran; “Captain?” One moment there, Koran almost fooled Herding into thinking that Koran was completely innocent, but Herding managed to see though him. You don’t fool me, you filthy… He thought before he snapped; "You owe me nothing..." He smiled evilly, yet there was still something else about that smile that would everyone uncomfortable. He took another sip of his wine. He could feel that the huge amount of wine wasn't far of going straight to his head. The dizziness, he couldn't stand. Still, he managed to hold a straight face, keeping his tongue straight in his mouth.

Koran was surprised by the hostility and got up from his chair. "You summon me to your tent, asks me to drink you wine, yet you do not tell m why I'm here!" He almost yelled at Herding. Herding too, got up from his chair. "You know what I'm talking about! You are plotting against me you fool!" Herding said as he punched his fist into Koran's cheek. It was a hard punch, but not hard enough for Koran to fall. A red flame was seen across Koran’s eyes as he cursed. "You didn't think you'd get away with it, did you?" Herding then asked him, looking at him. "You...despicable..." He had completely lost his temper, not to mention that he had had too many glasses of wine.

Not many seconds passed before Koran replied with his own fist....

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran reeled, stumbling slightly, but the punch was too clumsy to make him fall. His right hand rising to his face, he gingerly touched the area where Herding had punched him and fierce anger flashed through his dark eyes. His fists clenched, but he kept his right in full view so the captain wouldn't think anything of the fact that the left had vanished behind his back. Herding didn't care a thing for Koran: the young Southron doubted he would remember such a little thing as the fact that he could fight just as well left handed as right.

"Herding, what in the name of your ancestors do you think you're talking about?" he hissed dangerously.

"Don't you use the name of my ancestors!" Herding bellowed. Lurching to the side, he grabbed a half empty wine bottle and hurled it at Koran. The younger man ducked, hands over his head as the glass shattered on the tent's central supporting pole behind him, showering him with drops of blood red. Despite the captain's drunkenness, the bottle had been well aimed: if not for Koran's reflexes, he did not doubt it could have caught him full in the face. But Herding was still ranting. "Their names become soiled from your lips!" he bellowed again, continuing from his last statement. His eyes narrowed and he stabbed a fierce finger at Koran, at the dagger in his left hand where he had grabbed it from the back of his belt. "Look, even now, even now - dagger in hand he enters my tent, sneaking and creeping, all the time ready to worm his way in and murder me!" Herding's voice rose from a whisper to a yell.

"You think I come to murder you?" Koran responded, his temper finally getting the better of him and flaring up. "If I had wanted to kill you, Herding..."

Herding's lip curled contemptuously as his eyes narrowed and he spat on the ground between them. "I would like to see you try, boy," he replied.

Koran covered the ground between them in less than a second, and this punch knocked Herding to the ground. Reaching down, he grabbed the man by his shirt front, pulling his face close. "You know I could do it, and do it without blinking," he hissed menacingly. A sudden white hot pain lanced across the top of his right arm and he winced, letting go of Herding as he grabbed his arm, staring at the long patch of red spreading on his rolled-up shirt sleeve. Herding laughed, pulling himself to his feet a few feet from Koran. "I have experience, boy, where what do you have? A young life of cotton wool and childish fights..."

Koran pointed at his cheek, where the long white scar shot across his cheekbone. "What, and nearly losing an eye to a man with twice my experience? That is childish fighting and cotton wool, Captain Herding?" He sneered. "You don't deserve such a title."

The older man sneered and rushed at Koran, pulling a long, serated knife from a hunk of bread on the table. But Koran was faster: dropping to the floor, he whipped out one leg in a wide arc, whipping under Herding's feet and dropping him. The older man grunted but rolled with surprising agility and stabbed towards Koran's foot, only narrowly missing as Koran dived backwards. Both retreated for a second, Herding sobering up quickly, Koran's fierce eyes hooded, waiting for his prey to attack again. He didn't wait long - Herding leapt at him, knife held high, and by sheer force he knocked Koran straight backwards. Winded, Koran barely got his arm up in time, knocking Herding's knife away as it came within a few centimetres of his eyes but slashing his arm at the same time. The bread knife flew away, embedding itself in the floor a few feet from Koran, his blood staining the sawdust around it. Taking advantage of the stunned Herding, Koran punched him solidly with his right fist, then again. His dagger came up and he rolled suddenly, legs pinning the older man's arms to his side as he knelt over Herding, the knife held at his throat.

"Give me a reason, Herding, and I will slit your throat-"

"Slit my throat?" Herding interrupted, his adam's apple bobbing over the knife as a few pinpricks of blood were drawn from it. "Well, that would make a fine end to this whole thing, wouldn't it? All would know, Koran, how you plotted against me, how you got me drunk and murdered me-"

"But my men know it didn't happen like that - I have been with them all night-"

"If my followers and I have found out over a long career of subordination, it is that anyone can be bought, boy!" came the snap, like a suddenly rising crocodile. "Bloody naivity, you foolish little whelp - anyone can be bought, and anyone taken out of the picture for a while!"

"And that is what you planned to do with me, is it? Hmm, Captain? 'Take me out of the picture'?" Koran's voice was soft but harsh. He held down his captive with almost no effort, his knees kneading Herding's elbows painfully as he sat back, knife still pressing on the older man's throat. Somehow his quietness was worse than when he shouted, and Herding didn't reply this time, although his sneering, dead eyes looked up at Koran with all the emotion of a fish. Koran leant forward suddenly, hissing fiercely, "You wanted the glory of my victory. You would have taken me out."

"Your victory?" Herding laughed, as much as he could past the dagger. "What victory, boy? The whole operation would be mind! Why would the eye taken any notice of a mere pup, a nothingness-"

"I am not nothing, Herding!" Koran bellowed.

"Koran!"

The young captain didn't look up as he recognised Ehan's voice, and heard the sound of other feet at the opening of the tent, breathing heavily, his eyes locked on Herding's, his knife steady against the man's throat. In the stunned silence that followed, his finally looked across at his companion - and one of Herding's men took advantage. Having crossed quietly behind Koran, he now pounced, grabbing Koran's arms and spinning him around, punching him sounded across the face. Koran reeled from the shock and his approaching tiredness, but replied quickly, ducking around behind the man as he made for another shot, and using both hands to thump him powerfully at the base of the neck with the hard, heavy pommel of his dagger. The man fell silently, but another came forward and Koran threw himself into the fight blindly, until he felt his arms grabbed and locked behind him. Struggling, he stopped as soon as he recognised the voice that spoke urgently behind him. "Captain, Captain, it's me, it's Ehan!"

Koran stopped struggling and relaxed, but Ehan kept hold of his arms. Having got up from the floor, Herding limped towards him, acting as if his injuries were actually far worse than had been inflicted. Koran watched him steadily, his gaze fiery, until Herding laughed in his face. "Nice try, boy," he taunted mockingly. Koran retaliated by spitting in his face.

Herding cried out and thumped him across the face as Ehan belatedly let go of his arms. He reeled, but was ready for it, and his head whipped back with lightning speed. "Those who plot against their own men are the contempt of whatever gods wander this earth, and they will deal with whatever is left after I am done with Lorien - after I am done with you, good captain Herding," Koran whispered. Then, bending down to take his dagger from where it had dropped, he turned and ran from the tent.

[Kransha]

Thrákmazh took his time wondering the length of the orcish camp. Each night, when the army made new camp in the time of the sun’s setting, roads were soon worn into weary earth by stampeding feet. Well-traveled paths had been forged by passing soldiers, paths that Thrákmazh now trod upon, watching as his sentinels and trusted lieutenants aroused there men, forcefully yanking them from their nightly slumber and wrenching them into harsh, humid reality. The air was crisp as the familiar blue of daylight skies began to overwhelm the dawn’s red which bled over the blackness that had been before. A flurry of color filled the sky, red tinged clouds billowing around the golden orb of the sun as it arched its way up into still darkened heavens. Thrákmazh’s one eye peered up, glaring straight through the thick plumes of gray cloud at the luminous sphere. His eye protested, trying to close, but the orc’s dark resilience held the lid back, torturing the eye into staring directly at the bright light that extinguished the sky’s more desirable cloak of shadows. It was barely morning, as heralded by the rising of the sun, but Thrakmazh wanted the day to begin, and, with nature’s passing irrelevant to his power, he sought to begin the march anew. He knew that the Southrons were not yet awakened, and cursed them for their lethargy.

They would betray him, all of them, unless he did it first! He knew this know and was surer than ever of what he had to do. He had to take control. Elven eyes were everywhere in his clouded, and Southrons breathing down his neck. The images of them, swarthy, dark, traitorous, riddled his infected, infested skull, deep down where they could not be purged. ‘You must slay them, slay them all!’ he told himself, his own voice darkly augmented, booming like some strange metallic thunder, grating on his being, ‘This is your chance, your day. The time of the orcs has come. Only the urûks of Gorthaur the Cruel, the mighty Eye, shall survive. A great flame has settled; a great a terrible fire that will scorch the land, darken the sky, shake the pillars of Middle-Earth and bring its lands crashing down, split asunder. Then, when the dust and smoke clear all that will remain are the orcs, mastered of their own designs, masters of all. You, Thrákmazh the Mighty, will be a lord among orcs.’ But, the only way to get these dreams, to fulfill them, was to destroy all the enemies of Sauron, and that included the disloyal men in his service. He knew this too, for, in his state of madness and paranoia, all the orcish naiveté in him had disappeared, evaporated from him fully, leaving his senses honed and sharpened like the tip of a jagged blade, or one of the blood-tipped bolts in his quiver. He needed to eliminate those who would eliminate him, or diminish the value of his deeds.

‘Herding, Herding is susceptible!’ he almost said aloud, still walking slowly, feigning supervision of the waking orcs, ‘Herding will turn. Koran is a righteous fool, a stupid boy. But, he is strong. They hate now, but soon they will hate with a passion so great it will tear them apart…just as this accursed sword devours me, they will be devoured by their suspicion, their anger. Use it, Thrákmazh, use what you were given by the Eye. You have power, Thrákmazh, and that is all you need to destroy those wretched fools. Make them feel the fear you feel, make them fear each other. Naught can go ill if all illness is suffered by others. Make them sick with the parasite of distrust. Let loose the hounds within them and watch them slay each other. Take command, Thrakmazh the Mighty, take what is yours!’

His reverie was shattered by Urkrásh, who, sidling up to him, slunk along beside, avoiding the blade that dangled at his side. As the whole camp knew by now, Thrákmazh had, for no apparent reason, slain one of his troops last night. Many feared he’d gone mad, others said he was producing the proper atmosphere for the fight ahead, and others claimed that he did it purely for fun, Whatever the reason, Thrákmazh’s troops now feared him more than ever before, and mutinous, dark feelings had been welled up in them, bottled up beneath their captain’s unending oppression. Thrákmazh was almost flamboyant in his distaste for them, and cared nothing of their newfound disliking of him. He was their captain, after all, and held all of their useless lives in the grimy palm of his hand. Urkrásh looked to him suspiciously, but remained ever his servant, with familiar unflinching loyalty. “There is something amiss at the Southron’s side of camp, Thrákmazh.” He murmured quietly, after a long, uncomfortable pause.

Suddenly, his eyes blazing embers behind their grate, Thrákmazh whipped around, swiveling on his armored feet, each having taken root like the dual trunks of mighty trees in the earth, and his hand dove up. His groping talons latched onto the hapless orc’s throat, dragging Urkrásh ignobly to the ground and constricting with the hold of a serpent bent on the extermination of its prey. Thrákmazh, his breathing distorted and erratic, pulled the trembling orc serf up towards him, his single eye and hooked nose and inch away from the other’s. “That’s Captain, worm,” he growled gutturally, “Captain Thrákmazh. I am your lord, not your equal, just like everyone else here.” He found his free hand snaking uncontrollably towards the blade at his side again, it’s moon-white gleam, ivory and pure, bathed in sunlight from the new day’s dawning. His eye was widened, trying to pry itself free of his misshapen skull. The veins that could be seen through his rough, leathery flesh bulged outward, making the orc captain look as if he were about to erupt. Finally, his hand quivering in bizarre anticipation, he settled, he tensed muscles relaxing and open hand tugging itself away from the Elven blade. With a breathy snarl, he dropped Urkrásh to the ground. The orc rubbed his sore throat tenderly, looking up at Thrákmazh with a truly fearful look on his face, one of unadulterated terror.

“Are you just going to sit there?!” he bellowed, almost maniacally, causing Urkrásh to sink even lower to the ground. He felt a familiar feeling welling up in him, pulsing in his veins and flowing, mingling with his blood. The same unbridled fury he felt in his sleepless nights, whenever he held the sword of the nameless Elf. Thrákmazh was literally vibrating because of the maddening fury he felt. His hands would not stop trembling, his legs would not stop wobbling, and his vision was obscured by the constant motion of his eye, darting from side to side in its socket. He tried to relax, but he could not. Growling in pain and anguish, he staggered backward through the muddy road. He saw shadows everywhere, dancing across his plane of sight. He saw only shadow, heard only shrill screaming all around him, smelled only the putrid stench of death and decay, and his throat and mouth could form no words. For a moment, he was lost, fading in and out of being in front of Urkrásh, who could not even begin to fathom the madness, the growing insanity of his master. The orc captain seethed and raged, his coughing gasps turning to roars and thunderous cacophony until…

He fell to his knees, level with Urkrásh; his one-eyed closed…He felt oddly better. His eye managed to open, coming into focus, and all things returned to their normal state. His swimming gaze sharpened and became again precise, the screaming and crashing in his ears turned to the vaguely recognizable thumping of orc feet on soft dirt, the smell wafting in his flared nostrils turned from sickly, nauseating stench to that of normality. Thrákmazh almost wretched, pulling in all the air he could after his episode, filling his lungs with it completely. At last, he exhaled, sighing deeply, and staggered onto one knee. He seemed more a feeble octogenarian that the mighty captain of urûks as he pushed himself wearily to his feet.

“Captain…you’re bleeding.” Ventured Urkrásh as quietly as he could, moving towards Thrákmazh to help him up. Thrákmazh felt the warm black liquid seeping from the creased corner of his mouth, forming a river between his fangs. He couldn’t guess where it came from, but he wiped it off all the same with a crude gesture and pushed Urkrásh away. “What…what is amiss?” he managed to say, his commanding voice an angry, disillusioned stammer instead of itself.

“Th-they say there was a fight, Captain Thrákmazh. Herding and Cenbryt were involved.”

The scowl on Thrákmazh’s face turned to a wicked grin. His plan was working. “Good work, Urkrásh.” He said, sounding pleased again, his fit fully ended, “Tell the lieutenants to ready all troops as fast as possible. We have much work to do.” With that, grinning sinisterly from ear to pointed ear, Thrákmazh clapped his servant heartily on the back, a most disconcerting gesture, and began trudging down the manmade path again, mumbling inaudibly to himself. He began heading doggedly past the ranks of awakening orcs, bathed in subtle morning light, and towards the Southron campsite, where his target lay.

He wondered silently who he should go to first. He had assured them both of betrayal, and the seeds of dissent, sewn a day ago, had sprouted in the night’s rain, blossoming into flowers that only held beauty to Thrákmazh One-Eye. He would head to his ‘esteemed colleagues’ and console them. An “I told you so” or two might not be out of place, considering the circumstances. He decided that it would be best to approach the vulnerable, corruptible captain, Herding. Certainly he would turn with relative ease. Also, as if to drive the point home, Thrákmazh was nearest to Herding’s tent, and could see slight commotion outside of it. Smiling to himself, he hurried towards it, ignoring the sharp glances of passing Southrons, and pushed through the small crowd that had gathered, dodging past several men coming from the Southron captain’s tent. Hurriedly, he darted inside, brushing aside the tent flap. He found Herding wandering the length of his tent within, with a few soldiers or guards still working within, perhaps talking with him, and seeking his counsel relating to the conflict. When their eyes fell on Thrákmazh, though, they scurried out.

“Captain Herding,” Thrákmazh said when he finally caught Herding’s eye, an almost mocking air of concern in his raspy voice as his brow softened to look pitying, “I have heard most ill news. Are you alright?” Even though the concern was fully pretend, it still seemed just as inappropriate on the face of an orc as true pity might look. His contorted face showed no semblance of pity, at least not within. Herding looked at him with no more than a glare of contempt, which was followed by a snappy comment which Thrákmazh had expected. “I don’t need your sympathy, orc.” Herding spat, somewhat violently.

Thrákmazh looked amused as he stalked towards Herding. He felt exactly as he had the previous day when he’d entered Herding’s tent. The orc crossed his arms, bemused, and ambled, tracing his steps precisely as he paced the length of the captain’s residence. “Word has reached my ears that you and Cenbryt had a…” he pondered hesitantly over the proper word, or a synonym thereof, “a falling-out. Is this true?” The concern in his voice more sounded like feline curiosity now as the orc glanced, one tuft of eyebrow strangely raised.

“What of it?” Herding snapped back. He was as quick as ever, and his senses seemed sharpened. He was angrier than he’d been yesterday, though in a more reserved fashion. He managed to look and sound very composed. He kept his face turned from Thrákmazh, stooping over an unidentified piece of furniture in one corner. He seemed to be brooding, and Thrákmazh knew why. Hammering down on the deceitful nail endlessly, Thrákmazh continued on, fulfilling the script as it was written. “You know well enough…I was right.” At this, Herding spun, not angrily, but with a concealed emotion fueling him. Thrákmazh now saw that Herding’s face was bruised and discolored, the lingering stain of dried blood on his lips. The fight had been more than a little scuffle and the orc found himself disappointed that he’d missed it.

“Were you, now?” Herding said, still gentle-voiced, but obviously seething, “You spoke to me of youth and foolishness. Cenbryt may be young and foolish, but he is a shrewd devil as well. You spoke in riddles, and that has gotten me nothing but a black eye and a broken bottle of good wine.” He jabbed a finger at the numerous crystalline shards of bright scarlet that speckled the ground around one of the tent’s support beams and then jerked the same finger at his bruised face, then turned away. Grinning undetectably – again – Thrákmazh advanced, hungry for satisfaction.

“He tried to kill you, but failed,” Thrákmazh murmured, “and so he pretended that his intentions were noble.”

“You truly think so, do you? Cenbryt is a fool, just as you said, but that is useless to me.”

Herding found Thrákmazh’s hand suddenly present on his shoulder, resting there nonchalantly, “To us, Herding, to us,” Thrákmazh whispered, in a most disquieting fashion. He paused, as if he had something truly revolutionary or controversial he was about to confess. His words sounded forced, unlike they usually did, and his eerie smile was most certainly not. “…I have a…proposition for you.” Herding looked to him, incredulous.

“Another conspiracy theory? Save your breath.”

“Koran wants you dead.” Thrákmazh stated bluntly.

“I had figured out that much.” The Southron nodded.

“He will attempt again on the eve of battle to slay you.”

“Once again the orc speaks the obvious.” Herding growled, his tone dark and sardonic, he spun, bearing down on the orc, who was shorter than him only because of his squatting, drooping posture. “Get to the point.”

Thrákmazh nodded back knowingly, taking a wary step back, and continued. “But…” he hesitated again, drawing out the silence in the air, “what if we attack him first?” Herding’s gaze turned to a very mild curiosity, possibly even interest, and Thrákmazh could tell he was at least hooked by the orc’s delectable bait “…On battle’s eve,” he continued, droning, “when we are camped near Lorien, we must strike, you and I, together. There will be some manner of signal we share, one of your choosing. The orcs under my command will gladly attack the Southrons of Cenbryt’s, and your will surely follow you to the same end. All at once, we cut off the power of our foe. He will be surrounded and only a few of his men will remain loyal. If we offer them the spoils of war…and the option to live, many will surely come to our side. Then, we take Cenbryt and the remaining ‘rebels’ captive (most unfortunately, we could not kill them all right away, for the Eye would look upon that as unnecessary action). Then, after we have proved they were traitorous to the troops, they will corroborate the necessity to slay them…Then; you can have your way with Koran Cenbryt.”

He stopped, letting silence return again and Herding absorb all he’d said. The Southron was looking down at the ground, his eyes averted from the foul, single-eyed [i]uruk[i]. Still grinning, though more noticeably now, Thrákmazh took back the ground he’d lost, taking a step towards Herding. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand, palm open, towards the captain of Southrons, index finger twitching strangely (though, as far as he could tell, Herding didn’t notice). The man looked up at Thrákmazh, taking note of his outstretched hand. Thrákmazh knew that the moment of truth had come. What level would the wretch stoop to? He could only hope his ploy would be a believable one. All he could do was quietly wait for Herding’s response.

“What say you?”

[Orofaniel]

Wasn't this the best time to discuss such matters? Herding thought and gave a deep sigh. He thought for a moment about what the Orc Captain had said; “He tried to kill you, but failed,”

Herding gloated. It was true; the young lad had tried to kill him, with his very effort, but he had failed. Koran was defeated by a drunk Captain. Herding suddenly burst into a great laughter, feeling nothing but joy, the pain from his wounds were long forgotten. "What are you laughing at?" Thrákmazh growled seeming both annoyed and offended that Herding wasn't taking his question seriously enough. He didn't know though, that Herding was thinking about something else. Herding was too caught up in his own thoughts to even notice the annoyance in the Orc's eyes and continued as before, until his thoughts returned to Thrákmazh's question.

He didn't really know what to do about it. To kill Koran was of course what had to be done, and it was going to happen as well - it was only matter of when it was going to happen and how. Herding then concluded that Thrákmazh's idea wasn't bad at all. In fact it could work pretty well, with everything well planned of course. Herding was still suffering fromgreat hesitation regaring the Orc's porposal; Herding wasn't too sure though if Koran's men would betray him. Would his own men do that? Herding swallowed, as he realised the answer to his own question; if they were given the option to live, then perhaps, some of them would betray him. Some would stay truthful, wouldn’t they?. He was aware of the situation now- so all of a sudden.

"But what if Koran's men still remains true to him when we strike?" he then asked the Orc. Now fully returned to civil manners, without any obnoxious thoughts or ideas of his own. "If they remain true to him, we'll kill 'em anyway. They are fewer than us; we'll rip 'em before they even lay a hand upon us. Believe me," Thrákmazh said. It seemed comforting on Herding's part, but Herding was too wise to think that this would be likely; Koran's men were great soldiers. They wouldn't have any problems at all killing several of those filthy Orcs each. But then again, it was the question of those who would stay faithful to Koran Cenbryt in a situation like that.

"You still haven't answered my question," Thrákmazh then reminded him, speaking quite loud. "That's because it's folly to make such a decision right now," he said, looking at one of his wounds. "Ah, you're right. I didn't expect that though," the Orc said mischievously.

"Didn’t expect what, if I may ask?" Herding then asked him politely, bur curious about the meaning of Thrákmazh's most recent words. "I would have thought you'd figure out a plan of your own to revenge Koran's attack on you. But here you are, not willing to take any risks, nor even considering anything of your own. Besides, my proposal is as good as it gets, still you are hesitating..." The Orc Captain then said, looking at him with the only eye the Orc possessed. Herding felt annoyed; he could kill Koran all by himself, if it was needed; Today Koran had tried to kill him, but even if Herding was a bit drunk he hadn’t managed it. Cenbryt was weak, and Herding could crush him whenever he wanted too. As simple as that. But instead of telling this to Thrákmazh he said;

"You're wrong…"

"I haven't found time yet to plot anything against Cenbryt after the fight; remember, you entered my tent, with such a proposal in your mind as the only intention of coming here," Herding the continued. "I don't reckon there has been much time for me to think about anything yet...See my dilemma?" Herding then said finally without any interruptions.

"I see," Thrákmazh then said, unwillingly. He obviously didn't like Herding's conclusion. "You've had a lot to drink this evening..." he said, looking at the broken empty bottle..

"I'll let you rest, and think about it until tomorrow morning," Thrákmazh said trying not to seem too annoyed over not having an answer until tomorrow. Herding felt treated unfairly, as he didn't see himself as drunk to be incapable of making decisions of importance; he was fully capable of making any decisions, no matter what decisions that needed to be made.

"Hold on," Herding said, as the Orc was about to take his leave. "Captain..?" he answered. "We'll do it; we'll surrender him near Lorien, then we'll kill him," Herding then decided spontaneously, feeling the blood rush to his head. A twisted smile came across Thrákmazh face as he heard the news, and he didn’t try to hide it either, as delighted as he seemed to be. "Alright Captain Herding," he said, respectfully;" You'll get your revenge....I promise you...we'll both get what we want.."

"Let me kill Cenbryt when the time has come," Herding then said; "Let me finish him off...Let me be the very last thing he sees upon this earth until he falls into shadow...”

[Durelin]

“So which way do we go? To the north, where we will find both safety and a longer road, or to the south, where we will either find ourselves beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood by morning, or a host of enemies intent upon our destruction?”

Calenvása sighed. Safety would be found in the longer road. They would be safe, at least. But what could they say for those in Lorien, if they took the longer road, seeking their own safety rather than that of the land of their kindred. So it seemed to come that Ambarturion’s wish for deeds and deaths worthy of a song would come true, or at least have it’s chance to. But this time the Lorien elf spoke nothing of songs, nor the glory of their deaths. He merely spoke of an enemy set to help them all find their deaths, and spoke of it without fear or a feverish focus on the end. All there realized, though, particularly at these words, that some kind of end had to come.

There was silence for a moment. A silence that was well justified, he knew, as he scanned the eyes of his companions. Their minds were struggling to come up with any words. There was much to consider, much which could be dwelt on for a lifetime. Calenvása laughed bitterly in his head. Death could be dwelt on for a lifetime…

“We go to the south, and we will find the safety of Lorien, in one way or another.” It was time to dwell on living with the time they had to live. And right now they should be concerned with time.

~

“We have faced attacks such as these before, and have yet to falter.”

Helkaur of Lorien frowned as he spoke, seeing sorrow in the eyes of Moraniel, his wife, and mirroring it. He waited for her to speak, to say that she knew this and that she knew that everything would be all right. His heart desired those words to eradicate his own heavy sorrow. He wanted to hear that everything would be all right, from the lips of his love, so that the dread they shared would be proved baseless. But then he closed his eyes, knowing the words would not come. He could not say them himself.

“But why must you face these attacks?”

Her voice was taut with emotion, ready to break at any moment. She barely held on to any calm, and Helkaur opened his eyes to watch the sadness in her eyes begin to cover her face in a veil of grief. Why did she still have to look so beautiful? His own face twisted in a painful feeling that did not know how to express itself. Moraniel asked a question that she knew the answer to, that she never would have asked had she been herself, and not behind that horrid veil. Helkaur did not answer, and he knew his wife did not truly expect him to. Then Moraniel dropped her eyes, hanging her head in sorrow, seeming embarrassed of the veil she wore, and Helkaur wanted so much to just lift that veil and kiss her.

“You always have a choice…” she said quietly, and he searched frantically for a way to lift that veil that separated him from her for the moment. He knew only to say what was in his heart, as he always had, to her.

“And I always choose, my love.”

She looked up, back into her husband’s eyes, her eyes brightened for a brief moment, something behind the grief, mixed with the grief, showing through and over-shadowing it. And her face…it was radiant, though it shown with a soft glow. Helkaur still felt that it should blind him. She had torn off the veil herself. Now he knew the elf before him, and he felt his heart unwind itself from being twisted in pain. His heart could not remain sad or afraid under that gaze. Then she kissed him, and he felt himself begin to glow. She almost smiled. And it almost hurt him, that she did not.

“I’ve always trusted you to make the right choices. I will not stop now, as I have no reason to. I have no reason to do anything but respect your decision. You amaze me. You have always been so strong.”

“It is you who gives me the strength to live at all on this earth.”

“Then do not leave this earth without me.”

“I have already promised you that you will never be without me, and I will uphold that promise.”

For a moment, Moraniel seemed to search his eyes for more, as if these words were not enough. In truth, they were not, but Helkaur could give her nothing more. He watched his wife give up the search after a moment. She knew she would not find anything. Helkaur turned away, knowing that it was time for him to hold his longbow, the bow he used for war. As soon as he had turned, he felt a sharp pain, and he felt the eyes on his back look upon him in a new way. When he turned again, bow in hand, he saw in his love’s eyes that she had found something after all. What it was, he did not know, but it brought to her beautiful eyes and her face hardness. It did not take away from her beauty, but she now shown with a sharp glow, rather than a soft warmth. She stood physically and mentally unwavering, as she had always been in his mind, though he had watched her fail, fall, and falter. She had always helped him find strength, and he had always tried to do the same for her. Now she had found it. But had he helped her in doing so?

“I wait for you, Helkaur.”

And so he departed, and she watched him walk away, with one last kiss, a loving embrace, and without any tears.

[Kransha]

Many days had passed since Thrákmazh the Mighty approached his fellow conspirator, a day since those conspiring were confirmed and set into swift motion. His scheme was working; his plan was coming closer to success! Herding was, perhaps, more than convinced. It would all fall into place easily. Quietly, studiously, Thrákmazh reviewed the devilish scheme: On the eve of battle, this very night, the coup would take place. Herding could imprison Cenbryt on charges of treason, and then kill him. While the wretched Southron gloated, Thrákmazh could take his chance. He would slay Herding, and Cenbryt would be dead already. The Southrons would have no choice but to follow him and, if they did not, Thrákmazh’s orcs and uruk-hai far outnumbered the southern men. Besides that, he had ranks of lesser folk, mercenaries, trolls, and the like that were loyal to Sauron and not to Harad. If worse came to worse, disposing of all rebellious Southrons would be no more than a bland annoyance, an unwelcome thorn.

The sun was now nearly set behind the trees after a long, monotonous journey through the dim sky, unlit by a great brightness. The golden vessel that Thrákmazh so despised seemed dulled, like a brilliant, shimmering metal rusted over time. Clouds billowed above, moving quickly to escape their proper course. The orc captain moved with subtle swiftness through his side of camp, eluding stray glances with ease. It would be best to get the army moving, now that night had fallen. Stars began to glisten meagerly in the high heavens. Doubtless the lot of them would be, as usual, opposed to moving in daylight, but they would do it nevertheless. Thrákmazh had to see to such things, it was his responsibility, and he knew that no orc or other creature would dare to stand in his way when doing his duty to the Eye. The camp had to be summarily roused early each day and where prepared for another day of early awakening beneath dawn’s cold sun after very little sleep. They were but a day from the Woods of Lórien and would cover much ground before the day’s gold vessel completed its slow-paced arc through cloudless skies. But, they would not rise in calm tranquility tomorrow. They would rise in the evening, beneath Thrákmazh’s guiding hand.

Tonight…Tonight Sauron’s Eye and the eye of Thrákmazh the Mighty would see together.

The army assembled by the Captain of Dol Guldur, Khamûl the Nazgûl, consisted of the scattered remnants of the Uruk-hai (most of whom were slain with the fall of Orthanc), goblins of the Misty Mountains, Urûks of Mordor and Mirkwood, Southron tribesmen, and, finally, Olog-hai. The Olag-hai, or Ologs, were simply trolls to anyone who cared to look upon them. They were bred with the urûks in Mordor, but were gifted by the Eye with uncanny abilities, unusual for common troll-kind. The Olog-hai at least had some mild intelligence, and, unlike most trolls, were unfazed by the dreaded beams of the sun. They were easily compatible with orc hosts, useful as dreadnaughts or heavy infantry, crushing and annihilating all in their way. The problem was, no matter how much brain the Dark Lord gave them, they were no more than overbearing trolls, and thus, dull and slow like their smaller, weaker kin in the north and west.

This slowness had cost the host much time. Trolls could not be incensed to quicken their paces, as they had no means to move faster whether or not they wished to. Thrákmazh had never been obligated to work or correspond with trolls of kind. There were few trolls in the forests of Mirkwood and they appeared only sparingly in the Misty Mountains, where some campaigns had taken Thrákmazh in his younger days. In his three millennia of remembered life, Thrákmazh had had a mild aversion to trolls, ever since their constant and conspicuous absence at all the battles where he might have needed their services. Now, they were costing him again, with their aversion to his pace, or their inability to match it. They were slowing the orc-host down, and their weakness might go so far as to add another day to the journey from Dol Guldur to Lórien. But, they had a purpose, one that Thrákmazh the Mighty could use and exploit with ease. The trolls would accommodate him during the overthrow. Koran’s men might be able to kill orcs and men, but killing trolls was an art form still not mastered. For the last days, these trolls had had dragged behind, a quailing rear flank for the monstrous host. Tonight, they fell, slowly and wearily, grumbling and yawning stupidly (a sound that more resembled a grunting growl that rumbled in troll throats before bursting out, unwanted), into slumber, chained by iron collars to the sturdiest woodland trees…

They would not sleep for long.

Thrákmazh sat, his only eye firmly shut, blocking out the little light of the stars as the sunlight disappeared, before his tent. He was squatting in the dirt, pondering, as he had pondered every moment of the long journey since his conversation with Herding in the Southron’s tent. Tonight was as apt a night as any to do the wicked deed, but Thrakmazh’s mind was elsewhere, preoccupied. His rough-skinned hand glided up and down the length of his orcish blade, which now hung at his right in a secondary place. Having taken its place, the glimmering Elven sword shined still, absorbing the cold, watery moonlight as it swept as a tide over night. He was preoccupied by the blade, its hold still firmly on him. Faces, as white as ice and lacking of earthly pallor, appeared continually before his eyes, flashing strobes of painful fire. It was maddening as it had been at first, but so much now that it blinded the orc’s mind against all ulterior motives. He was thinking of the Elves, those he had killed in the past…and those he would kill tomorrow, but one elf still lingered, one that he hoped and wished was dead. A voice, though, stirred his reverie…a voice that came from within.

‘The Elf is dead, don’t be a fool. He has perished.’ The voice spoke slowly, icily, as if digesting the sour words before it spoke. It was a voice that lingered in Thrákmazh, a voice whose cold sound scratched against his skull as talons would, rending layers from his thick bones and exerting great force to cause pain. It was orcish, his perhaps, but smoother and darker with a strangely subtle elegance that Thrákmazh’s own voice did not possess. The orc considered the words that this voice from within spoke, the message concealed in the melodious oratory. He knew, somehow, deep in his dark and stinking heart, that the voice, as convincing as it was, was wrong. Slowly, his tattered lips moved to mouth the words of his reply. “The Elf lives…he lives…I know it…I feel his fire in the sword.” His hand unconsciously moved, worming down like a snake, separate from its earthly master, towards the blade that still hung at his left hip. Its moonbeam gleam shone weakly through the scabbard of torn leather that Thrákmazh had bound around it to quell its preternatural glow. He felt the same distinct burning feeling that shot through him, coursing into his pulsating veins each time his hand neared the Elven blade he’d stolen.

‘That sword will be the death of you, fool.’ admonished the dank voice within, ‘Discard it and turn back to your mission.’ Again, Thrákmazh heard the words in passing, as if he had somehow heard them before and was recalling a past incident in reverence of contemplation. His eye closed more firmly, the lid and saggy skin about it folding into a wrinkled pouch of flesh. He disagreed with the voice, fully now. He knew at this point that it would disagree with him. Whatever dark source it sprung from and whatever tributaries it held to it in his mind, he was not inclined to listen to it out of any more than necessity. His brow furrowed in annoyance. “My mission will be complete by the next sunset.” He said to himself, his unspoken words wrought with arrogance that he had not expected to come from him. He knew he was prideful, but he was also cautious. His usual wary, circumspect demeanor evaporated, absorbed into the offending voice, which spoke with it.

‘Unless you falter,’ chided the voice delicately, pausing a moment after, ‘...Koran will fall, but can you slay the darker man?’ Again Thrákmazh felt an unreasonable need to argue and seek fault in the words of the voice. It was manufactured as a tool for argument, a resilient mannequin that would take Thrákmazh’s blows and bounce back uniformly. “He will fall as his foe shall.” Thrákmazh silently growled, no vocal sound coming from him though he still spoke, “I will lead when the sun has risen. I will lead orc, man, and troll alike to victory.” The voice paused, and Thrakmazh’s mind fell into a further trance, near slumber, as the counterpart of his personality digested again, preparing the adequate, sardonic, dark response. An instant later it burst, its loud fervor filling Thrákmazh’s pounding skull. ‘With what?’ it queried, with a dry wit lingering in the tone, ‘...What tool have you do mastermind Lorien’s defeat?...The sword of an Elf?”

The words struck a nerve. “No!” Thrákmazh said, this time out loud, but still softly, “I will slay Elves with an orc blade!” His hand switched from left to right flank, fingers curling protectively about the horn-carved hilt of his scimitar. He saw the elf before him, or at least his face, through the bars of a cage. It was the cage that he’d been confined in during their parting conversation, one-sided as it was. The image passed with the speed of a passing bird, set on other things, and was replaced by a swirling whirlpool of murk and debris. As he felt the hilt, he felt the same emptiness he’s felt, the same soulless blackness. The same vigor that usually accosted him was gone, replaced by that emptiness. Whenever he killed Elves or men or even orcs, he felt blood rush through him and passionate fire inflame him. Now, ice encased his panting, heaving lungs, his blood ran cold, and the beat of his orcish heart slowed to a standstill. He felt nothing...Quietly, the voice continued, swelling soon to greater volume and power. ‘Your soul is no longer there.’ It murmured disdainfully, ‘Your soul is with the Elf! He’s stolen it from you!’

“My soul is here!” he cried, louder now, “The Elf, dead or living, does not hold it.”

‘Then look in your sword, O Mighty Captain, and see what lies in its blade.’

Slowly, reluctantly, Thrákmazh’s hand moved again, to his left hip. He had to be the victor. The voice was just another challenge, and an unneeded one at that. He could slay it and its weak, abhorrent brethren, along with the Elf. The Elf, dead or alive, would pay for the pain he’d caused Thrákmazh. He would pay for making Thrákmazh remember, in such agonizing, gruesome detail the deeds he’d once held as landmarks in his life. He would slay more Elves, and he would cleave their heads from their shoulders, rend their arms from their sides, and slice their wobbling legs, quailing in fear, out from beneath their fragile, porcelain forms, delicate and as weak as autumn leaves. He would bathe in their blood when the time came, and laugh at the pitiful being who defied his will with vile trickery and Elvish sorcery that had cursed him. His fingers closed, feeling a fire more painful than inflaming wrap around his hand, worm up his arm, and overflow there. Flinching, his hand shot away again, latching on to the orcish sword, he whipped it from its sheath and stumbled up to his feet, trying to gain a firm foothold in the earth. His one eye passed over the land beneath him and settled on the sword.

The voice was gone, gone from his mind and would no longer pester him, but he still had to prove it wrong. He slowly unsheathed the blade, clasping it hopefully in one hand, and raised the blade parallel to the ground. Somewhat hesitantly, he leaned over it, his one eye closing involuntarily. He, at first, could not force himself to look into it. Something about the very gesture pained him, but only slightly. He was only reluctant because, at this stage, he would not stand to be wrong. All was going as planned and, to be victorious, he could not let any form of fear or seeds of doubt infect him. He was firm, strong, mighty, and his reflection in a blackened sword could not change that, no matter what. The orc captain was resolute and would not move from his position. Ready for anything, his eye snapped open and the space where his other eye had been contorted, as if some inner eye was staring into the reflective sheen of the polished weapon.

What he saw horrified him to no end, beyond the very depths of his nightmares. He saw fire, fire and shadow, swirling cyclonic around him. The sword burned him now, searing the flesh of his hand just as the Elven blade had. He felt his heart racing, his head pounding, and his veins throbbing. The healed injury in his leg suddenly pulsated furiously, the innards of him beating like drums against his ribs. He cast the blade from his hand so forcefully that it was buried in the ground when it fell, reverberating. The blade rippled, singing a song of death that filled Thrákmazh’s ears. Letting loose a monumental roar of pain, Thrákmazh reeled and fell to the earth, clasping his empty hands to his head. He needed something, anything, to purge him off the pain. At first his mind sought physical pain to divert the mental pain. He yearned momentarily to bury a knife in his arm just for distraction, but the dying fragments of logic in him told him not to. He needed drink, orc-draught, liquor strong enough to alleviate his troubles and woes. His eye, still clenched tightly closed, turned beneath it’s lid to the area surrounding his tent as his painful roaring began attracting a great deal of attention.

“URKRASH!” his voice boomed, as his left hand wrapped protectively around his burning right. He sunk to his knees again, his one, dark eye flitting sideways to the tent of his servant, a smaller sheltered erected not far from his own lavish pavilion. From it, almost instantly, issued a groggy-looking Urkrásh with a weary yawn on his lips and sandy debris clinging to his low eyelids. The tired orc tried in vain to hurry towards his master, having heard the call which echoed still in the sky. “Yes, lord.” He said glumly, but still purposefully, as he neared Thrákmazh, “What is it you want of-” Thrákmazh interrupted the slow-moving voice with his maddened own. “Orc-draught, now!” He snapped, jabbing a finger at the flask which he had known would be hanging on Urkrásh’s flank. His finger was moving up and down, rapidly, like the fluttering wings of a swift bird and his eye and face had lost their pallor, drained of all color. His whole demeanor had shrunk and his look was pallid and weak…almost afraid...He had never been afraid before...never...

Reluctantly, and not quite understanding, Urkrásh unhooked the hide-leather flask from a tattered belt slung across his shoulder. His hand shaking uncontrollably, his thin, nearly emaciated arm extended outward to Thrákmazh. The hand of the captain shot out carelessly, tearing the flask from his servant’s hand. His talons tore into it, causing the thick, brownish substance to spill out onto the grass. Disregarding that, Thrákmazh crammed the torn muzzle of the flask between his teeth and guzzled the foul liquid. He needed it, needed it to alleviate his pain, his fear. But, in horror, his eyes widened, and he pulled the flask away, heaving it to the ground where its remaining contents began spilling out. From his lips blossomed a red liquid, dark and bearing a very specific consistency, one Thrákmazh knew all too well. The orc suddenly sputtered and spat the substance out, trying to purge it from his throat. “Blood! Blood!” he roared madly, as the crimson liquid fell in rivers down onto his armor and the ground. His mouth was filled with blood, not orc liquor, blood! Reeling furiously, Thrákmazh grabbed his sword from the ground and with the flat of it batted Urkrásh away, aiming the tip at his throat at last. He breath hard, steamy breath shooting out of his throat like a geyser.

“You drink it!” he bellowed, gesturing to the nearly empty flask, “Tell me what is there!”

With ultimate reluctance, his entire pitiful form quivering, Urkrásh knelt, Thrákmazh’s blade following him to his knees where his shivering fingers hooked onto the ripped flask and picked it up, trying to maintain the draught within. Hesitating greatly, he pulled it towards him and took a conservative sip. He contemplated the taste momentarily, throwing the draught around inside him, and then slowly swallowed with a sound akin to a frightful gulp. A second later, he let the flask fall, emptied, to the earth and got onto his feet, trying feebly to steady himself. “It is orc-draught, sir.” He murmured fearfully, “A few days old, yes, but not-” Thrákmazh cut him off before he finished, his flailing blade knocking Urkrásh backward. The orc captain’s eyes were incendiary again, his figure alight, bound with an unholy aura radiating off him as shadow would. “LIAR!” he cried through blood-soaked lips, “You lie like everyone else, worm! You lie like the Elves! Traitor, wretch! Do you not know who I am? What I am? I am Thrákmazh One-Eye, mightiest of Sauron’s servants, invincible, unbeatable, im…” his ranting voice quieted and slowed suddenly, the fire fading from his eyes as he whispered the last word, “…immortal.” His eye closed solemnly, the lid fallin in defeat, a feeling the captain had never felt.

The orc backed up, turning away, and slid his sword back into its scabbard. “Arouse the host, but do it silently, and instruct all lieutenants to have their troops prepare themselves for battle. Tell them that we are finally going to deal with the traitorous Haradrim, for the Southron captain called Koran Cenbryt is a foe of the Eye and must be dealt with. Ready them, loyal Urkrásh, and you will get your just rewards. Be quick about it as well, for the Southron must be dealt with before the sun rises.” Urkrásh nodded confusedly and turned, heading off towards the nearest line of tents to awaken the troops, though he still didn’t fully know why. Surely he had not so soon recovered from the effects of Thrákmazh’s eruption. But, Thrákmazh wasn’t bothered by any of this. His eye coldly swiveled in its socket. From tents all around him orcs were already issuing. They had been awakened by his nightly howling and the cacophony he’d created. They looked at him with a strange look, resembling one of concern, but Thrákmazh knew they were not concerned…they were afraid…Their captain was mad, lost to sanity, and now, they knew it.

Snarling under his breath, Thrákmazh tried to ignore them. He turned, rubbing his sore throat, and hurried off in the direction of Herding’s campsite, away from the countless pairs of eyes fixed on him. He had to wake his ‘ally’ so that the process of ridding himself of both Southron captains could begin. It did not take him long to reach the Haradrim camp, since the swarthy men were all sleeping, unlike the orcs back at their side. In the night, with little visibility (and the fortunate absence of the moon’s cold light), it took a bit longer to locate Herding’s tent, but, unlike Cenbryt’s, it was a larger, more decadent pavilion erected on the fringe of the Southron camp. Thrákmazh snaked his way too it, slinking through the shadows as he always did. He neared it soon and, watching as his goal came closer and closer to his grasp, entered.

“Herding…It is time…”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran lay motionless on his back in the tent, his fingers laced behind his head on his folded up coat, used as a pillow, his legs stretched out and crossed as he stared up at the roof of the tent, his brown eyes sightless as in his mind he watched the stars beyond. Despite having found the drink and dice he sought, there was something unsatisfying about them tonight, and the thoughts that plagued him refused to remove themselves despite all the coaxing from his jovial company.

Desperately jovial. Tomorrow we die... The unpleasant thoughts made Koran close his eyes tightly, screwing them up tightly then sitting up restlessly. Stifling a yawn, he rubbed on eye with the heel of his palm and listened to the noises outside. He had been lying in his tent for hours and still sleep refused to come - as she had refused night after night recently. Koran had been born and brought up as a soldier to a fine family - part of one of the most treacherous armies in Middle Earth. You slept with your sword at your hand and one eye open - fact of life, it always had been! But it had never stopped him from getting a decent rest before, so why now, when he had men loyal to him, a good captain, about to attack an unsuspecting foe, did he feel so restless?!

The answer, of course, was obvious. Herding. That single word, as hateful to Koran as the mention of Sauron to the elves. Koran had attacked him once, even if it was in defence, and would have won - and Herding would not forget it, although he was likely to erase in his mind the fact that if Koran had wanted to kill him, he would be dead. No, men like that have long but selective memories, and lack of imagination could bring about a very steady focus on doing what they wanted - in poorer men, the thoughts of revenge would simply fester away, twisting their minds, bringing them to petty violence against those too weak to defend themselves. But Herding - Herding had the power to carry out his wishes. A foolish, drunken man, with too much power than one of his sort should have, a clone to so many others in the Dark Army. Too quick to both sword and bottle, too stupid and proud to look at what he was doing and prevent quarrels, feuds, loss of life...

Koran threw his head back despairingly and flopped back down onto his makeshift bed once more, hands covering his face, then sat up abruptly again. What was he thinking? You're a soldier, Koran, loss of life is what you do! Do not confuse your thoughts with ideas of the enemy...

The enemy. Elves. One elf. The second cause of his sleeplessness: that bloody female-

He stopped, his head hanging between his drawn up knees, eyes closed. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to try to relax, to lie down again and to expell thoughts of both of the causes for his concern. The battle was tomorrow - maybe tomorrow was today now, he had no idea of knowing how long he had tossed and turned in his tent, trying to tempt Lady Slumber to lie with him, for minutes seem like hours with such a demanding and stubborn mistress. Outside, he could hear the muted murmurs of men still talking, and the occasional quietened laugh rang through the air as the last of the Southrons retired to their tents. Beyond that, the omnipresent gurgling of the river could be heard, a soft rippling that seemed amplified to Koran's tired and paranoid ears, even through the walls of the tent. That was an unsettling sound by itself - having grown up in the dry and dusty land of Harad, the captain was not used to the sound of water just gushing past like that, and even when travelling he had spent little time so close to the water. The occasional cry of distant waterfowl made him start, hand on his dagger, before he realised and relaxed a little, still remaining taut. Those cries - the sounds were unnatural and seemed too like screams, or the yelp of a wounded dog, sharp and piercing and so abruptly cut off to leave terrible silence in their wake. He shivered and turned his thoughts back to the sound of the river, sliding like some terrible beast outside. What if it was to overflow? The thought seemed rational and shocking to his tired mind - sure, it had seemed rather too full when he had seen it earlier, and it lapped at the banks constantly, always seeming to come closer up. Was it like that which he had heard of the Sea, always rising, creeping forward to take you unaware while sleeping on it's banks, vengeful waves rising and falling with crushing power.

He sat up with a stifled shout, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, his dark curly hair awry and eyes wild, sword in hand as he faced the mad, turbulent river of his dreams as it forced it's way through the tent flap. Sea...river...waves... He blinked a few times, lowering his hand slowly. So sleep had come to him for a while, but she had brought unpleasant gifts indeed in the form of such a dream. Outside, the men had finally retired to bed, and all was silent save the river - but that is not to say that there was no sound. Koran froze completely, listening to the sound outside - the sound of about three score men and orcs moving completely silently.

His sword still in his right hand, Koran stowed the dagger at the back of his belt, now in full view as he was not wearing his jerkin over his shirt. Pulling on his boots swiftly with his free hand, he stood silently and moved lightly over to the door of the tent, where he nearly fell over another figure. Sword raised at the ready above the still form at his feet, he twitched the door open a fraction, and the moonlight fell on a familiar face: Ehan's face, looking even younger in his sleep than usual. What the- The boy must have had a little too much to drink and slept in here rather than going back to his own tent with the other soldiers. Squatting, Koran covered the younger man's mouth and Ehan jerked awake immediately, his eyes wide and scared as the looked up at the dark form above, hovering like some malevolent spectre. The malevolent spectre raised a finger to it's lips and sat back slightly to allow more light onto his features for his squire to identify him as. Ehan looked confused, sleep confusing his mind, but Koran motioned for him not to speak and pointed to the sword beside him in a clear message. Standing once more, he looked through the crack between the tent flaps - and the sight made him go cold. Outside, standing with sword raised high, his eyes and grin terrible, was Thrakmazh - and around him, and the other tents, there were a swarm of orcs. And at the feet of Thrakmazh were two Mannish bodies - presumably the sentinels of the Southron camp, their necks now twisted at impossible backwards angles: broken for a silent death.

Mouthing a curse vehemently, Koran backed away sharply from the flap, his knuckles white over the sword handle. Having arrived so silently and armed so well, the orcs led by the fiersome Uruk were probably not just here to have a few early morning drinks. Tugging at his hair with his free hand, he looked around desperately - they had the tent's one entrance and exit surrounded. How could he escape? Think, Koran, think...If I throw myself out suddenly, I can probably take a few of them down, and if I yell loudly enough, my men are sure to recognise the voice and come to my aid...

Unless they were in on this as well...

There was no time to contemplate that, and no time to think up a better or more structured plan - it would have to do. Ehan's eyes shone in the darkness as he positioned himself beside Koran and the older man exchanged a glance with him, nodding briefly and reaching out to clasp his hand firmly. Tensing his muscles, he prepared to rush to the door-

-when a gargled scream rent the air. Piercing and drawn out, the sound made both men jump, and from the sound of clattering armour chinking against itself, the orcs had done the same. Koran didn't pause to wonder what it was - throwing himself through the tent's entrance with a yell, he sliced his sword around in a wide arc to lop of the head of one of the orcs. But through the rows of tents, it seemed a different foe had beaten him to the swarm of orcs: even in the twilight of the very early morning, the small group of elves seemed to shine with some radiant light from a hidden source. The one at their front, now recognisable as the male elf who had been sent off to his supposed death, raised his sword high and yelled in a voice both beautiful and terrible like a ghastly spirit.

"Lorien!"

The single word was like a signal: immediately, the orcs and elves surged forward to meet with clashing weapons and battlecries...

[Firefoot]

Thorvel knew there had been no choice. South had been the only way they could go and still hope to come to Lorien before the Orcs. It was risky, yet a necessary risk. The Orcs might well hold the ford; Thorvel had a nagging suspicion that they did. Still, they had pressed on through the night, and soon they would know. If the day brought battle, death was almost inevitable. If the ford brought Orcs, battle was inevitable. It was a bleak prospect. They were drawing near now. They approached the area warily, so as to get an idea of what lay ahead.

Thorvel crested the last ridge before the mighty Anduin just behind Ambarturion, who had led the way that night. What he saw caused hope to die within him. The full strength of the enemy’s army stretched out before them, blocking the ford. There was no way to reach Lothlorien. Then Ambarturion drew his sword.

“Lorien!” Ambarturion cried. All at once the Orcs were alerted to their presence. If any had still been sleeping, which seemed likely enough at the early hour, they would wake soon. Confusion would reign for a while, and then would be death. Somehow Thorvel wasn’t ready to succumb wholly to the despair that threatened to engulf him. He raised his bow, and fitted an arrow. He would not die without a fight. He loosed the arrow, squarely hitting his target.

“For Mirkwood!” He descended into a cold fury. He lost track of his companions, vaguely aware that those without bows had charged into the Orcs. He fired arrow after arrow, each one taking out an Orc or Southron. And strangely enough, in the midst of battle, he found he was at peace. The stresses of the past few days drifted away, for they were all in this together, none fighting for leadership or over any other small matter. They were all fighting for their lives, for the freedom of Lothlorien, against the Shadow that willed to overtake them all.

[Kransha]

Everything was falling apart, everything he’d worked for, everything he’d hoped for, everything. He’d been standing, eyes agleam like sparkling stars, hellish as they were, over those who opposed him and the overthrow. Herding was behind, his men rising. Koran would’ve fallen, Herding would’ve fallen, they all would’ve been slain in their accursed turn and Thrákmazh would’ve taken the helm of this now-sinking vessel. What had happened? How had his plan, his whole world, gone so horribly awry? Around him, battle began like torrential waves, crashing, one against the other, and for once Thrákmazh was not on the prow of his troops, steering and reining them in with his military expertise. He stood, motionless and dazed, drunk off the success that had eluded him. All the power he'd dreamed of was slipping through his fingers.

All these thoughts left him, though, as his eye moved through the crowd. As he’d thought, there were not that many Elves, but one of them was far too familiar. The face and the fair voice on the wind that came from him, all was recognizable. It was the Elf who’s sword Thrákmazh held, the Elf whose compatriot he’d slain, the Elf who swore an oath to kill him a fortnight ago. As the Elves, Southrons, and Orcs collided in battle, the one noticed Elf plowed past the enemy ranks, cutting down several primitive orcs in simple succession. As the battle raced, Thrákmazh’s vision slowed. The Elf was drawing nearer, slicing his way through orcish ranks. Thrákmazh felt strange, disconnected from reality. The cacophony of conflict faded and his eye closed. His mind swam as he heard the voice that had haunted him for far too long. He had known the Elf was alive, he had known all along, he had simply never admitted it to himself. He was alive because it was Thrákmazh’s purpose to kill him, not that of some filthy slave-driver in Dol Guldur. Realizing this simple fact, the orc captain’s eye opened, filled with renewed verve, and fell upon his sworn enemy. Finally the Elf had cleared all obstacles in his way and stood a body’s length away from Thrákmazh with his blood-covered sword at his side, soundless and still. The two of them, reunited under these bizarre circumstances, stared at each other as the fight continued, their eyes locked together, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

“You…” the orc said at last; half in a sinister whisper as his fingers tightened on the hilts of both weapons he held. His heart was pounding again, it’s beat, rhythmic eternally, began to speed up, thumping against the armored shell of his chest. His blood chilled and his bones quivered in their appointed places throughout his body. At last, he was looking upon this most dreadful and hated enemy. The mixture of anticipation, glee, and fright overflowed in Thrákmazh, filling his every mental orifice. His only eye, glowing a ghastly yellow, narrowed into a precise slit that peered at the Elf. “I knew you would be here,” he said after a silent moment had passed, “…Why do you plague me, Elf?” The Elf looked back, his eyes as cold and hard as ice, dagger-like, piercing the gaze of Thrákmazh and deflating his last pang of arrogance. Though the uruk maintained the façade expertly, his confidence was slowly shrinking. “You are the plague, urûk,” the unnamed Elf murmured in reply, his words audible despite the low volume of his voice, “upon all of Arda, you and your foul kind.”

Thrákmazh winced as unnoticeably as he could and managed to crack a false grin, hoping to mask the strange twitching of his eye. He held out his right hand, the hand that held the Elven blade, its white glint shimmering like silvery ivory in the light of the dawn sun, which had just crested the far horizon. “Do you want your sword back, then,” he growled, still managing his withered smile, “or would you prefer it if I ran you through with it?” The Elf stared back, continuing the game of enemies, his form like unmoving steel, bereft of all emotion. The only visible movement or tension lay in his hand, which was shivering very slightly, in anticipation or rage perhaps. His sword, though, was frozen in place. Thrákmazh could see, despite the distance, his own reflection in the broad weapon, though the visage of it was blurry and obscured by sparkling sunlight being redirected by the blade’s watery surface as it shined down upon it from its comfortable seat in the sky above. That light hit Thrákmazh’s open eye, causing him to wince again and step back once, trying to evade the course of the bright ray that illuminated his dark face.

“Whatever blade I hold will draw your blood.” The Elf said, still fully unemotional. He did not blink, did not move, and did not budge from his place, fixed like a statue into the earth. Thrákmazh’s lip curled disdainfully and he took a step forward, his right index finger nervously tapping on the smooth Elven hilt. Around them both, battle raged, but its fearsome din was subdued, allowing the two opponents to focus solely upon each other, disregarding their surroundings. “So,” he said at last, easing into a conversational tone, “you still desire vengeance for your fallen comrade? If it consoles you at all, he is but one of many and he fell with more ease than most.” The orc was at least comforted by his familiar streak of sadism, when it took hold of him. He was thankful that he not so far gone that he did not take pleasure in the pain of others. A dark cackle billowed in his throat, ready to come out at full strength, but some form of restraint took hold and all that the one-eyed orc uttered was a pitiful croak, followed by a fragile-sounding cough, which didn’t suit Thrákmazh the Mighty.

“My student fell with his honor intact, which is more than you shall take with you into death.”

“He was your student, was he? It is a shame you did not teach him better, or perhaps he might be alive today, to see his teacher fall.” He grinned again, but that grin soon evaporated. His right hand pulsed again, the veins in it filled with fire rather than blood. The muscles of his arm throbbed painfully, and at last he knew what he must do to alleviate that pain. Thrákmazh’s arm whipped around and forward, his hand and clenching fingers suddenly releasing the gleaming sword. The weapon flew, soaring in the fashion of a majestic bird, and collided with the earth, burying itself in the ground and wobbling for a few moments before it returned to a quiet state of stillness and tranquility, resting, upturned, in the mound where it had landed. “Take your sword, Elf of Lórien,” spat Thrákmazh, throwing his orc scimitar from his left hand to his right and with the free hand reaching down to extract a long, jagged knife from his belt, “for it is useless to me.” His grin widened as the din of battle began to fill him again. “It is more fitting that you die under the same blade that slew your student.”

Simultaneously, both warriors flew forward, with the speed of the wind carrying them. The Elf swooped down, his hand releasing the blade he held, which clattered uselessly onto the ground, and scooped up his forgotten weapon, spinning it deftly upward and out of the ground and into a battle-ready stance as he ran. Thrákmazh leapt up nimbly, all the anger and hatred he’d ever felt for this Elf welling up and pouring out as his weapons shot out, seeking flesh and blood to rend. The Elf swerved beneath him and his sword, aimed down, struck dirt instead of bone. Angrily roaring, the orc veered sideways, careening towards the Elf with his sword and knife flying madly. Each attack was easily parried. The orc was loosing all his fear-inducing luster in this combat and he felt the love of war drain from him. His only goal was to kill, not to kill for Sauron, but to kill for his own evil, villainous purpose. That was the focus of his mind and the singular reason why his heart still beat in his chest. Eye ablaze, he surged forward.

With a resounding clang, the three blades in use met. Thrákmazh staggered, both arms trembling, but recovered soon enough to deflect an elegant slash from the Elf. He maneuvered to the side and his opponent tore past him, allowing the orc to turn and pounce on his prey. But, the Elf was still able to swiftly spin. The blind force of his sword bashed against Thrákmazh’s weary left hand, causing it to pull back like an injured serpent. Growling under his breath, Thrákmazh hammered his sword onto the Elf’s sword and flew at him. The two of them fell together, rolling onto the ground. They hacked at each other for a few seconds, furiously trying to make some headway, but each attack was either blocked or went madly askew. Finally, Thrákmazh pulled himself away from the immediate fray, landing on his knees some feet away from the Elf. Breathing hard, he looked up just in time to see a sword whizzing towards his face. On pure instinct, he lurched backward and the blade fell short. Taking his chance, Thrákmazh lunged again at the falling Elf and tackled him for the second time, but this time he managed to do damage. The knife clutched firmly in his left hand sank halfway up its blade into the Elf’s shoulder. The orc, as he saw his weapon find its mark, cracked another gleeful smile, but the expression was torn from his face as the iron hilt of the Elf’s sword found his unshielded face, crushing his hope of immediate victory.

Releasing his hold on the knife, Thrákmazh stumbled back and landed ignobly on his back, grabbing his throbbing jaw. Knowing that the fight was not over, he pulled himself to his feet, his eye, which had been closed tightly, opened in a flash, glowering at his foe. A short distance away, the Elf managed to stand, limping meagerly forward, and tore the offending, red-stained knife from his shoulder, casting it aside as he sucked in a sharp, pained breath. Dark crimson fluid ran from the wound down the length of his unarmored arm, but he retained his stance and resoluteness. Thrákmazh managed to smile for the third time, drawing a clenched fist along his chin to wipe away the blood secreted there. A river of muddy black now slid from the corner of his mouth. After a silent second in which both warriors regained their composure, Thrákmazh spit a reddened tooth from his mouth and spoke, letting the eerie silence settle again around the two of them. “You do not fight with your heart, Elf.” He said, “You have already failed your student, do not give up your own life so easily. I hoped for a challenge, but I see I’ll get none.”

The Elf swung his sword expertly, ignoring the loss of blood from his wound. His piercing pair of eyes met Thrákmazh’s lonely one, filling the orc’s gleeful soul with a sudden fear and dread. Thrákmazh’s expression changed, souring and darkening as the Elf looked on. Quietly, the Elf stood his ground, staring Thrákmazh down with maddening ease until; at last, he spoke in response, his voice cutting into Thrákmazh like the sword he held. “The challenge is here; spawn of Morgoth.” He whispered, loud enough only for the orc to hear. “It only requires you to accept it.”

And he did…

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran looked across, shocked and frozen as he recognised the slim, lissome figure of the woman who stood beside both he and Herding. But this woman was no mortal: in her hands she held a bow so naturally that it was another limb, half-raised, ready to shoot, and along with the quiver peeping over one shoulder, Koran recognised with a pang of guilt that these were weapons he had taken; her long dark hair had come partly loose and hung around her face wildly; at the bottom of her dress, the material was ragged and dirty, parts having been cut off. But her perfect, porcelain features were the same as the last time Koran had seen them: alert and exhilerated but, this time, completely unafraid, self-possessed, confident. She didn't meet his eyes but in that suspended moment, all Koran could see was the elf.

Herding didn't feel the same way though. With a snarled cry, he raised his sword high above his head with both hands and brought the weapon's blade sharply down towards Koran. The Southron didn't have time to react, turning to see it coming down, ready to stab directly into his collar-

But men are but young in this world: over a millenia of experience gives the elves a certain edge - the edge, the be more specific, of Koran's dagger, grabbed by Coromswyth from his belt and rammed into Herding's stomach, up towards his ribs.

The Southron froze, his breath stopping on his lips and his arms faltering in their vicious downwards arch that would have ended fatally for Koran, and the sword slipped in his fingers, looking about to drop. Slowly, an expression of surprise on his face, the older captain looked down at where the dagger blade was wedged beneath his armour breastplate, stabbing into his ribs, then raised his eyes to the elf, who stared back defiantly. He seemed to waver, sagging slightly at the knees, his fingers loose on the handle of their dangerous burden, his eyes squeezing tight shut, for a moment...two moments...three...

But although he was not a brave or good man, Herding had the strength of an ox. His eyes snapped open suddenly and, giving a terrible roar, he swung towards Coromswyth with a roar. She nimbly stepped out of his path, her face completely impassive and calm, and with the twin sliding silver sounds of metal being drawn out quickly, she unsheathed both knife and sword and faced Herding, waiting for him to turn, taking a ready stance. Glancing across at Koran, she tipped her head towards Herding, one eyebrow raised. Koran understood. Nodding, he drew out his sword, holding it with his uninjured left arm (the other's fingers were entirely useless at the moment) and spoke confidently to Herding: "Come on, Captain, you said you could kill me: do it."

The Southron swung about with surprising speed, and in doing so he whipped his fist around to strike Coromswyth full across the face. She fell with only a gasp, and her head struck against a stone: even amidst the sounds of battle, Koran swore he could hear the sound of her head striking the stone with an ominous crunch as her eyes flickered shut. He flinched towards her, eyes widening, and he heard the other man laugh - a slow, cracked, cruel sound. Looking up, he glared at his foe with every ounce of hatred he possessed. Herding returned his gaze mockingly, his face haggard and the sword grasped in a concentrated, white knuckle grip. Raising one hand, he wrapped his fingers sluggishly around the intricate handle of Koran's dagger, the red pommel shining like a prophesy of Koran's own doom against his hands then, with a yell, he tore it out, throwing it to the ground but an inch from Coromswyth's eyes. Once more, against his will, Koran moved towards the elf.

"What, boy, afraid for the life of the pretty elf?" Herding hissed maliciously, moving between Koran and Coromswyth's prone body. "Elves...wait, I was so sure they were the enemy..."

"Let us have this out now, Herding." Koran's voice was icy and restrained although his mind whirled with questions - he refused to let his eyes turn to Coromswyth, even to acknowledge her.

"Have it out? Why, we shall, boy. And then I think I shall have it out with her - but no, wait, I..can't, can I?" Herding smiled cruelly. "I cannot kill her because, well, you already took care of that, didn't you?"

Koran didn't say anything. Herding's smile widened. "Wait until the Eye hears about this...the captain who slept with the filthy immortal enemy-"

That was it: the younger Southron spun towards Herding, whirling around and bringing his sword with crushing speed towards the other man's side. Herding just rallied in time, his own sword meeting Koran's out of chance more than anything, and sparks flew as the blades met with such force. But there was no stopping Koran now: his brown eyes glowed with deep fire and the scar stood out on his face as he glowered at Herding, spinning away and turning to fight again. They fought by the book: attack and defence, each flawless, but Herding weakening. As Koran swung towards his chest, Herding feinted and stepped backwards, before driving the blade straight towards Koran's unprotected chest. The man leapt backwards, but not before the blade slashed a wound more than two inches deep across his tanned stomach. His hand moved to it automatically and the blood soaked into both his shirt and sleeve and he clenched his fist in pain, doubling over as stars flashed in front of his vision. Herding's laugh rang mockingly in his head as the audacious captain swaggered towards him and put a mockingly companiable hand around the younger man's shoulders, making his knees buckle. He fell to the ground and Herding laughed even more, leaning down towards him.

"This is what comes of defying those far superior to you-" he began, his voice a wicked, gloating whisper in Koran's ear. The young man lashed out with his sword, both hands on the handle as he forced it in a sudden motion up...into Herding's throat. The Southron's eyes widened open and he gave a strangled squawk...before crashing backwards, eyes still open, never to close of their own accord again. Koran knelt unsteadily on the ground.

"Yes," he panted. "Yes, that is what comes of defying those superior to you..." Looking across sadly to where the elf had fallen, his eyes now widened in sudden shock.

Her body was no longer there.

Koran stared at the spot, disbelieving. He had seen her fall, and she had taken such a blow...her head had struck the rock so loudly...

Or had it?

A rush of warmth flowed to Koran's stomach and he groaned, expecting the blood to gush with even more vigour through his resisting fingers...but instead of darkness in front of his eyes, he saw light - the light shining behind a woman's silhouette, her hands held out. Koran's cynical mind immediately presented the solution: he was dying. But even as the thought came, he knew it was wrong. He was not dying: he was somehow recieving life.

"For the kindness you once showed me, Captain Cenbryt, the debt has been repaid." The soft, musical whisper was directly behind Koran's ear, but as he whipped around, standing sharply, sword in hand, he saw no one there. Only a figure bounding away into the crowd, her black hair flowing; and one last time, Koran saw those brilliant grey eyes fix on him with such intelligence that he felt weak and childlike.

Retrieving his dagger from the ground with shaking hands, he surveyed the battle: the elves had increased in numbers, and now the arrows fell like rain over the heads of men and orcs. They would lose...

"Southrons, rally to me!" he yelled over the sound, holding both his weapons ready - just as she had done: the elf who had saved his life.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Orofaniel's post

It was like a sore throat.

Within minutes he felt the heated blood flowing from his throat. His hand reached the wound.;There was blood all over it. He couldn’t feel much, except for the heath. Slowly, however, the pain increased and he admitted to himself that this was nothing like a sore throat. He knew that this wound would kill him. It was Koran who had hit him in the throat with his sword, just in the moment where Herding thought it was all over; Herding had seen Koran on his knees, believing it was him who was going to die. But he had been wrong, Herding knew that now.

It was not Koran's life that would end this evening, it was his own. He couldn’t understand it, nor would he accept it. He fought bravely against what was coming, but he soon felt death embracing his body and mind; It was about to stop functioning. He felt his legs fail beneath him as he stumbled. He knelt on the ground, Koran still looking at him.

Without the courage to speak, nor listen to the rest of the battles on the battle field, he closed his eyes. It happened so slowly, but yet too quickly. It shouldn't have ended this way, was all Herding could think of. Victory and revenge had been close at hand, but now he had lost it all. Koran had defeated him.

With that thought, he cursed Koran's name one last time before he, unwillingly, rested upon the ground and died. Herding Gratnas had been defeated for the very last time.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ambarturion sought shelter from the rain of black-fletched arrows that streamed toward them from the underbrush, cursing the fate that had left him unequipped to respond to the attack. Megilaes pressed himself behind the tree adjoining Ambarturion’s own and the two waited with eager impatience for a break to come in the archery battle so that they could engage the enemy. Coromoswyth had taken up a position not far from theirs and she was firing into the brush, but without apparently much success. The orcs had come upon them with some plan in mind and, as Ambarturion had feared, they were making the most of the time the Elves had given them. They were being assailed now from both sides, and though the eyes and arrows of the Mirkwood Elves were keen, it was a hopeless battle: no group of archers, no matter how accomplished, could long withstand an attack upon two fronts.

Ambarturion whipped out his sword crying “To me! To me!” and stepped from his shelter. A movement in the corner of his eye made him swirl to one side, but not quickly enough to avoid the vicious barbs of an orc arrow. There was a sudden pain and then nothing as it sank into his arm. Ambarturion knew instantly that the arrow had penetrated no vital artery and that it had missed the bone, and without further thought he ripped it from his flesh with one agonising motion. His cry of pain became one of rage as he and his student ran toward the nearest group of orcs.

Two of the creatures had been slain by the arrows of the scouts, and the other four fell before the blades of the enraged Elves. Ambarturion’s stolen orc weapon shattered upon the armour of his last victim so he was forced to take up the only weapon that came to hand, a short jagged dagger. He then spun and ran back toward the other force of orcs, but the scouts had finally found their nerve and engaged them. Three lay dead, and Megilaes quickly killed a fourth. Ambarturion ran at the remaining two who tried to flee before him, but he quickly outpaced them. He punched the larger of the two in the back and sent him spinning into the trees. The other whirled upon him, snarling out his hatred through his yellowed teeth and lunged at him with his blade. Ambarturion easily avoided the blow and struck the orc upon the head, driving him into the ground. He drew back the orc’s head and prepared to slit its throat but a voice commanded him to wait.

Ambarturion looked up in surprise to see the leader of the scouts advancing toward him with his hands raised. “No!” he said. “Do not slay them. We might be able to discover from them where their army is headed.”

Ambartuion nearly spat at the idea. “They are but the maggots of Mordor, they do not know anything of use.” He made to slit the throat once more.

“NO!” the captain cried. “I said do not kill them!” And he took hold of Ambarturion’s wrist.

Ambarturion rose to his feet in fury of the insubordination. He gripped the orc dagger and advanced upon the captain, and had it not been for Coromswyth’s hand upon his chest he did not know what outrage he had been prepared to commit. “Ambarturion!” she said softly, as though to a maddened animal. “What would you do? Are you not ashamed to offer violence where you should be paying gratitude? Were it not for these our brethren we would surely have been taken and…killed by the orcs.” Ambarturion noted her slight hesitation as she omitted the unspeakable word that had haunted her since the incident at the Southron’s tent. She saw this but continued as though she did not. “Do not forget yourself! Our duty is to the Lady, and Calenvása is right, these orcs might know something.

The rage in his heart faltered and failed, and for a quick moment, he almost felt the shame that Coromswyth spoke of. But rather than respond to her appeal, Ambarturion dropped the orc upon the ground and strode off in search of better weapons.

[Arry]

The blows of the enraged Elves proved too much for the leaderless band of Orcs. From where Gromwakh stood he could see two of his fellows cut down by a return of fire from the Elvish scouts. Then, blades in hands, the Elves who had been held captive and their deliverers fell upon the remaining Orcs. Four more of the group had been killed almost immediately.

Snikdul’s eyes had gone wide at the deaths of two of those who had come with them from the North. Before Gromwakh could catch hold of him, Snikdul raced forward, his club and blade beating a wild tattoo in the air before him. The jagged blade caught one of the rescuer Elves hard in the arm, causing the Elf’s blade to drop. Snikdul pushed forward, seeking to take advantage of the injury. Gromwakh yelled at him to beware . . . too late!

The male Elf they had captured, the injured one, cut him down with little effort, his rage pouring through his blade. Snikdul crashed to the ground, death already glazing his eyes. Gromwakh came to the aid of his friend, intent on dragging him from harm’s way. A blow to the back from a well-aimed arrow drove the Orc to his knees, and he fell forward just inches from his companion. Gromwakh heard another approach him, saw the long shadow of yet another Elf slice across the two of them as they lay there. There was not long to wait for the inevitable blow that seared through his neck, bringing darkness and the final release.

[Durelin]

It was the thrill of battle? No, Calenvása would never call it a thrill. Though it heightened something within him, it numbed his mind, his heart, and the movement of his body felt unreal, all feelings, both physical and mental, were those of a separate person. His conscious being was separate of his body as an observer of what occurred surrounding his physical being. It left his body feeling numb, and his head in a haze. But since no thought could penetrate that haze, Calenvása was relatively content, even feeling a bit free. For those thoughts were quite a burden, and for them to be completely lifted from him, for his mind to be completely blank, even for a short time, it was blissful in a frightening way. Yes, it frightened him. But it was the thrill of battle that set him free.

But it lasted so short a time in his mind. In one moment he was with his back to Thorvel, downing an orc with a slash across the chest. He risked a glance around him, and saw Ambarturion, with one of his guards by his side, looking as cold as ever, any fury he might receive in battle seeming little different from his normal state. One could wonder what went on in that elf’s mind till the Last Music, it seemed, but now was not the time to start. Coromswyth fired her bow nearby, of course, but who was guarding who was hard to tell. In another moment, the orcs were all but eliminated, certainly scattered and finished. It seemed they realized this, as Calenvása made his way over to the two ambassadors, breaking into a run as he watched Ambarturion prepare to slit the throat of an orc There were two left, clearly captured and of no danger. And yet it seemed hatred called the elf to make them forever of no danger.

“No!” he cried out, watching the ambassador put his dagger up to the orc’s throat. “Do not slay them. We might be able to discover from them where their army is headed.” Ambarturion was supposed to be a wise diplomat, and yet he acted on a gut instinct, and hatred at that. Of all the people who might see the mistake in this, he should be the one. Calenvása had seen him as cold and collected, thoughtful and considering. He had been wrong. Sighing quietly and bitterly, he realized what he had done. He had had a feeling, when he watched the ambassador take automatically take command with a forcefulness that would have been offensive to anyone with a more heated temperament, and that feeling was an uneasiness that told him that, for some reason, he should not like what Ambarturion did. A gut feeling he had not listened to.

“They are but the maggots of Mordor, they do not know anything of use.” The fierceness in his voice, while remaining his severe self, made Calenvása remember that feeling he had had concerning Ambarturion clearly. It was not at all a good feeling. He watched as the knife went again for the orc’s blood. “NO!” he cried out again, finally listening to that feeling, and letting it fill his voice with anger. “I said do not kill them!”

Ambarturion’s eyes were filled with his own anger, one of indignant disobedience that would have stared down Calenvása only moments before. But now the Captain had come to a decision, come to a conclusion. He did not like it, but he was free from constant doubt and worrying, a constant need to think about everything logically, that never brought him to conclusions that he felt were fitting. For now, at least, he did not care if any of his decisions were ‘fitting’, whatever that meant. All that mattered was that he would be making decisions, driven by feelings and logic, using both in as much of a balance as he could. They did not mix well, though.

Holding the ambassador’s gaze, he felt his grip tighten on Ambarturion’s arm, finally realizing that he had grabbed his wrist. Coromswyth started to speak to the elf softly, and Calenvása found himself feeling grateful for this. “Ambarturion! What would you do? Are you not ashamed to offer violence where you should be paying gratitude? Were it not for these our brethren we would surely have been taken and…killed by the orcs.” She paused for a moment, and Calenvása lost the rest of her words in his mind as he concentrated on the minds of both of the ambassadors. In a strange way, it seemed they complimented each other.

Ambarturion pulled his arm away from Calenvása, and the Captain watched him drop the orc, and then sheathed the knife. The order in which he did this was important to note, and was of no surprise. He quickly left, and Calenvása followed him with his eyes to find that he was searching for weapons. The Captain sighed, and turned back to Coromswyth. He gave her a short bow, passing a thanks to her through his eyes. He did not like words, at least not anymore. Perhaps at one time he had found them useful. Now he found them troublesome and mostly empty. Targil soon joined he and the lady elf, and Calenvása charged him with looking after the prisoners for now. “Notify me when they find their minds,” he said briefly, and was surprised to find Targil chuckle softly at this. The Captain simply smiled, and it felt good on his lips.

But then he heard someone speak behind him. It was Thorvel. “Calenvása,” he whispered urgently. “I have found Lómarandil. It seems the orcs remembered him and his weakness, and that was used to their advantage. He received only one more wound, but I am unsure of what kind of shape he is in.” Calenvása gestured to Thorvel to lead him, and he followed his companion without a word. The elf took the time to voice some of his concerns to his Captain. “I do not trust Ambarturion with any kind of authority, Captain.”

Now he chose to call him Captain. Those under his command confused him to no end, and this had brought many worries to Calenvása in the past. Today he chose to listen more closely and observe more closely, and know what he could about what went on in their minds, and not concern himself with foolish worry. “I know,” he said, with the most surety that he had felt in weeks. Thorvel looked at him for another moment before realizing that he would get nothing more from his Captain. Calenvása expected him to be content with that. But then he found Lómarandil, within a patch of bushes and other growth, and he worried.