Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

As leaves were disturbed in the underbrush of the forest, a cold finger came down to touch Calenvása’s skin and run down his neck. The drop of dew had clung to the leaves well into the morning, hiding from the sunlight of the early morning. The elf forced himself to remain still, though a tremor threatened to run through his body and his hand desired to brush away the itchy stream of water. As he had come to learn after years of practice, becoming someone else was the only way to escape feelings. Calenvása let his mind focus on what his eyes observed, and let it free to view the scene from whatever direction it wished. It of course was impossible for his mind to literally wander freely; it felt so odd only because this was true serenity.

What his eyes observed through thick growth and scattered branches and leaves hanging down into his line of sight was, in particular, a rather large orc garbed in an assortment of leather armor that still left quite a bit of dark skin bare sit and sharpen a huge slab of metal that was obviously thought of as a sword. Not two feet away another orc stood; and another; and another. It had been quite some time since this many dark creatures had been gathered in one spot. In this case, their numbers were so great that they had to gather outside the forest. Because of this, Calenvása could not get close enough to see how large a force was actually gathered here. But his eyes proved keen enough to tell that this was an army, and one comprised of thousands of orcs…

A flash of gold far away before him and to the right caught Calenvása’s eye. An army comprised of thousands of orcs…and southrons, and, as always, easterlings, too. A more sophisticated type of armor could only mean that evil Men were a part of this force as well. That was to be expected, of course, if this force was meant to carry out specific orders. These specific orders were one of the most important things to be learned from observing this force. For now, though, the most specific Calenvása wished to get was what this army’s destination was.

Calenvása decided to break the serenity and turn his head slowly to each side. He could see the elves that crouched beside him and behind him in the underbrush. They had been intently observing the movements of every single creature assemble among the swiftly clearing trees on the edge of the forest, but Calenvása’s slight movement had brought their eyes to him. Slowly bringing his hand up where it would be visible to all around him, he motioned to them and gestured behind him. They would need to meet to discuss their observations and decide on a plan of action.

One by one the elves moved deeper into the forest, deeper into the cover of the trees. Calenvása waited quiet and still for several minutes to make sure that he was the last to move. All the while his thoughts tried to piece together any clues he might have seen, going through the pictures in his searching for any information that was not obvious. All the while he could only wonder which route the army would take. Would they head north, to attack the part of Mirkwood still held by his kindred? Or would the army head east and south, to the Golden Wood, a sanctuary of beauty and home of his brothers?

It had been several years now in which the darkness had been growing, and the role of Calenvása and these elves as scouts had become of dire importance. Much rested in the hands of Calenvása, who had been given command of this scout troop or Mirkwood. He wished with all his heart to help Mirkwood fight back against the Shadow, but he could not help but be discouraged, especially with the image of thousands of orcs assembled just outside the boughs of his home.

Finally feeling that he had given his comrades enough time to make their way a safe distance from the creatures that so tainted the forest, he carefully made his way through the underbrush still in a crouch, and sheathed his belt knife as he did so. He had felt safer with it in his hand as he kept his eye on that orc sharpening his sword.

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Arvedui III's post

He always liked this time of day best, and a thrill ran down his spine as the rest of the scout troop crouched among the shrubs and underbrush. The uncouth sounds of metal and iron shod moving in unison and the familiar but slightly harsh sounds of a force breaking came, filling him with mingled excitement and dread. This was a hunter's dream, this abundance of game. And yet, it was also quite disturbing that a troop he could not see the end of was moving near Mirkwood. His blue eyes flickered from one orc to another, not lingering on the grime and blackness of their arms, armor, their very skin.

Targil lithely rubbed the grey pommel of the dirk that hung by his side, taking care to make any noise in the dewy morn, grinning quietly at the prospect of the hunt to come. Well, if the captain thought it well to hunt. There was a great many of the foul creatures, but Targil had learned long ago that a good elf was worth at least twenty orcs. Perhaps he was being far too keen, and mentally berated himself for jumping to conclusions again. Whatever Calenvasa thought best to do was what he would do. Yet, of all the officers he has served with, that one was the most pensive. It tried his nerves sometimes, but most of the time the captain was right, so Targil was grateful for the exercise in patience.

A figure with golden armor passed and joined a party of about ten other similarly clad forms, apparently forming up for drill. Targil frowned. Orcs were one thing, but men were an entirely different matter. Now he gave up any thoughts of a hunt this morning. It would be folly to go after such a large party, he finally realized. His brow knotted in frustration as he sensed this troop of orcs and men were far beyond his area of expertise. So much was lately, it shouldn't have surprised him. If orcs and men were marching together, the reason for their marching had to be great, and so too must be their numbers. The group they had spotted today was probably naught more than a detachment in a host far more vast. The thought sent chills down his spine.

Quiet suddenly, he sensed his captain moving, and quickly looked over to see what was happening. Calenvasa glanced briefly around at the small band he commanded, and then motioned to withdraw further into the woods. Targil couldn't have been more grateful for the respite from the tenseness of the underbrush. He turned and tread softly back, making sure to give distance between himself and the other scouts. Relaxing and trusting his ingrained sense of stealth would protect him, Targil glanced back toward the vanishing camp, fear now being replaced by apprehension. He stopped, crouching between two roots, and looked to his captain, and then around at the others. All of them glanced nervously around at each other, each elf not daring to brake the silence, wondering what was to be done about the day's discovery.

Targil only hoped one of them knew, for he surely did not.

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Firefoot's post

The Orc army was illumined in the late-morning sun - but not him. He was crouched in the dense underbrush of the forest, hidden in the shadows and invisible to all save the other Mirkwood scouts nearby. Careful not to make a sound, he crept forward and slightly to the right to get a better view of the Orcs he was watching. Cold hatred gleamed in his gray eyes. He reached up and fingered the feathered end of an arrow in his quiver. It was of no use at the moment, but later... then the Orcs would die, pierced with arrows.

Thorvel refocused himself on what he was supposed to be doing: observing the Orcs. The army stretched away in both directions, and from his vantage point he could not see either end. He had never seen so many in one place before. Smaller bands of Orcs, those could be dealt with relatively easily. But this? They had no facts as to what the army was planning on. Thorvel didn’t, anyway. So what are we going to do about it? he wondered. Fight them off, of course. Defeat them. All of his senses revolted at the sounds of thousands of Orcs all arguing in their uncouth languages and the clank of metal on metal.

As he turned his head away to the right, the large group of men garbed in golden armor caught his eye. Southrons! They were only slightly better than the Orcs, in Thorvel’s opinion. If at all. They were better fighters, too, not like the Orcs who delighted in and knew little more than killing. Suddenly the significance of this hit him. They must have some kind of great cause to be gathered together in such a way, and he wondered at that. They obviously had no intention of failing in what ever it was.

He supposed then that their first goal would be figuring out what the army was going to attempt. Were they going to attack his home in Northern Mirkwood? Or would they go after nearby Lorien? Either way, he was determined to fight them to the death.

It wasn’t long before Thorvel perceived his Captain moving in the stillness of the forest. He looked back around to Calenvása on his left and saw the other scouts doing the same. Calenvása lifted his hand and motioned for the scouts to retreat deeper into the forest to their meeting place. He saw some of the other scouts moving slowly away into the forest, disappearing even from his keen Elvish sight. He turned and followed them stealthily away, curving out to his left in order to maintain his distance from the others.

Thorvel came upon the other Elves and stood against a tree. His muscles were tense and he was at attention, aware of everything that was going on. His face was hard and his chin was set firmly, and his eyes, though flecked with uneasiness, held a smoldering fire. He took note of the other Elves waiting around. All of them were on edge, ready for anything. The final stragglers wandered in, and last of all came Calenvása. Thorvel considered him a bit queer, but he trusted that Calenvása could come up with a solid plan against the Orcs. The silence was complete but for the sounds of the forest around them. He almost spoke, but thought better of it. He could express his opinions later, after the Captain had said his piece.

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Hama of the Riddermark's post

Lómarandil was hidden under a carpet of leaves. Seeing Calenvása raise his hand, he slid backwards slowly and crawled on his stomach out of earshot of the orcs, then he stood up to a crouch and ran as fast as he could, his light elvish feet making little imprint on the leaves and twigs beneath. Reaching a clearing he sheathed his two knives that he had kept drawn since the orcs had been sighted. He kicked a tree in disgust, “Foul creatures! Utterly worthless hunks of meat!” he spat the last word out with bitterness as he turned to face Dol Guldur. “Damn Morgoth to the deepest pits of misery for creating them!” he said with a sad look on his face.

He sat down and took his bow off his back. He took out a knife and began to carve a design onto it. He smiled as he saw all the others he'd carved over the years. This time he cut out the shape of an orc, incredibly detailed, and carved an arrow going through its head. Chuckling he stared into the woods. He heard a faint crunching sound, like a clumsy foot breaking a twig...

Lomarandil was gone in a flash, up a tree. He looked over and saw an orc, closely followed by two others. Lomarandil smiled as he heard them start to talk, listening intently for any more information.

"Bloody trees!" he heard the orc say, "I hate them, I hate elves as well...stupid bloody animals." Lomarandil couldn't supress a grin as he heard the orc say this. He raised a single eyebrow in mirth, as the orcs continued to talk.

"We gotta stay 'ere for a while." a second orc said. "Them elves mustn't know that we aren't attacking them here." a second orc grunted loudly, "Yar, stoopid elvish tarks can't know we goin' for tha' uther wood, tha' big one!" he said, obviosuly pleased with himself for making this deduction. Lomadrandil nodded slowly. "They are heading for Lothlorien..." he said quietly...

"Hur?" he heard an orc say, "I heard something, stoopid tarks hiding in trees..." he looked up and started to turn in a circle, scanning the treetops for the elf he'd heard. Failing to find him, he grunted loudly and turned back, shouting at the others to follow. Lomarandil breathed out heavily. That was close...he dropped to the ground when he was sure the orcs had gone. Silently he made his way to the designated meeting place, as he entered the clearing he saw the others. "Mae govannan." Calenvasa announced. Lomarandil nodded and walked up to the group...

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Amanaduial’s post - Koran Cenrbyt

Koran Cenbryt brushed at a curl of dark hair that crept from behind his ear as he leant over his pack, checking for anything he may have forgotten and running over in his head the route that the army would take. West verging a little South from the North side of the fortress, towards the Wood of Golden Leaves, where...

This was not by any means the first expedition he had been on, and neither was it one that he especially wished to be involved with; but, ironically, it was the one that would probably be most important in the future. The young Haradrim warrior shook his head wryly at the thought, his hand reaching to the beaded necklace he wore, feeling the delicate carving of the flame on the central bead. ’I won’t let anything go wrong…the Cenbryt clan is mine, mine by right, and so it shall remain, no matter what my cousins plot and scheme together…

Koran was not against the rest of the clans, of course: such a thought would be foolhardy, especially when his was waning so much, especially in the last few weeks and months – his cousins, although set to gain his clan for their own, were nonetheless slowly eliminating by sending off on foolhardy missions many of the older warriors who were close to Koran. At this rate, if Koran as to fall, they would inherit a clan without any warriors left! Still, although it was of course a diplomatic move that he saw the sense in, Koran nonetheless felt uneasy about the mission – there was something not right, something that was being hidden from him in all this, even though he was commanding the separate force that would then split off from the main army. That would, of course, include orcs – he curled a lip slightly at this. He detested working with them – he steadfastly believed beetles to have more intelligence than the filthy Uruks. And when he was actually meant to be commanding as an equal with one of them…he shook his head again bitterly. If my brothers were still alive…

“Koran Cenbryt?” The words made the warrior look up to see a younger man standing nearby, at a respectful distance. He rose from his crouch to be level with him, squinting against the sun from the high outpost. The man looked to be several years younger than Koran, and had a surprisingly boyish face, although it was currently all seriousness. As Koran rose, wiping one hand on the back of his trousers, the younger man touched the back of two knuckles of his right hand to the centre of his forehead - a respectful salute. Koran inclined his head - the man was obviously not his superior then, although he still didn't know who he was.

"I am Ehan Fazian," the man continued by means of an introduction. "I will be joining you in the force that splits off from the main army and we will, I gather, be together for most of the journey."

Koran nodded again. "Koran Cenbryt," he added, just to introduce himself personally, although the other obviously knew who he was. Ehan grinned suddenly. "Not a man of very many words, hmm?"

Koran, surprised at the casual tone and phrasing, raised an eyebrow, and the other man raised his chin very slightly, defiant if it came to it. Then he grinned. "If we are to fight together, you may think differently by the end," he replied, his voice soft but more friendly now. "Come, we must join the rest of the force - I suppose you know the route already?"

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Aylwen's post

"Come, we must join the rest of the force - I suppose you know the route already?" Ehan relaxed visibly as the man called Koran began to speak in a more friendly manner. The younger easterling let did not hide his amiable expression anymore, though he had already begun to wonder how well his personality would match Koran's. Ehan feared the worst, perhaps a head-on collision and clash between Koran's persona and Ehan's light-hearted simplicity. Still, Ehan pulled himself from the short look into the future and back into the present where he knew his head always belonged, and decided to cross all bridges when he got to them.

"Of course I do, sir!" Ehan cried gallantly, drawing his rapier dramatically and pointing it in the direction of the pathway that led down to where many easterlings had set up camp. Where the orcs were, Ehan did not know, but the thought intrigued him anyway. Seeing such ugly monstrosities brought rise to the blood-thirsty warrior in Ehan, despite the disappointing fact that these 'ugly monstrosities' would be on his side in this whole expedition. What a shame...to think how much fun I could have slaying those things. But there are other enemies. Snapping out of his reverie and realizing that he still stood motionless with his rapier held in the air, Ehan chuckled, embarrassed, and continued, "Yes, right. Onward!" and sheathed his sword.

Ehan led Koran down the path that went downward from the slight hilltop they had formerly been standing on, even though Ehan realized that Koran must have known the route as well. Trying not to kick up dirt on the excursion to the campsites. Ehan looked back once to see Koran looking off into the distance, and the young man wondered if Koran was in another time and place. When the two reached the bottom of the rocky, dusty hill, Ehan turned to face Koran once again. This time, the man hit Ehan with a question before Ehan could say aught else.

"How many has your clan sent with you?" Koran asked, looking at Ehan momentarily before stealing a glance at the sturdy men (and some women) behind Ehan, all the warriors from different tribes and clans.

"Well...I would imagine close to five and ten men...or, well...maybe almost twenty men and women. You know, the Fazian clan has rather strong-minded and strong-bodied ladies, as well. My sister-" Ehan stammered at first, but what should have just been a simple answer turned into a lengthy explanation. When Ehan noticed that Koran didn't seem to have much time for stories, Ehan quieted. "Yes. Well, I would say fifteen strong men and women come from the Fazian clan."

"Right. Good," Koran mused, a light smile playing on his lips.

This is going to turn out to be very interesting...Ehan thought. Yes, I can tell already.

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Orofaniel's post

The rays of sun hit Herding in the face. He spit and looked down. His eyes needed some time to get used to the light before he looked up again. It wasn't hard for him to imagine a world without any light, not just a little. The thought was ever tempting, he figured. Maybe it would come too pass? he thought as he got up. He smirked. His hand moved to his forehead and he then removed his yet black hair that was ruining his vision. Now it was clearer.

The sight that met him was the usual; Haradrims. He didn't like the look on their faces, but he knew that they were excellent to use for his own purposes. And since he, himself was a powerful Captain everything was perfectly fine. Although Herding was a cruel man, he was respected by his followers. Well, after all, it was expected of them to respect their Captain. He moved slightly from his spot and he noticed that a Hardarim was now walking towards him. "Captain," he said as he approached him. His face was slightly miss formed (probably from earlier battles), and his voice was harsh and unfriendly. His armour was dirty and slightly too big for him, which made him move slower than usual Men - It wasn’t hard to spot. "Who will lead the force that splits of the main army, sir?" He asked now sounding a bit friendlier than before.

Herding looked at him for a moment. "Koran Cenbryt, will lead them, if I remember correctly," he said stiffly even though he had no difficulties remembering who was going to lead them. His voice inflicted nothing but jealousy. Herding was jealous indeed; he had hoped that he wouldn't have to stick around with these foul men for eternity, but it looked like he would, even though he wanted to or not. "Why do you ask such a question?" Herding asked suspiciously. "No reason, sir," the man said and was about to turn away from Herding. But of course, such an answer wasn't acceptable with Herding. "I want a real answer!" he said sternly and looked at him with great disgust. The sweat from his forehead was now pouring down his face. He used his hand to wipe it away. The man looked astonished by what the Captain had said, since he didn’t mean anything is specific by the question. He kept quiet for a moment.

"We, me and the others in the camp, were just discussing it, that’s all, sir," he forced unwillingly. He was also sweating now. It was probably because of the big armour he was wearing, but Herding wasn't certain. Herding didn't want to discuss the matter anymore so he raised his hand and told the Haradrim that he was free to go. "Thank you sir," he said calmly and bowed.

Herding was left alone again as he watched the Haradrims slowly awakening from their deep sleep.

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Kransha's post

One cold eye, a narrow slit set deep into the bare skull of the eye’s owner, scanned the tranquility and peace around them. The eye, though icy like winter frost, bore a shrouded fire behind it that glowed like a dying ember, still persistent enough to glow with pale and sickly light. The limpid orb moved from side to side, over viewing the surrounding area, the eyelids that held it narrowing further each time the looker saw something that displeased him. His single dark pupil would focus and shrivel into a precise dot as it scoped out the undesirable object obstructing his line of sight. The hill of Amon Lanc was devoid of trees, a piece of barren rock and earth jutting up from the forested plain of Mirkwood not too far from where the orc squatted contemplatively. From that hill spurted Dol Guldur itself, the malevolent fortress, its reaches stretching upward into the cloudy sky and its shadow looming over all things nearby. Unfortunately, some trees, though in their final days of life, still stood at the bottom of the hill.

Like many other of his kind, Thrákmazh hated trees, even the broken, dead ones. He hated all trees, every solitary leaf, arching branch, twisting root, and wooden knothole, everything about them. There were too many blasted trees in Mirkwood and Thrákmazh had long dreamt of taking a sturdy ax to all of them. As he knelt, rough-skinned knees creased beneath him, he could almost here the snapping of splinters from great trunks and the whistling in the wind as each column on natural beauty plummeted from its niche in the earth and crashed into Mirkwood’s rich soil. Slowly, the uruk’s hand lowered, the gnarled branches jutting from his dangling hand, which some might call fingers, and his jagged-nailed digits dug thoroughly into the dirt, closing slowly and drawing a handful of the crumbling substance out, lifting it into the air and letting stray particles slide out of his ruthlessly clenched fist and back onto the ground.

Slowly standing, Thrákmazh’s fist tightened around the dirt, stopping the meager slippage. He stood fully, still hunched over as he took a step forward, letting all the crumbs of earth fall. He was surrounded by others of his species, still lingering and talking in tense whispers in the dirt, just below the vaguely looming mound of the hill of Amon Lanc far off. They were slowly gathering, with the reinforcements of wretched men in the service of the Lidless Eye who had camped on the dusty, forested plain some unknown distance from the fortress of Dol Guldur. It was to be a great force indeed, rivaling many armies rallied in the Misty Mountains and the South, but still not as great as the grandest of Sauron’s hosts. To Thrákmazh, it was merely an event, an event in which he could shed all the blood he wanted, ever standing out from the blind, raging hundreds of orcs who swarmed into this foully shrouded clearing of what had once been Greenwood the Great, on the slope of Amon Lanc. They were to depart shortly, heading from the place that very few of them had ever considered calling home to the detestable woodland home of the Elves, Lorien, which Thrákmazh had already fantasized about razing to the ground, severing every one of the grandest trees from their hold on Arda and setting flame to the land. At this shadowy thought, he grinned, lips peeling back grotesquely. He let the rest of the gripped dirt loose, opening his palm to the ground as he began to speak aloud.

“This earth lacks something” he growled through a mouth of dagger-like teeth, his raspy, deep voice resonating like the hiss of a serpent and the croak of a toad as its volume slowly swelled. The other gurgling uruks, perhaps fifty who heard, turned to him, his cold and grim tone too recognizable to many of them. Thrákmazh, as if he hadn’t noted that their deep-set eyes had turned to him, continued with a kind of excited sobriety, “…It lacks the seasoning of blood…This soil has gone too long without tasting death upon it.”

At this, the other orcs nodded in agreement, some smiling horrible smiles, other simply acknowledging his ‘correctness’ about the matter. Many responded with orcish jubilation, thumped their hands and weapons on the earth to signify their support. Those orcs sitting or reclining sluggishly out of earshot still picked up the brief reverberation, and answered with thrilled grunts and roars of their own. Thrákmazh’s grin widened murderously, but it was brimming with an unusual self-satisfaction as he continued pacing, kicking up the dust. Making these melodramatic tirades against the foes of Sauron was a gimmick, one that furthered his persona. At first, it had been a morale booster, which was something the conniving uruk was good at, but soon enough the habit swelled into a method of casting a new façade over himself, which made him all the greater in the eyes of those around him. He could cultivate his persona, re-inventing it daily, and bring more eager young orcs to him seeking advice on who to slay elf scouts, or to ambush patrols from the north, all because of the pseudo-epic mythos he’d allowed to spring up. The orc captain did not care for glory, but the feeling of hearing orcs behind him and only him, comparing the number of kills they had to his own, heaping praise upon him for things he new to be false, but still filled him with that same satisfaction of knowing that, to a world of villains, he was a hero. As he paced away through the ranks of resting orcs, seemingly countless in their number as the dotted the innards of Mirkwood, he feigned serious contemplation as he shot a roving glance back at the orcs behind.

Some of these, Thrákmazh knew; orcs who’d followed him for a longer length of time than these new recruits, who seemed to be spilling into Mirkwood these days, but Thrákmazh didn’t care. He had orcs to do the will of the Eye, and he had himself to issue those commands that the Eye required. He had all he needed in Mirkwood, all he needed that his masters in Mordor would ever give, and was content as long as he could still kill men and elves and dwarves as the monotonous days passed. One thing he did not need, or want, were the foul things that had infected Mirkwood…men, Easterling men, suddenly spurting up from the ground like those confounded trees. They had mostly populated this camp, were the army was preparing, and more came by the second. Their forces were not as great when compared to the numbers of the uruks, but they were formidable all the same. They had gathered in camps that speckled Mirkwood, mostly centered on a single camp where the weak mortal clans were congregating.

‘Too many filthy men.’ snarled Thrákmazh mentally, breathing harshly like a furious predator after his prey has eluded him. ‘When this is over, and we have the blood of the elves on our blades and our bolts they can fall too. The Great Eye has no need of traitorous mortals in his service. Slaying them would be a service to Lugburz.'

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Alatariel Telemnar's post:

Urkrásh stood, looking upon the Dol Guldur, waiting for his next orders. Staring at what was left of the trees, he pictured them in the back of his mind burning, despite they were barely living. Orcs chopping at their roots, hacking them down, and setting torch to them all. All that he wished to do was of such, burn the trees and kill those who don’t. A glint entered his red eye at the thought. He looked down upon his own limp right hand, and growled to himself in hatred of them. Urkrásh wished to hack and burn them all down, every last one, from the root to every green leaf. Imagining them burning, Urkrásh stared.

He turned his attention back upon his master, who smelled the dirt, ‘This earth lacks something,’ Thrákmazh growled, as he rose slowly, causing the other uruks to look upon him: his voice was very recognizable among them, ‘…It lacks the seasoning of blood…This soil has gone too long without tasting death upon it.’

The uruks nodded, as did Urkrásh, others grinned. He had gone through too few battles, but still enjoyed the smell of blood, and awaited to smell it again. Urkrásh smiled to himself, showing teeth rotted and mostly black.

Urkrásh watched him as he paced through the lines of orcs, pondering to himself. Always alert, always waiting for orders, Urkrásh was. He nearly followed him, but didn’t, and stayed put firmly in his spot, shifting from one leg to another every so often. Life seemed to be going his way, Thrákmazh treated him well, keeping him under his protection, and in return Urkrásh has become his slave. Now he would get to see more of battle, and hopefully please his master.

Looking back upon what was left of the trees again, he pictured not only burning them, but what their task really was. At that Urkrásh smiled again. For as much as he hated trees, he still loved to kill. Urkrásh paced his eyes over the hills. While he waited, his mind wandered off once more, cutting down, hacking into pieces, burning. Every so often looking back at Thrákmazh to see if there was anything he could do to help.

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Arry's post:

‘I heard it was old One-eye going to lead most of us this time.’

Gromwakh muttered something unintelligible in return as his ratting companion, Snikdul, nattered on about the rumored plans for the upcoming battle. They were down in the depths of the cellars and passageways beneath Dol Guldur. Hunting was good down there, the rats plump from the horde of foods stored for the use of the fortress’ little army. The small burlap sack the two Orcs had dragged down with them was filled with tasty morsels . . . some of them still squirming.

‘You gonna stand there and talk while I do the work,’ Gromwakh growled, casting a nasty look at his companion. ‘Think you can talk your dinner to death, do you!’ he picked up a clump of mouldering dirt and threw it at Snikdul.

Silence and the scrabbling of the two-leggeds after the four echoed in the dim, dusty recesses of the main storeroom. Unable to help himself, as he methodically wrung one of his catches’ necks, Snikdul found himself speaking again. ‘Well whatta ya think of that?’ he asked, continuing on, as if there had been no pause.

‘Think about what?’ rasped Gromwakh. ‘One filthy Uruk’s the same as any other. It’ll be “Scum do this!” and Scum do that!” and ours’ll be the backs that bleed when the whips are laid to them.’ Gromwakh looked up, glaring as Snikdul Shhh’d him. He chucked a squealing rodent against the stone wall for emphasis. ‘Stop your sniveling! Whatta ya going on about? Think the stones down hear have ears? Think again!’ He waved a stiff rat’s body over his head, pointing it up toward the top of the hill. ‘All them high-and-mighties are somewhere up there making their plans. And it’ll be our snaga-hides the nasty Elf-blades’ll be cutting on the front lines.’ Snikdul wiped the back of his arm across his dripping nose, giving a resigned shrug to his companion’s comments.

Gromwakh motioned for Snikdul to follow him down the dirt tunnel. Their shuffling steps were muffled by the loose dirt of the floor as they loped along. Dried, twisted roots from the few trees still clinging to life on the hill poked out here and there from the tunnel’s roof – snagging the hapless hunters on the head as they passed. Just before they reached the steps up to the surface, Snikdul spoke up again. Another observation had bubbled up to the surface of his thick stew of half-formed thoughts.

‘Hey . . . I heard something about that man-Captain . . . Herding they called him. Clever, he is . . . he hates them southern pushdugs much as we do. Snikdul snorted with laughter. Gromwakh grunted and slung the rat sack over his other shoulder. ‘Quiet now. We’re here at the top. Filthy walls do have ears up here . . .’

The two Orcs slunk low, half hidden in the shadows afforded by the scraggly bushes and the rough-hewn sides of the fortress. They kept their eyes on the ground before them, fervently hoping no one would notice their passage.

[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's Post

The light of midday cast Ambartrion’s shadow before him as he strode easily through the long grass of the Vale of Anduin. The party had left the eaves of Lorien in the morning and as always happened when he walked in the outside world, the dull reality of it settled upon him like a fine ash. The trees that stood in clumps about the plain were naked sticks that clung to life in a chill and desolate landscape, little different to him than the Brown Lands to the South. There came to his keen ears from time to time the falling cry of desperate birds and the rush of troubled waters over impertinent stones. He sought the solace of memory, moving in his mind across earth that seemed more real than the solid ground beneath his feet. More and more had he done so of late, to the point where the few companions that he allowed to join him in his journeys outside the Golden Wood became concerned that he was withdrawing from the waking world of Middle-Earth to a point where he could not, perhaps, return. And, indeed, he was always reluctant to leave the lands of memory and rejoin the fallen and stale world of the present reality, and was often curt with those who called him hither.

This time it was his student Caranbaith who called him back. With a light touch on his master’s shoulder, the youth pointed to the distant horizon saying, “If I see aright, the Mirrormere lies before us, and we are heading a bit west of north. Do we not take the long way round to the Woodmen of Mirkwood by this route?” Ambarturion sighed at the youth, impatient with his question. Megilaes, Caranbaith’s brother and also student to Ambarturion, caught the manner of their master’s reaction and quickly held his tongue.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” he replied quickly. “There is great need of haste put upon us, but these lands are dangerous and we must take what care we can. I intend to lead us somewhat west of the Anduin for a day before turning toward the River. There is a place two days’ march from where we shall stop this night where we can ford the waters and then strike north and east to the Woodmen.” Caranbaith nodded quickly and fell silent before the manner of his master. He and his brother had been in his tutelage for only a short time, barely one lifetime of mortal Men, but in that time he had found his master to be impenetrable in many ways. On some days he would answer their questions with patient forbearance of their youth, gently instructing them in the ways of war. On days such as this appeared to be, however, he resented any intrusion to his thoughts and would quickly put down any attempt to interrupt his inner life. Sensing that he would say no more that day, the brothers fell back to walk a few paces behind their master.

Ambarturion turned once more to his thoughts and was soon lost in the groves of Doriath even as his feet continued to pick out their careful way toward the mountains. He did not turn to Coromswyth where she rode. He had opposed her desire to ride on this journey, for horses were difficult to house and feed, and could be both seen and followed more easily across the wide open spaces of the vales that they must cross. But she had been insistent and he had deferred to her in this simply to avoid further discussion. He did not speak with her that day, for he saw no need of unnecessary words with her. Their route had been discussed and decided upon, so what need of conversation would there be before nightfall? And thus did the company proceed through that afternoon. Ambarturion strode along out front, his pace never slackening or changing, his eyes fixed straight ahead, alert to all possible danger, but unseeing of much that passed before the eyes of the others, lost as he was in the world of his youth. Behind him followed Coromswyth and his students, who diligently swept the horizon with their keen eyes as they had been taught, ever vigilant against the threats of this uncertain world.

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial’s post - Coromswyth

In the dismal setting of the Vale of Anduin, the sun beat down wearily upon the company of elves as they made their way through the long grass, the three at the front on foot and one, a woman, at the back, riding a grey stallion. A dry, lazy wind blew across the plain, ruffling the long grasses through which they strode and ruffling the stallion’s coat so a thousand different colours showed, sunlight playing across the crest of a wave. The stallion’s rider smiled slightly at the beauty of such a simple thing, then glanced backwards again at the path they had taken, her sharp grey eyes taking in everything. Like the pair of brothers who walked behind their master, Coronswyth was slightly uneasy at taking this route. It was some way longer than the more direct route possible. She waited intently, her eyed on her hands as they smoothed down the horse’s coat around it’s shoulders, as she listened to Ambarturion’s answer to his pupils.

“There is great need of haste put upon us, but these lands are dangerous and we must take what care we can…”

Coromswyth nodded slightly, satisfied, as she listened to the master’s reasoning. It had been the answer she had expected, of course, as it was what they had discussed, but she was curious as to Ambarturion, and to his pupils. The older elf was mysterious, so stern and proud, and Coromswyth had barely exchanged a few word with him since they set out from Lorien that morning. In fact, come to think of it, she mused with a slight bemused smile, she hadn’t actually exchanged a single word with him since they set out. But his dark grey eyes said all that they needed to: every time he looked at her, they fairly seemed to radiate disapproval. The elf smiled to herself: she wasn’t as yet sure of why exactly Ambartution disapproved, but was fairly ready to bet it would be because of her openness to other races – she had heard of Ambarturion, although she was not yet personally acquainted with him. He shared the view of many of the elder elves among the Galadrim: he wished to leave Middle Earth to whatever fate awaited it and it’s people. After all, Coromswyth added dryly, The Age of Elves is passing. Why should the elves defend the coming of the Age of Men?

There was both bitterness and gladness in the fact that the elves would soon need to leave Middle Earth, and Coromswyth was not sure which she felt more definitely. She had travelled far, and had seen some things that made her almost think that Men deserved the doom Sauron had in store for them: but then, what of the rest? Not all men were evil: they were weak, like children in their headstrong ways and instinctive manner, and children should be looked after, not scorned for their inevitable mistakes. And she had not seen nearly enough of Middle Earth: in a thousand lifetimes of men there would not be enough time for that. Maybe if she could just keep hold of a few more of them…

“My lady, are you keeping well?”

Caranbaith’s soft, courteous question brought Coromswyth back to reality and she looked down at the elf walking beside her, nodding. A swathe of black hair fell across her cheek and she brushed it back lightly. “Aye, thank you,” she answered, smiling at the elf. He nodded, inclining his head to her formally, before returning to walk ahead with his brother. Coromswyth watched them, a wistful tinge tinting her gaze. They were more than one hundred years younger than her brother had been when he had been ambushed with Celebrian on the Redhorn pass, and Ambarturion was to them what her father had been to Merydhan – their teacher, tutor, guide. Indeed, Ambarturion struck her as being like her father: a distant, proud figure, stern, wise and strong. Why, with their grey eyes, fine bones and black hair, she and Ambarturion even shared their beauty. How ironic then, she mused, that their opinions differed so greatly with respect to this beautiful Middle Earth.

Watching Caranbaith and Megilaes, she sighed slightly, unsually melancholy. They were younger than her brother had been when he had passed to the Halls of Mandos, but in the time between their age and his, who knew what would happen? For the elves do not have so much time left any more…the sands of time are running out for us, I fear, and the hour glass is almost empty...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The distant glint of Mirrormere flashed across his eyes, awakening him from his memories. He was, at first, almost disoriented by the sudden return to reality, but he recovered himself before his students noticed the lapse. Ambarturion wondered, somewhat anxiously, if Coromswyth had seen it. I must take more heed to myself, he thought sternly. More and more of late do I surprise myself with the awakening…as though I were in truth still in Doriath with the golden leaves above me, and the song of Lady Melian about me. He shook his head once, hard, to drive away the lure of that memory, and stared ahead across the vale.

Their route had brought them to precisely where they were supposed to be, despite his waking slumber. The westering sun was just touching the heights of Celebdil and the reflected light from its snowcaps was glinting upon the distant jewel of Mirrormere. They had taken a slow arc as they moved, changing from the north-westerly route they had begun so that they were now headed almost due north. They had passed the first southern spur of Fanuidhol and would soon come about so that its mighty shoulders would be fully on their left, blocking their view of the lake that marked the beginning of the Dwarven realm of old. Ambarturion hastened his step somewhat, quite unconsciously. He had chosen their route to avoid the dangers that came from Dol Guldur in the east, but their road had brought them perhaps a bit too close to the gates of Moria. The goblins that haunted that realm now had been repulsed, but still they presented a danger to any who ventured through this realm without the protection of daylight.

Seeing that his master was once more with them, Caranbaith quickened his pace until he strode at Ambarturion’s shoulder. He did not speak, but waited until his master wanted to acknowledge his presence. In a much shorter space of time than he had come to expect from him, Ambarturion spoke, answering the question in his pupil’s mind as though he had heard it spoken aloud. “The goblins of Moria will not attack us upon the open plain; not even at night. They dare not show themselves outside their realm in any size of force, for fear of our reprisals. Remember how we paid them for their intrusions when they pursued the Fellowship into the Golden Wood.”

Caranbaith nodded and said nothing, but his brother Megilaes said what was in both of their minds. “They will not send out an army, Master, but there is risk of a smaller band of marauders, is there not? Ever do they harry our borders, spying upon us and doing what small mischief they can.”

Ambarturion was silent for so long that the brothers feared that he would not reply at all. In truth, he was weighing his response carefully, for he greatly feared that their words would prove true. All this day a slow feeling of foreboding had grown upon his heart, and as the shadows of the mountains crawled out across the fields toward them they cast a dark warning upon his heart. “You are right to be wary, Megilaes,” he replied with studied calm. “But if we are beset by marauders I have no doubt that we will be able to drive them off. The goblins of Moria are still reeling from their losses and have been greatly weakened – otherwise they would have joined the forces of Dol Guldur in their attacks upon us.” As he spoke he heard Coromswyth ride up where she could hear their conversation, and he frowned lightly, refusing to look at her. He strode on with the horse at his back, but the lady would not be put off. He began to wonder if she too had felt the shadow of peril that seemed to hover about them.

“Ambarturion,” she said softly, “I do not doubt that you are your students are more than able to care for us should we be attacked by a rag-tag band of raiding goblins. But if there is danger of a more organised assault, should we not take counsel for that while the sun still shines?”

Ambarturion stopped and turned toward the lady. Tall as he was, he had to look up quite a way to where she sat upon her steed. He wondered if she had insisted upon bringing her horse in part for this very reason. “What counsel is there for us to take, my lady?” he said courteously. “We are far from our borders and night is approaching. If we turn back now we would not be safe in Lorien before dark. And if we tarry here too long we will not reach the safety of our first camp.”

It was Coromswyth’s turn to frown this time. “I hope indeed that we will find safety there,” she said, “for I do not like the feel of the wind that comes to us from Moria. It is chill, and deadly.” Ambarturion did not reply, for what was there to say? He too felt the danger in that wind…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They pressed ahead more quickly throughout the rest of the day and reached their campsite as the sun disappeared behind the Mountains, plunging the whole Vale of Anduin into dark. The valley of the Mirrormere now lay five leagues to the southwest, and the eaves of Lorien from whence they had departed this morning some twelve leagues to the south. Ambarturion led them all up a small hill and into a copse. All about the hill the land was empty save for a few scattered bushes, but the trees atop the hill grew in a tight ring about an open space, as though they had been planted as fortifications. Within the ring of trees was a small hollow with a firepit in its midst and a store of dry wood beneath a shelter of woven branches. As darkness rose from the land around them and closed in over their heads they sat about the firepit and ate a simple meal of lembas and clear water. Nobody spoke and they did not light a fire.

In the far west, the sun sank beneath the horizon, and night fell on the Vale of Anduin.

[Durelin]

Moving with care, it took Calenvása long, suspense filled moments to make his way to the clearing that had been designated as the scouts' meeting place. His heart pounded in his ears as he kept his eyes glued to the ground that his feet trod on. He kept low, and he felt a constant fear that the forest green did not hide him from his enemies. And all the while, his mind went through all that could result from being seen through the leaves or being heard by the snap of a twig beneath his feet. Mainly, he thought of what this meant in accordance with his position. He was supposed to be a leader, and when the leader failed, the consequences could be so much higher. Calenvása was all too vividly aware of what lay in his hands as 'Captain'. He continually scorned this name, but it was official, and so there was little he could do. What he did not realize, though he scorned, he remembered his responsibility, if he did not handle it too well. Now, he worried most about endangering his comrades. Perhaps he had not waited long enough before moving?

All his worrying was brought to an end upon finally entering the clearing. He looked upon the members of his scout troop, the elves under his command. There was young Targil, whom Calenvása knew was a skilled woodsman, and most likely could be a very skilled leader. Calenvása was not sure what Targil thought of his leadership, but he knew that he could trust the elf. And Thorvel, he knew, he had gained the trust of, and he certainly trusted his comrade himself, but he could not say anything of Lómarandil and be sure. He did not doubt too much that the young would follow his orders, but Lómarandil was so very young, and Calenvása could not see himself putting much trust in the boy, sadly. And how much trust the boy put in him…

“Mae govannan,” he said as if he was surprised to find them all here, and smiled. All smiled slightly, but only Lómarandil clearly smiled at him. Calenvása then let his thoughts lighten, taking his mind off the question of trust. He did not need such a matter becoming tangled up in the troop’s mission. The important fact was that they all fought for the same reason and toward the same goal. They fought for Mirkwood, and perhaps for all the free peoples of Middle Earth, and, more importantly, they each wished, with varying passions, to face the evil that threatened the land. This had come to a personal level and grown to be an overwhelming shadow that could not be ignored by the elves when the fortress of Sauron returned to Dol Guldur in 2460. At least, this is what had spurred Calenvása into ‘serving his King’, though he liked to think of it more as serving his people. He, for obvious reasons, did not let this be known to others.

Calenvása’s eyes traveled to the sky, and, without having to shield his eyes, he looked upon the sun. “We remained hidden in the trees, only yards away from our enemy gathered in strength, for over an hour, with only one small disturbance.” He glanced knowingly at Lómarandil, still with a small smile on his face. Then he turned his gaze upon the three elves that sat and stood before him, and his face grew grave. “Little can we know from this hour, long though it may have seemed, but there is always the obvious to take into account.” He paused for a moment, and, bringing the different images of the army into his mind, he studied them as he spoke. “There were Southrons and Easterlings among the orcs. Two kindred of men, and orcs – a variety that could be used to the army’s advantage, or to our own. And there are already large divisions, as can be seen by the separation of the camps, the tents of the men and the crude fires of the orcs.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Calenvása had been watching Lómarandil, and the young elf had seemed rather impatient, as his Captain spoke. Now Calenvása turned to him, feeling that anything more he needed to say would be better said after more thought, and more information to ponder. “Do you have something to report, Lómarandil?”

The elf nodded, and Calenvása watched his face grow set as he prepared to speak aloud to the troop. “I heard the orcs near to where I watched the army speaking, and I discovered the army’s route. They are to attack Lorien.”

Calenvása nodded thoughtfully, knowing that this fit. He doubted that the army would have gathered north of Dol Guldur, and on the edges of the forest, if they planned to attack Mirkwood itself. Did they see Lorien as the greater threat, then? Calenvása had been surprised that this information had been discovered so soon and so easily, but he realized that there were so many other questions that needed to be answered, and some that he had yet to think of to ask. This news had stirred Targil and Thorvel, it seemed, and the Captain let Thorvel speak next, curious at what the skilled elf had seen and recognized as important. Calenvása’s own mind worked, and he began to realize that there were so many images in his mind that he had failed to recognize the importance of, and others that were now of little importance at all.

[Arry]

‘Careful, Snik! Step lightly now! Those Uruks have got themselves all worked up over something . . . and we wouldn’t want them working it out on our hides, now would we?’

Gromwakh held his game bag with a tightly clenched fist. Hung over his left shoulder, it bounced heavily against the small of his back with each step, throwing his gait a bit off. Snikdul had drawn near him, his right hand gripping his stout iron bar. With surprisingly light steps for such ungainly looking creatures, they eased past the company of Uruks. A moment of rank fear brought them to a sudden halt when one of the brutes cast his red gaze their way, throwing back his head to catch their scent. ‘Mountain maggots!’ he growled at them; then, dismissed them with a toothy sneer as his leader said something which caught his attention. The two Orcs slipped quickly behind a clump of thorny bushes and hunkered low until they felt safe to move on again.

‘Close ‘un, that!’ whispered Snik as they started off again. ‘Hurry up!’ rasped Gromwakh back at him, one bulgy eye keeping track of the Uruk group. ‘I don’t plan to share our catch with the nasty blighters.’

The small band of Orcs they belonged to was on the fringes of the great army, tucked away beneath the sullen canopy of some darkling, twisted trees. Thick layers of dark leaves, new barely discernable from the dead, held back the sun’s rays, affording the Orcs a modicum of respite from the hated light. Mottled twilight it was that prevailed in the little copse . . . smoky twilight, rather, as a few of the band had started a little fire in hopes of a hot meal soon to come.

And come it did with the arrival of Gromwakh and Snik.

Skinned, spitted, and charred, the rats provided a tasty bit of meat for the hungry Orcs. All washed down with swigs of brackish water from the nearby stream. A little later, as several flasks of Orc-draught were passed about and the fiery liquid had set their bellies glowing pleasantly with its fire, the company discussed the rumors they had gleaned that day from other groups. Snik offered his comments on who would lead them, and many faces turned sullen at the mention of One-eye. ‘Him! . . . hunh!’ swore one, following up his assessment of the Uruk with a glob of spit toward the dying fire. The embers hissed and popped in protest of the sticky missile, and others of the group looked furtively about as if the great Uruk and his followers might be leering over their shoulders.

‘Best we just keep close to the shadows when we can,’ said Gromwakh, echoing the unspoken thoughts of many of his companions. ‘Out of sight, out of mind so to speak.’ A number of the Orcs nodded as he went on. ‘Do our job quick as we can when the big push starts. Give them the glory. Leave the foul swine and the fouler Men to finish off the cursed Elves.’ He raised his chin, pointing toward the northwest. ‘While we make for the dark ways beneath the mountains . . . and home.’

There were grunts of support for this little speech as it came to its end. The last of the firelight glinted off the ragged, yellowed fangs of the Orcs, their dark lips drawn back in ghastly smiles of approval.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Coromswyth nibbled lightly at the end of her lembas, not feeling particularly hungry: there was something in the atmosphere of the plain that made her uneasy. She looked around surreptitiously, taking in the area they sat in: the tight trees made it useful in several ways, of course - an enemy would never be able to attack on horseback, any large force would have to break down and so couldn't hurl elves with their full force, and even the trees were of a sort that would shed leaves all year around, to dry up and stop any force from approaching silently. It was not too small, either, allowing space to fight if it came to it, and gave an advantage for defence, especially for archers, as it was on a hill, and the copse would provide some defense...

But then, archers, if they managed to moved through the trees or with extra stealth - or maybe if a sentry guard was not vigilant enough in the depths of an uneventful night - archers would be able to get into place entirely surrounding the elves at the centre. And those leaves, shed so usefully to stop attackers, could be the undoing of those they were attacking if they needed to retreat down one side...and Coromswyth knew, from the loss of half of her family, that retreat should not be underestimated, no matter how cowardly it may seem: for there is nothing much noble about a girl waking up one morning, alive with some dream she wished to share, and realising, as she had done every morning for a lifetime of men, that her twin brother will never be able to share it with her...

Coromswyth paused suddenly, freezing, then slowly finished her mouthful and looked straight up into Ambarturion's grey eyes. "How long have you been watching me, Ambarturion?"

"For as long as you have doubted my judgement, my lady," came the cold reply. The older elf did not blanch as Coromswyth addressed him, and he still radiated a sort of paternal disapproval. He thinks me beneath him for my years... "You doubt...why is it that you doubt this place?"

"I am sure I misunderstand, Ambarturion..." Coromswyth began carefully. She saw no sense in angering Ambarturion with explanation of her misgivings about this place: there would be no point, for she had no wish to dent his considerable pride. And besides, it was not a bad spot - had she thought that, she would have said so, for too poor defence, even in such a simple journey, could cost their lives, and more.

The other elf shook his head jerkily, angrily, but didn't say anything for a few long moments. The elf woman watched him without speaking, the silence growing awkward and cold in the oncoming night air. Eventually, Coromswyth rose, stifling a sigh as she did not want to provoke Ambarturion, and crossed the open space between the trees to where her horse was tied to the low hanging branches of one straight trunked, regimented tree. The stallion gave a soft, low whinny of pleasure as she approached and lay a hand on it's muzzle, murmuring softly to it as she ran her long fingers down it's muzzle tenderly.

The lengthy silence continued to stretch until Ambarturion eventually spoke. "Why did you insist upon bringing that beast along?"

Coromswyth looked over at him in surprise, eyebrows raised, then opened her palm and allowed the horse the last of her lembas. "I am sure you have some ideas why..." she replied softly, not looking at the elder elf.

"Aye, maybe." His reply was spartan and cold, telling Coromswyth with more eloquence than words could have managed how he felt about it. She smiled very slightly to herself. Possibly he guesses it is merely spite, a will to go against his wish...or that I did it so that I may have some high ground above him, maybe? How foolish and frivolous you must think me, Ambarturion, that you think I can only voice my ground in a few feet of horse!

"Maybe?" she prompted, teasingly, smiling a little more. "Ah, Ambarturion - please, I shall not doubt your judgement if you do not doubt mine. For after all, yours has proved fine as yet - I make no criticism upon your choice of resting place." She traced her fingers down the horse's neck gently, weaving an invisable pattern of leaves through it's fur, then gave it a final pat, smiling into the horse's eyes. Crossing the open space once more, she caught Ambarturion's eyes once more: the elf did not look away, but Coromswyth wished he were a man of more words, for what wisdom or debate he might impart from the fire and consideration that had settled hand in hand in his eyes. A mystery indeed and one, she thought with a little mischief, that she would take pleasure in unwravelling.

"Goodnight, Megilaes, Caranbaith," she said softly, her voice velvety as she nodded to each in turn. They inclined their heads to her, then to their master, before departing wordlessly to their sentry posts, their golden hair seeming to glow slightly in the darkness, silent spirits to sit as sentries for the two Ambassadors. Turning to Ambarturion, Coromswyth smiled, courteously and gently rather than with mischief or mockery. "Good night, sir Ambarturion."

He paused for a second, then looked away, preparing to sleep. "Sleep well, my lady," he replied, and Coromswyth was pleased to hear no rebuke in his voice as she had feared. With a pleasant sigh, she rested against the tree nearest, settling her back against it's trunk as she crossed her arms and fell to dreams...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The shadowy forms of the sentinels moved through the trees with such quiet stealth that Ambarturion doubted that any but one such as himself could see them. The brothers were young, but he had trained them well and they knew how to move in the dark so that they would neither be seen nor heard. He sniffed at Coromswyth’s fears of being surprised by any manner of beast: there was nothing alive that could find its way past two whom he had trained. The moon was sinking toward the mountain tops, casting the last of his feeble light, while above the copse the light of Earendil shone down so bright that it cast faint shadows. Ambarturion sought comfort in sleep and dreams but they eluded him. He was a creature of action and movement, and while he found it easy to lose himself in memory as he walked, always the enforced stasis of night left him anxious. This night, his unease was provoked both by the chill of apprehension that had settled upon him and by the knowing, half-mocking words of Coromswyth.

He had misjudged her somewhat; he had thought her incapable of reading him so well, and she had surprised him when she so easily found him questioning her spirit. He had begun to see that he reminded her of someone – someone whom she admired and respected but with neither intimacy nor passion. An older brother perhaps, or the lord Celeborn. He shrugged his shoulders beneath his cloak to drive away the thoughts of her and settled his head back against the trunk. He fell into sleep, but his eyes remained open and gazing upon the Flammifer.

He was awake and on his feet before Megilaes had crossed half the distance between them. He had been asleep for only three hours but the darkness had deepened to pitch with the moon’s setting. The Star still shone, but he had moved behind the screen of trees that was now their only protection from what came toward them up the hill. Seeing that his master was awake already, Megilaes went to wake Coromswyth and bid her prepare for the onslaught.

Trusting the immediate protection of the lady to his pupil, Ambarturion joined Caranbaith upon the shallow lip of the hollow and followed his gaze into the west. “How many have you seen?” he asked.

“At least two score. They are trying to cover their approach in the brush, but the light of the Mariner has shown them to me. They must have been lying in wait for us since we arrived, however – they began to move the instant the moon disappeared.”

Ambarturion’s eyes scanned the ground before them, taking in the situation at a glance. The lady Coromswyth’s assessment of their position’s strategic potential had been accurate. Had they been surprised by the enemy there would not be much hope. Thanks, however, to the keen eyes of the brothers the advantage was now theirs. Ambarturion spoke quickly, issuing orders. “They are many, but still too few to surround the hill. They will attack on no more than two sides, if they have wit enough; it is more likely that they will come upon us in a body, hoping by the force of numbers to overwhelm us quickly. I do not see that many of them are armed with bows, so we must take full advantage of that. Get your longbows and conceal yourselves in the trees – but take care that you are no more than six paces from one another!” The brothers quickly obeyed him, Caranbaith bringing Ambarturion’s bow to him where he stood. As Ambarturion readied his first arrow he saw Coromswyth take cover and aim her shaft at the leading goblin.

Their enemy was close enough now that they could easily make out the heavy stamp of their foul feet and the harsh clatter of their armour. They were indeed goblins of Moria, and as they came they spoke to one another in their debased babble. They hesitated for a moment at the foot of the hill, but at a command from the rear of the column, they rushed up its slope. Ambarturion waited until they had closed to half the distance of the slope before loosing his shaft. At the same moment Megilaes and Caranbaith loosed as well, and were quickly followed by Coromswyth. All their arrows found their marks and four goblins fell. The band let out a howl like a pack of dogs and raced toward the trees. The Elves fired again and again, more quickly than the eye could follow, and soon at least a dozen more goblins lay dead upon the clean grass. But then the party was beset by the monsters, and they were obliged to draw their swords.

Ambarturion easily sidestepped the first wave of assailants, and with an almost lazy slash of his sword, he sent one of the goblin’s heads toppling through the air. His blade glittered white in the starlight as it danced and wove about him, and soon two more goblins lay dead. He felt a danger to Caranbaith and whirled in time to see two goblins pressing their attack at his back. Ambarturion leapt over the nearest goblins and drove his sword through the back of the largest beast besetting his pupil. The other turned but fell to join his companion.

The initial shock of the attack was now over, and Ambarturion looked about for the others. Coromswyth and Megilaes stood together against their foes and dealt out death on all sides. The lady’s skill in battle surprised and pleased him – she had clearly been trained by a master. The goblins renewed their attack, and he was soon wholly concentrated upon the battle once more. Goblin after goblin fell before him, but still they pressed in. He did not know how many were attacking them, and he did not know how many he had killed, but surely their numbers were more than two score?

A cry of pain from behind made him swirl, and he saw Caranbaith clutching his side as blood came forth from a deep gash. The goblin who had dealt it stood behind his pupil, his hideous face made more so by the devilish look of hatred that overspread it. The goblin raised his sword to deal the death blow, but Caranbaith was able to counter it before it fell. The effort, however, pained him and he stumbled and fell. Again the goblin came at his prey, but it was too late. Ambarturion had rushed to his student’s aid and before the goblin saw him coming, he the cold steel of Gondolin pressed through his heart and he fell without a sound to the earth.

To this point, Ambarturion had fought with mastery but reason. The sight of the young Elf’s blood seemed to set him alight with fury. With a cry he sprang at the nearest goblins and began to slaughter them with a grim smile upon his face. He took no heed to his safety, relying instead on the blaze of his rage to quell them. They looked upon him and despaired, for it seemed that one of the Eldar had fallen upon them, as in the days of old, and none could withstand him. Those who yet remained alive threw down their weapons and fled, gibbering in terror. Ambarturion pursued them to the edge of the hollow, slaying as he went, and soon the hill was bare of the enemy.

He stood panting upon the lip of the hollow for a time, allowing the cool night wind to cool his fury. He knew that Caranbaith was alive, but grievously wounded, and the knowledge stabbed at him more keenly than any orc blade could have done. As he returned to reason, he heard the low cries and moans of those enemies who had been wounded too badly to flee. Turning from the edge of the copse he walked amongst the fallen, coolly dispatching the survivors with his sword, heedless to the foul curses that they spat at him with their dying breaths.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel had listened intently to what Calenvása said. There was little that he had not already known or figured out; the only thing he did not understand was the little exchange between the Captain and Lómarandil. Clearly something had happened, and though he was curious Thorvel did not push it. It was the young elf’s news, however, that caught Thorvel’s interest.

“I heard the orcs near to where I watched the army speaking, and I discovered the army’s route. They are to attack Lorien,” said Lómarandil. Thorvel had mixed feelings about this. On one hand, he was glad that the enemy’s plan of attack had been discovered, but he wished it had been any other elf besides Lómarandil to discover this. Thorvel got along with Lómarandil all right, but he didn’t like the younger elf’s arrogance, and Thorvel supposed this would only add fuel to the fire. In addition to that, Thorvel didn’t trust him. Not that he trusted very many people, but though he appreciated Lómarandil’s skills as a scout, there was something about him that made Thorvel wary.

Thorvel was starting to get impatient to speak after listening to Calenvása and Lómarandil speak. He determined that he would be next, whether someone else had something to say or not. Then Calenvása turned to him, as if expecting him to speak. He stood up straighter from where he had been all but leaning against a tree; he could feel the other Elves’ eyes on him.

“I think,” he said, “that though we know their general plan, we actually know very little of what they plan to do. They’re going to attack Lothlórien. This tells us little; it was either that or Mirkwood. What we need to know is how they are going to do that. And why so many? And with Southrons? Is this attack somehow more important than the others that they have led? These are the things that I think we need to know, and if at all possible, the elves of Lórien should be alerted. If this huge army were to come upon them at unawares, I should hate to think of the devastating loss that would then most likely ensue. There must be some small way that we can help them.” There. He had said it. He had no personal ties to Lothlórien - he had never even been there - but the thought of an Orkish victory made his blood boil, whether against Elves, Men, even Dwarves. Orcs were Orcs, and he hated them.

He realized it was starting to get warm, and shifted slightly into the shade of his tree. He realized it was nearing mid-day already, and what were they doing but sitting here and talking. Discussing important things of course, but talking nonetheless, while the Orc army was out there. He hoped they would finish talking and take some action soon. He settled himself grimly and waited to hear if there was anything anyone else had to say, and what Calenvása would make of it.

[Durelin]

Calenvása acknowledged Thorvel's words as very wise, and would discuss them later. All of what the elf had just said would come into play once they began to discuss their next move. And Thorvel had spoken aloud what Calenvása's mind was trying to work out: the most important thing was to get to Lorien and warn them, wasn't it? To warn the King would do little good. It would take several days to journey north, and there were countless dangers that had to be faced in that route. And what could King Thranduil do? He had no army hidden up his sleeve. The elves of Mirkwood fought their own battles, and struggled with little hope. They could not help their brothers, even now. Though perhaps this scout troop could. Calenvása decided to disregard any thoughts of glory for the rest of his life, and nodded toward Targil next.

For a moment Targil hesitated in speaking, and he looked as if he were reluctant to say what was on his mind. He remained in his crouched position, his hands running through the gross as he thought. When he finally spoke, his words came slowly at first, and it seemed he was worried about what kind of reaction these words might bring. But then his voice hardened as he went on, and its tone showed that he felt strongly about what he said. "I find it strange that these tensions that you discussed, Captain, were risked in the plan of this attack. Would it not have been easier to control an army entirely of orcs, and yield a fierce mob? I wonder, as Thorvel does: why Southrons and Easterlings?"

Targil paused for just a second, and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lomarandil prepared to speak. Gesturing calmly with his hand and smiling at the younger elf, he gently quieted him. No one spoke, and all eyes were now back on Targil, if they had not remained there the whole time. He realized this, and seemed a bit daunted by this, but only for a moment. Calenvása watched slightly in awe of the young elf as he collected himself and some of his great surplus of courage. Targil's voice was strong and fervent as he continued. "I see that there is a need for Men in this mission. And the only difference I can find between Southrons and Easterlings, and orcs is in their minds."

Targil stopped again, and his eyes fell back to the ground, where his hands still played in the grass. It seemed he was finished. But Calenvása was not satisfied. He of course had several ideas concerning what the elf was trying to say, but he needed to know directly from Targil what he was saying. Calenvása thought he knew, but he always doubted himself, for good reason, or so he thought. "Forgive me, Targil, but I ask that you explain exactly what you are suggesting."

Targil's eyes shot up from the ground and he looked at his Captain. He looked exasperated. Calenvása then proceeded to sigh himself, and said, "I begin to see what you see, but my final vision may be very different from your own when it is formed in my mind. Or it may not."

Targil let out his own sigh, but nodded in agreement, or at least in acknowledgement. "I see more than a large attack force. I have reason to believe that brains are needed in this attack, and so there must be more to it than march and slaughter."

Calenvása practically shivered at those last words. 'March and slaughter' expressed what orcs did, so well and so bluntly. He would keep those words in his mind as a reminder. He hoped that they would appear in his thoughts whenever it was necessary for him to remember what he fought for and what he fought against.

As for the rest of the words, they confirmed the Captain's thoughts from pondering Targil's last words, but they looked at the situation from a slightly different direction. Calenvása's mind had been too set on details, and tried to fill in any holes. The problem was, it was far too early to be thinking in details. And filling in holes was not at all a good idea, for they needed the details to fill them in with.

Calenvása's eyes passed from Thorvel to Lomarandil. He knew Targil had no more to say, for now. The young elf was not one to be slow in thought or lengthy in speech. Calenvása then asked them all, "Is there more that is wished to be said? For we must soon pinpoint our next position."

[Amanaduial the archer]

"I hate them."

Koran simple, murmured statement made Ehan look across at the older man, slightly surprised at his matter-of-fact way of speaking such a bold statement. The Southron captain allowed his eyes, just for a moment, to dart deliberately across to the group of orcs not far away, illuminated in the pool of light from their fire, and as he did his eyes were vivid with constrained loathing. Koran leant forward over the fire, calmly turning over the pointed stick spit on which a few strips of heavily salted meat were speared, and his demeanour was so calm that the statement may have been disregarded - after all, most of the Southrons resented being classed with the orcs - their 'hatred' became every day. But when Koran's eyes darted up, there was no doubt that the serious looking captain had not made the statement lightly. His dark eyes held Ehan's for a moment, then he looked down again. Another sudden, vulgar whoop errupted from the group nearby and with his keen eyes Koran saw that the object of their play was alive - some small animal, a ferret or rabbit or the like. Ehan turned quickly to glance at them, the looked back. The good-natured boy grinned slightly, always one to make light of a situation. "Why so much?"

Koran shrugged simply, hastily, avoiding Ehan's eyes as he carefully removed the spit, the stick held with surprising delicacy between his long dark fingers as he pretended to concentrate much more. Inwardly, he berated himself. Fool, Koran, fool - what, you come to represent your clan and instead let this boy know your true thoughts... He had vowed not to let his feelings be known unless there was need for them to be, unless he was sure of his company - sure he had scanned them for sign of Ferach and Cortim's corruption. He was sure they would have someone watching him - and he didn't think it would be to check that their dear young cousin was keeping well and dressing warmly. There was no love lost between the cousins - it was not merely paranoia that kept them on his mind always, that meant he was constantly alert, listening to more than just words when people spoke to him. The clan of Cenbryt may have been a fading one, but it was a noble house of warriors, a formidable name among the Southern clans. Though it was hardly the style of the Haradrim, Ferach and Cortim would do anything to take hold of Koran's reins as the head of the tribe - a knife across the throat would do as well as any for them, that Koran knew.

As Ehan looked back to his food, Koran surveyed him surreptitiously under his long eyelashes, watching as the fire played upon the former's dark skin, lighting it at strange angles and making him seem older, more mysterious. He had spent the day in the boy's company, preparing for the long march, and was beginning to learn something of the boy. Boy always seemed the right word for him as well - he could not be more than six or seven years younger than Koran himself, but they seemed much farther apart, Ehan's merriness and almost simple accepting of situations making him seem much younger than he really was. In his world of a myriad greys, the concept of such a clear view seemed almost alien to Koran, and so made Ehan seem childlike. Yet it was also somehow refreshing. However, he also felt he owed his younger companion some sort of explanation.

"The orcs...they..." he trailed off, exasperated, not sure of the words. "They are untrained, unskilled, inhuman...I dislike fighting with a force with less sense than a domestic rabbit."

"Less sense? Oh, I'd say some of them came close to rabbit skills..." Ehan replied mock-thoughtfully, holding the remains of his strip of meat at a philosophical angle, a slight grin on his face. Koran grinned back, raising one eyebrow. "No, definitely, there is very little semblance between a rabbit and...that." He pointed his dagger sharply towards one particular orc, who was playing a game with his own knife, stabbing the spaces between the fingers. The two southrons watched this fine specimen of orc-hood for a good few moments, stabbing between his stumpy digits with reckless speed, then seeming surprised when, to the guffaws of his companions, the blade met his fingers. He did this a full five times before Koran finally looked away in despair, his lip subconciously curling in disgust. Looking back at Ehan, he raised an ironic, eloquent eyebrow. Ehan grinned back openly and nodded consideringly.

"I concede, Captain, they are..." he trailed off, searching for the right word, then gave a small laugh, causing Koran to grin as well. "But indeed, some of the Southrons have little training as well - and besides, no rabbit would have such sharp little claws," Ehan finished, wishing to justify himself.

Koran's face darkened and he leant back, half enveloped in shadow, spinning his fine, precious dagger absently between his fingers with unconcious skill. "Claws can attack both ways..." he murmured, watching the group.

"Hmm?" Ehan raised his eyebrows, and Koran was caught by the simplicity of his expression as he munched on a mouthful of food. He blinked a few times and shook his head quickly, his dagger coming to a halt between his dark hands to fit snugly into the palm of one hand more easily than any glove as he leant forward casually, his face clearing as the light illuminated it once more, out of the shadows.

"No...no matter, Ehan. Just musing. I am curious - have you served with orcs or uruks before?" The way the question was phrased seemed simple enough, but underneath it Koran was inquiring to other matters: such as how much fighting experience the young man actually had...

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Ehan blinked, and then squinted his eyes downward to his boots before shaking his head and looking back up to Koran. “Ahh, well, sir, I have not ever served with them. I must admit that I believe I would be embarrassed if I ever had, if you know what I mean,” Koran said naught as Ehan trailed off momentarily, and when his captain made no movement or acknowledgement of his statement Ehan blinked several times before clearing his throat to continue. “I do say, however, that I have indeed met with the creatures in battle. It was a great deal of delight and fun, I shall admit freely. When stabbed through, the squeal they make sounds rather akin to a wild boar…”

“I have rarely heard a person speak of war and battle in such a way,” Koran interrupted as shadow caressed his face while fire licked and flickered away valiantly in attempts to lighten where Ehan could not see. Ehan nodded, but did not speak. Koran finished consuming his slab of meat before turning his head to watch the orcs while speaking to the younger Southron. “Regardless of whether a warrior loves adventure and fighting or thinks nothing of it and only does it because it is his live… yet I have never heard sane warriors speak of their fallen enemy, relishing in their dying war-cry. Even if it was an orc.”

Ehan looked to his captain, wondering at his words. Surely Koran would understand the ruthlessness of battle and the ferocity of Southron clans. Ehan sighed, unsure of how to tread and reply after having been spoken to in such a way. For just a few, precious moments Ehan considered speaking softly and eloquently, but this inward attempt was lost and fleeting in Ehan’s mind.

“They were not quite war-cries, captain,” Ehan corrected, chuckling and drawing his rapier swiftly as he finished. The young man jabbed into the air violently, grinning while his eyes flashed. “And even still, I think that I have merely reached a point that every warrior reaches sooner or later, and I have just reached it sooner.”

“And what is this ‘point’, Ehan?” Koran wondered, and Ehan thought he could catch a hint of a smile on the older man’s face. Ehan sheathed his sword and proceeded to take a seat before the fire and just across from his captain.

“The point where battle affects you so much, and in such a negative manner that one must make it worth going out and risking one’s life for. The point in which adventure and fighting must mingle with fun and jest to make battle worth the blood and gore,” Ehan mused at his own words, almost surprised that they had come out of his mouth. “But perhaps that is silly. Still, even if it is silly, I will continue thinking it because it helps me survive. And, dear captain, whatever keeps me alive is fine for me.”

Koran sighed before standing out of the shadows. “Well, I just hope that you learn one day that real warriors do not go to battle merely to fight. Real warriors go to war and kill because of duty and honor.”

“Real warriors die first, I have learned,” Ehan replied, thinking of his sister and trying not to sound bitter to his captain. The young man was not sure if he failed miserably in the attempt or passed off his answering well to the intelligent and wise captain. “Despite, I had a question for you, captain Koran. Do you know when exactly we leave, and where exactly we are going? I know only that I am under your command, and that we go off in unison with the rabbit-minded creatures.”

[Arry]

‘Look!’

Snikdul raised his one eyebrow (the other having been lost long ago in an unfortunate encounter with an enraged Dwarf and a flaming pitchy brand) and nodded ever so slightly toward the men across the way. Gromwakh flicked his eyes briefly toward the Southrons’ fire, noting the composed, fixed mask on one of the men’s faces as he turned back toward the cooking of his own meal. The man’s movements were deliberate and calm, making the Orc shudder even more than the deep loathing that had flashed briefly in the man’s eyes.

‘They hate us,’ rasped Snikdul. ‘The stinking sons of sand rats!’ His long, knobbly fingers curled about the hilt of his blade with a hard grip. Others of the Orcs echoed his action, brutish hands bringing weapons to the ready. And one, feeling the bloodlust rise, brought his club down with a resounding thwack on one of the unfortunate cellar rats as it struggled to escape the sack which held it.

‘And that’s just what’ll be happening to you louts if you let your clubs and blades do your thinking,’ hissed Gromwakh as he kicked the mashed carcass into the fire. ‘They hate us alright . . . him especially, if looks mean anything . . . Nothing more than vermin to him. Just as soon see us dead, I think. Give any of ‘em half a chance and they’d kill us as easily as they’d stick the nasty Elves.’

The man had turned away from his brief perusal of the Orcs, his attention now seeming to be fixed on the young man near him. The yellow eyes of the Orcs about the fire narrowed to feral slits in the dark faces, a banked red fire licking at their edges as they gazed toward the Southrons.

A loud yelp from one of their own pulled at their awareness, drawing their focus away from the men. Several of the company sitting a short way off had been playing a game of skill – making wagers on who could make the most stabs and the quickest with a knife between his own splayed fingers. Extra points awarded if one did not cry out with the certain misses that always accompanied the game. The unfortunate contestant had lost, yelling out as he’d cut himself for the sixth time, and his fellow players hooted in glee at his misfortune.

Gromwakh laughed along with the others, even as he threw a rag to the losing Orc. The air of tension had dissolved for the moment, leaving the band of Orcs in what passed for good humor among their kind. The bleeding digits were slathered with some noxious smelling dark paste and bound with strips of the grimy rag. Another of their company had pulled out some dice, irregularly carved cubes of knucklebone with varying numbers of dots on the crudely smoothed surfaces. Pain was put aside as the losing Orc’s fingers curled round the dice and rolled them against the broad trunk of one of the trees. Two good throws and then a loss – the ‘bones, as they were called, passed on to the next eager player, and the next, and the next.

At his back, Gromwakh could feel the looming presence of the men across the way. We will have to be careful if we are to make it out of this one . . . he thought to himself. Men and Uruks both breathing their foul breath down our necks . . .

Then it was his turn. The dice passed into his hands. He rattled them together to the growing yells and jeers of the others. With a grunt he released them, his head cocked to one side as he watched them bounce off the tree in a rough arc . . . willing what little luck he might have to direct their outcome . . .

[Amanaduial the archer]

It was Koran's turn to be surprised now at the note of bitterness in Ehan's voice, although he made no comment upon the melancholy, wise-before-his-time statement. Brother, sister, parent? There are few Southrons now who can boast no losses to their family, and then, what is that to boast of? There was a silence between the two men as each struggled inwardly - Koran disagreed, but it would be insensitive to say so when it was obvious from Ehan's uncharacteristically downcast face that there was a reason for such an outburst. Maybe one day he would understand Koran's point of view - the captain understood, after all, what Ehan meant...

“However, I had a question for you, captain Koran. Do you know when exactly we leave, and where exactly we are going? I know only that I am under your command, and that we go off in unison with the rabbit-minded creatures.” Ehan broke the silence, shifting to lighter, business-like matters. Koran grinned at the reference in the last sentence, but couldn't hide his shock.

"You have not been told where we are going? Did your clan not tell you before we..." he trailed off, as the answer was evident from the boy's face. Shrugging, he explained. "Fair enough, I..." would have expected the soldiers to be told where they were going. He shrugged again, then smoothed a patch of dusty earth in front of where he sat, his legs crossed, and used his dagger to demonstrate a map, tracing out and pinpointing certain landmarks and the army's path. "The army heads West through what remains of Mirkwood on this side, marching until we come to the banks of the Great River. I suspect this shall take...say four, five days? Here, there shall be a split." He traced a sketchier, lighter line up along the banks of 'the Great River' which he had thumbed in the loose, sandy earth. Pinpointing this line with his dagger tip like a schoolteacher pointing to a diagram (although Koran would have known little about the comparison), he looked up at Ehan. "This is us. We split from the rest of the army, along with a small force of Southrons and, yes, some of the 'rabbits'-" he raised an eyebrow as he said this, a grin flickering across his lips. "-and attack from a more Northerly point. This means-"

"Wait...attack...where?"

Koran stared at Ehan, astonished that he hadn't even been informed of where they were attacking. But from Ehan's face, looking at the sketchy map, he guessed the bright young man had worked it out, even if he was not particularly wise in this area of Middle Earth. He sketched a few runes on the point of the map the two parts of the army were attacking. "Why...Lorien of course. We attack the elves."

[Kransha]

“Idiots.” Thrákmazh snarled beneath his breath, the final syllable terminating with a long, serpentine hiss as his single usable eye rolled sideways in its sunken socket. He was glowering over, though the gnarled windows of trees with patches of dappled sunlight coursing through their branches, at one of the many discontinuous bands of uruks that had congregated. A guttural, canine growl rumbled ominously in his throat as he got to his feet and took several steps towards the other group, placing an open palm on one of the trees and impatiently tapping his ragged talon against it.

“Bloody, stupid fools.” He said grimly, the digit beating faster, less rhythmically on the bark of the half-dead tree. “Yes, bloody, stupid fools, sir.” Chanted Urkrásh behind him, his voice comparatively smaller and less imposing, but equally gruff, as the dank tone of an uruk should be. The other uruk, standing partially hunched over in Thrákmazh flickering shadow, continually nodded, waiting for the opportunity to do something his master desired. Usually, Thrákmazh would’ve snapped angrily at his lesser cohort, but he was far too busy being angry with something else. As his finger tapped faster and faster on the bulky tree trunk, it began to steadily scratch off the bark as his solitary eye narrowed into a thin line of sickly color. The mountain orcs he was looking at, with fierce and frustrated intensity, actually had the gall to be entertaining themselves with foolish pursuits when the army was supposed to be preparing for organized departure. One orc had been oafish enough to stab himself accidentally, but was now concerning himself with a game of dice. It disgusted Thrákmazh, who’d never really thought much of other orcs, but was set upon the success of this attack.

The plates of armor strapped around his feet and legs clanking noisily on the grassy, earthy ground, he made his way towards the group of wretched uruks, who seemed totally unaware of his presence in the compact clearing. Blinking momentarily before his gaze steadied again, he ambled into the midst of the orcs, watching with a satisfied grunt as several of them turned and took notice. At last, his single, yellowy orb scanning the limited vicinity, Thrákmazh spoke, his raspy voice filling with a commanding air. “C’mon, you lot, we’ve got work to do. Not time for these…games. Get up!”

Most of them heard him, heads snapping sideways or backwards at implausible angles to see him. Several uruks spun around dazedly and managed to throw themselves onto their feet, ready and waiting for his next order. Some just crawled around and looked at him despondently, as if they had no idea what he was saying. Some just cocked their heads boorishly, shooting dumb glances at him, and some didn’t take notice at all. A venomous grimace forming on Thrákmazh’s face, he stalked over to two orcs who had not acknowledged him, one of which being the imbecile who’d nearly cut his own hand off and was now shooting dice across the clumps of dirt with a tattered rag used as a makeshift bandage to stifle the bleeding of his hand. Thrákmazh stood, looming over the uruk, his shadow cast like a dark cloud above him, and the brute didn’t even notice. Some of the other orcs were starting to become self-conscious, but Thrákmazh was heedless of their concealed whispers. “Did ye hear me? I said, NOW!”

Before the orc, or anyone else could react, Thrákmazh’s coal-colored fist had clenched around one of the bolts jammed into the leather quiver on his back, whipped it out, speared the orc’s open hand with it as he released the bone-dice again, and carried that impaled hand upward into the tree’s side. The orc yelped with pain, new and old blood intermixed from both wounds now coursing over his whitened knuckles and onto the tree bark. As the orc roared in agony, Thrákmazh yanked the arrow out, letting loose a brief spurt of dark liquid, and unsheathed the rusty, jagged falchion that hung at his side, driving it in a fearsome arc across the trunk of the tree and the orc who had been helplessly nailed to it a moment ago.

A moment later, Thrákmazh stepped back, plopping the arrow back into his quiver and sliding his dripping blade back into its scabbard with a metallic shriek. He looked down as the orc, a great gash cut across his chest at a diagonal, crumpled onto the ground in a twisted heap, jerking back and forth for a second before he went still and stiff. There was no sound from the other orcs except for the noisy panting of their breaths. Many jaws hung slack and faces were slated, but again, Thrákmazh dismissed it. Most of them had seen comrades slain before, and would not care to see more fall. He was not in charge of keeping them happy, it wasn’t his concern wether or not they liked him as a commander.

“Filthy worm,” he spat, kicking the limp corpse so that it rolled a few feet, “trying to get himself killed before the elves get to him.” He turned, looking up, as he wiped the remnants of the other orc’s blood from his own hand and the supply that had peppered his armor. “You maggots remember this; I don’t care how many of you I have to kill before you get the message. The Great Eye doesn’t stand for stupid brutes in his army who don’t know the difference between a tree and a rock." Some of the orcs looked around nervously, lumps building in their throats. "I’m in command here and I get the job of making sure none of you rats get out of line, or do anything that might hinder this mission in any way. Now, get yerselves ready, we’re getting out of here.”

Again, not waiting for them to react, Thrákmazh moved along, purposefully stepping on the body and crunching several useless ribs as he walked through the forest and mass of soldiers, gesturing to his self-styled servant darkly, who followed behind him dutifully and obediently, shooting disappointed glances at the orcs behind. “Come, Urkrásh.” He said quietly, “There are other matters to attend to here.”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Ehan's dark eyes widened at his captain's answer, simultaneously feeling amazed and startled at the information. Elves! Ehan thought happily in the dancing firelight as he thought of all the stories he had been told. Looking up from the map to Koran's face, Ehan grinned. "Elves, captain? I have heard many stories about them. None of them bad, I must say. Most of the tales are filled with awe, because in most cases even the storyteller has never seen one of the things."

"So you say you have never seen one?" Koran asked for clarification. Ehan searched the man's dark face, wondering what sort of answer Koran wanted and whether Ehan would be able to give it to him truthfully. Oh, what fun would it be to spin a tale about myself, and never have him know what I am truly like, Ehan thought, wanting to laugh but suppressing the notion. Lying to a leader is not done. Brother would have my head if I started spouting lies on this mission, when it is to expand his reign and interaction. Lying is much better when it comes to the orcs, I suppose. Ehan sighed and stood from his crouching position near the sand-map.

"No, I have never seen one. I have only heard the stories. And wondrous stories they were, if I may say so, captain," Ehan replied slowly, his brows furrowing and his excited eyes squinting against the licking flames of fire. "I have been told many times descriptions of the elves. I hear that they are tall...taller than you or I stand...I hear that they have voices soft as a baby sighing or the wind caressing a tree. I have been told that their hair is spun of silk and their faces made of the smoothest stone," both Ehan and Koran chuckled at the last statement. "All these tales passed down from one eprson to the next, until the tale-weaver can only speak wonders of the elven kind, and cannot attest to the truthfulness of their tale. The Elves are filled with beauty, they say. I cannot think how they are more beautiful than any other kind, for I have never seen them, and in my heart I do not think I have ever seen a smiling face that was not beautiful in its own way."

At this, Koran stood as well, wiping his hands of dust and then warming the hands in the heat of the flames. "Well, young Ehan...if you say that you have never seen an ugly smiling face, you have never seen an orc up close." For a moment Koran paused, and both men were silent as they looked over the ledge to hear the screaming fray of the orcs. Then they looked back to each other and began to laugh at Koran's statement.

"Aye, captain, I stand corrected. Still, I admit it honorably and proudly, for I would not stand to be corrected by any other person of less knowledge than you!" Ehan said in a suddenly gallant tone of voice. Then the young man bowed low to Koran as the men of noble statute in his sister's stories would have done. "Now, good captain, when do we leave? I am hungry for the blood of the beautiful."

[Arry]

Gromwakh stepped close to Snik and elbowed him hard in the ribs. The fool was staring open mouthed at One-Eye as he walked away from the crumpled body. Snik’s face had turned a decided shade of grey and he was gibbering in fear. ‘Shut yer gob!’ he hissed at his companion, his own eyes cast down at the ground in front of him in an attitude of submission. ‘You want to be next, do you?’

The little group of Orcs fell silent then, as Thrákmazh marched on, his servant trailing like a whipped dog. Out of earshot, the muttered imprecations began low, picking up in intensity. The hiss of anger flew round them, coiling like a snake in their hatred.

‘Quiet, you sheep-brained fools!’ growled Gromwakh, bringing his club down hard on the ground to gain their attention. ‘We’ll all be food for maggots if he hears us and comes back.’ He went quickly to where his ragged leather stuff sack was stowed and knelt down by it. ‘Come on! Make like yer doing something. Look busy like the . . . Captain . . . said.’ He spat out the Uruk’s title with loathing.

Orcs scurried like great dark ants to fumble with their own packs. Their belongings were few, and their weapons were always about them so it didn’t take long to make their preparations for leaving. Once done, they huddled about in little groups, silent and sullen beneath the darkness of the trees.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Coromswyth wiped her sword on the grass, then threw it directly down towards the ground so that it buried itself about halfway up, the soft earth yielding to it. Moving swiftly towards Caranbaith, who was beginning to stand painfully, she lifted his arm gently, slipping her head underneath and threading an arm around his waist to take his weight. The younger elf protested against her help, but she hushed him in a no-nonsense fashion, taking some of his weight and helping him to the side of the hollow where he lowered himself down against a tree. As he slid down, back against the tree and teeth gritted, the rough bark must have caught against his wound for he suddenly inhaled, looking sharply down at his side as his hand reached for it. With infinite gentleness, Coromswyth prised away his fingers, pushing his cloak out of the way, to take a look at the wound, eyes narrowed studiously.

Gently, she asked him to loosen his tunic and shirt, knowing that to do it herself would be to embarass him even more. He hesitated, glancing at his twin brother, then looked back at Coromswyth and complied wordlessly - his teeth were still gritted and he had made not a sound. Exposing the wounded area, at the side of Caranbaith's muscular torso, she wiped away some of the dirt, her long fingers caressing his skin only very lightly. With a brief nod, she looked up to his twin brother, who was standing beside them. "Megilaes, my horse's saddle is by the tree near which he is tethered. A the right hand side hangs a small pouch made of soft material - please could you bring it to me?"

Megilaes nodded silently and hurried to do so, reluctant to leave his brother's side but glad to be able to help. Despite all the training and solemness the brothers had so far demonstrated, she saw him gnawing his lip, his brow furrowed and lined with anxiety. Turning back, Coromswyth knelt on one knee in the mud and ripped a strip of material from her underskirt. Looking up at Caranbaith, who had looked down to meet her eyes at the sound of ripping, she grinned slightly, shaking her head at the protest she knew would have been there if he had not been concentrating so hard. "Believe me, I shan't miss a few inches of material when you are missing a few inches of skin and the subsequent flesh - rather puts it in context for both of us, hmm?" She smiled, then began to wipe at his wound, clearing it of the little dirt and bits of stone and splinters that had accumulated there, trying to assess his wounds. After a second Megilaes wordlessly handed her the soft animal skin pouch in which she kept practical bits and pieces- it had served her finely in the past, but was not much of a first aid kit when faced with Caranbaith's wound, the depth of which she was beginning to now realise fully.

Turning her head slightly over her shoulder but keeping her eyes and fingers on her work, she called towards the edge of the hollow. "Ambarturion! You may need to have a look at this..."

"I am here." His voice came from much closer than Coromswyth had expected and she whipped her head around in shock to see that he was standing just over her shoulder. His tread had been utterly silent, more so than she could have imagined. He knelt beside her and she quickly outlined the details as far as she could see them in the poor light. He listened intently, a sense of suppressed anger radiating from him, then clenched his jaw firmly, sighing. Reaching forward, he went to touch the wound, but Coromswyth stopped his hand, grabbing the wrist harder than she had meant to. "No, please! Ambarturion, there is still blood on your hands - I do not wish to add infection to the list of problems."

"Oh? Well what about the goblins' blades? They will have been poisoned-"

"They were no more poisoned than our own." She cut him off sharply, inwardly surprised at his pointed, uncharacteristically unreasonable tone. The rage of battle was still with him then. She carried on more sedately. "There is no trace of poison in the wound, as yet, although it is very open - I shall put a salve over it and bandage it, I have a few spare strips with me. Infection may be avoided, at least until we get to the Woodmen. But it may be hard to walk with."

"I will be fine." Caranbaith's voice was strained and harsh as he spoke through still-gritted teeth. His forehead gleamed with sweat as the moonlight returned and his jaw was clenched with such ferocity that Coromswyth thought his teeth may break, but he managed to stop his voice from shaking. "I will be fine," he repeated fiercely.

Coromswyth regarded him for a moment in the darkness, her eyes fixed on his face as her fingers sought by touch for a bandage in the pouch. "Bravery is not just seen in battle..." she murmured softly.

"He is not your study, my lady," Ambarturion snapped, his voice curt and cold, still unreasonable, as he stood. Coromswyth turned and sent him a vicious glare before retrieving the small pot of cooling, healing salve from her pouch, containing extracts of elanor and kingsfoil to make it incredibly effective. Without a word, she began to stir it in a business-like manner, before starting to spread it gently across Caranbaith's side.

"Will we be able to travel as quickly as before?"

"It is a pity we have no running water, I should have liked to clean it more thoroughly," Coromswyth muttered quietly, disregarding Ambarturion's question as she worked on Caranbaith's side, finishing up with the salve now.

"Lady?!" Ambarturion snapped, impatient. Coromswyth's head shot up and she glared at him once more, vemon radiating from her gaze. "I do not know, Ambarturion, but what I do know is that battle suits you very ill."

"Pardon, lady?" He sounded astonished. Coromswyth reprimanded herself inwardly, cursing as she wished she could take back that comment. How could she express now what she had felt when she saw him fighting, her admiration at how fast and fearless he was, how some aura had seemed to emit from him as if he was one of the Ancients? Rarely if ever had she seen anyone fight with such skill, but now it sounded as if she was attacking his skill.

"I did not mean-" she began.

"Battle has been my life, Lady Coromswyth. I merely inquired as to whether we should be able to travel at the same speed, as to whether we would reach the Woodmen-"

"I am no reader of the future, Ambarturion, I have no more idea than you, in truth and may wonder the same thing - although I would guess not, bearing in mind that the goblin's dispatched of my horse, presumably so it would not give them away," she interrupted scathingly. Ambarturion shook his head angrily.

"Coromswyth, it was not merely idle wondering, as you are inclined to," he interrupted fiercely, his voice icy and sharp. Coromswyth gasped at the insult and she rose in a swift movement to be equal with him. "Idle wondering, you say? Idle wondering? It is my 'idle wondering' that has sorted something out for your pupil's side, my 'idle wondering' that got me chosen for this mission-"

"And whether that is a good thing is yet to be decided-"

"-My 'idle wondering' that considered that maybe this place was not entirely sound if attacked!" she finished, her voice a little shrill and rising almost to a shout, nose to nose with Ambarturion. A silence descended between them as both remainded frozen, watched by the unmoving twins. Embarassed of the outburst, and of voicing her doubts hurtfully, Coromswyth flushed and looked away, kneeling down beside Caranbaith again and reaching for the bandage, trying to keep her hands steady. Ambarturion remained still, unspeaking, and Coromswyth was for once pleased that she could not see the elf's face. Fool, Coromswyth, fool! What, are you some drunken brawler in a low Inn in Edoras that you cannot speak civilly but must shout? You get carried away and jeopardise too much - fool, Coromswyth, hold your tongue! If he is not a forgiving sort...

She felt a warm, rough touch on her hand suddenly and looked across, expecting Megilaes...to see Ambarturion, taking one end of the bandage from her and holding it in the correct position so she would be able to concentrate more easily. Slightly surprised and infinitely grateful for the forgiving gesture, the female elf smiled hesitantly at the other, pausing in her work, then began to wrap the bandage around competantly and with more ease than she would have been able to. With this gesture, Ambarturion had probably swallowed a hefty measure of pride and had so patched up their travelling relationship better than any flimsy bandage could.

They worked in silence for a while, then, as Coromswyth was securing the end of the bandage, she glanced across at Ambarturion. "Look on the bright side," she said with a sheepish grin. "At least I won't be stealing any so-called moral high ground on that bloody horse any more."

[Durelin]

Calenvása waited, but there was only silence. All three of his comrades stared at him. They all waited for their Captain to say something, and expected him to come up with a solution to all their problems: a logical plan of action. They expected so much from him, and they had a right to. Calenvása did forget that he was their Captain at times but this was not at all one of those times. He stared at the ground for a moment, and he avoided everyone's stare. He did not feel the Captain, a leader, standing before them. Nor did he even feel as if he was one of these skilled scouts. And he felt that he had reasons to doubt that he was. Though his min was sure that the incapacities were all his, it angered him to know that they expected so much. All the words had to come from him, with silence surrounding him. The silence was growing heavy, its weight tripled by responsibility.

"We are to follow the army, and arrive at Lorien before it, unless anyone wishes to, and is able to, grace us with another route."

Lómarandil was of course the first to speak. He made sure that all could see that he was unhappy with this choice of action, and he spoke with fervor. He really was a rather rash young elf, though it was to be expected, and the ideas he stated displayed this. "Follow the army? How do we serve our King by following the army to Lorien? We must warn the King of this, as he has a right to know what goes on in his realm. And it is beyond us to decide what should be done to face this threat. The king and his counsels must know of this."

Silence fell again, and Calenvása saw Targil shaking his head. Thorvel simply stared at the young elf, showing little emotion, except in his eyes. Calenvása knew he must be looking at the elf in the same way, and he wished he did not. It was too late to draw his eyes away, though, and to hide the exasperation and disappointment. Lómarandil's eyes fell to to the ground as Targil openly showed his impatience with him, bordering on disgust. Calenvása knew it was his duty to save the young elf from this abuse. Though he had grown weary with his rashness, Calenvása understood Lómarandil's nature. He would never trust the young elf to make a decision, but he knew that good intentions were there.

"I see your thinking, Lómarandil, but you need to re-order the priorities in your mind according to their importance. The army is not attacking Mirkwood; it is attacking Lorien. It is the elves of Lorien that will be dying when the army comes upon them. And as Targil has brought up, it seems that there is more to this attack than a frontol assault," Calenvása turned his gaze from Lómarandil's frowning face and spoke to both Targil and Throvel, as well. "It is apparent that they plan to surprise out brothers in some way. We can move more quickly than a full-scale force of orcs and men, squabbling along the way, but not if we make a three, four day detour. What can the King do? You are well aware, Lómarandil, that we do not have much in the way of defenses that can stand up to the Enemy. Neither does Lorien. Mirkwood has not an army to aid, and Lorien has need of any aid it can receive." He paused, glancing around him. He saw Targil nodding in agreement - Calenvása was fairly sure that was agreement - and Thorvel stared at the ground. Calenvása would take that as agreement, as well. It was the closest to it that he would receive; he was sure.

"Do you still object, Lómarandil? If you have another plan that is more logical, please tell us of it."

Anger flashed through the young elf's eyes for a moment, and Calenvása stared at him, startled and confused by what he saw. How had he managed to anger the elf? "No," Lómarandil said gruffly, "Your logic is more than enough for me."

Calenvása sighed, but said nothing, knowing that anything he said was likely to make things worse. He knew not how to handle situations such as this, with hostilities brewing among the troop. He was not a leader, it was clear, if he could not even hold his elves together. But Calenvása knew he was not, and though he felt guilt and anger, he felt that he could do nothing.

"Spread out. I trust the wisdom and the skills of all of you, so my orders are only to find a position in which you can stay and observe the army until it begins its march. Then we will meet back in this clearing once again."

This time Targil spoke up. "Should we not follow immediately? What will meeting back in this clearing do but waste time?"

"We are not wolves, Targil," Calenvása replied, "and so we cannot communicate across the land as we run after our prey."

Targil smiled at this comparison, "A very observant deduction of you, Captain. We will meet back here, and we shall communicate." He seemed ready to laugh at this.

"I understand your concern, Targil, but communication is everything for us, and for Lorien."

[Alatariel Telemnar]

‘Bloody, stupid fools,’ Thrákmazh said grimly, his hand against one of the trees, tapping his finger against it.

‘Yes, bloody, stupid fools, sir,’ Urkrásh said, right after, making is voice sound smaller than his master’s. Urkrásh had sensed Thrákmazh’s impatience and did not want to anger him any more. He stood still as he watched Thrákmazh steadily increased the speed of his tapping, and it slowly wore bark away. Urkrásh did not look directly at him: Thrákmazh might not like to be stared at.

Urkrásh remained in his place as Thrákmazh walked towards the uruks, the plates of armor around his legs clanking.

‘C’mon, you lot, we’ve got work to do. Not time for these…games. Get up!’ he said, standing in the middle of them. He paused a moment, as all the uruks turned their heads or position themselves so they could look at him. Urkrásh watched as he closed in on two uruks that were too occupied in their game of dice to take notice of him. He towered over them, as one who had been foolish enough to cut his own hand was throwing the dice across the ground. They did not even notice the shadow cast over them from his towering. Urkrásh looked around at the numerous orcs whispering among themselves.

‘Did ye hear me? I said, NOW!’ Thrákmazh yelled. Urkrásh stared in wonder at the big blur as he had pinned the orc to the tree and stabbed his hand, causing the orc to drop the dice. And before Urkrásh knew it, the orc was on the ground, a cut across his chest.

‘Filthy worm,’ his master spat, the corpse rolled a few feet as he kicked it, ‘trying to get himself killed before the elves get to him.’ Thrákmazh turned, wiping of the orc’s blood. ‘You maggots remember this; I don’t care how many of you I have to kill before you get the message. The Great Eye doesn’t stand for stupid brutes in his army who don’t know the difference between a tree and a rock. I’m in command here and I get the job of making sure none of you rats get out of line, or do anything that might hinder this mission in any way. Now, get yerselves ready, we’re getting out of here.’

Urkrásh shivered at his words. The other orcs and uruks grew nervous, he could tell as they looked around. They stayed standing as he stepped on top of the limp body, causing the bones to crunch. And didn’t move as he walked past them, through the lines. Urkrásh looked at them, disappointment on his face.

‘Come, Urkrásh.” Thrákmazh said, “There are other matters to attend to here.’

Urkrásh jerked his head up from the soldiers to his master. Nodded, and then followed behind him, slightly hunched over, glancing at them as he passed.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel had stood quietly through Lómarandil’s crazy plan. Tell the king indeed! It would be foolish to leave those Lórien Elves to die because they were not alerted in time. Why wasted time and warn the king? But he let Calenvása handle it

“Spread out. I trust the wisdom and the skills of all of you, so my orders are only to find a position in which you can stay and observe the army until it begins its march. Then we will meet back in this clearing once again," said Calenvása. It was precisely what Thorvel had been waiting for. He was dimly aware of Targil arguing over meeting back at the clearing, but Thorvel didn’t pay much attention. If Calenvása’s plans made any sense at all, Thorvel would do it.

He crept out, and tried to decide where the most strategic place to be was. He almost immediately eliminated watching the lesser orcs; like as not they did not know what they would be doing. If he could find some captains, he would try to hide nearby, for if he was to discover any plans at all they would be the ones to have them.

He moved to the edge of the forest to get his bearings. The army seemed to be getting ready to move. Their stuff was no longer lying haphazardly on the ground - it was in bundles - and the orcs were standing around in groups, but they had at least some order to them, if that was possible for orcs. He noticed a dead orc on the ground about forty feet away, and turned his head in disgust. What kind of creature kills its own army off? But he knew it was a fairly common practice of orcs; if one didn’t like another one of them ended up dead. He was having trouble picking out an orkish captain; they all looked pretty much the same with their heavy armor, many and various filthy weapons, and generally ugly orkish looks. Finally, he picked one out who seemed to have an air of command about him. There was a second orc who seemed to be following him around, but Thorvel didn’t pay much attention to him, and he wouldn’t unless the orc did something noteworthy.

The one Thorvel had picked out as a Captain was striding about purposefully. Thorvel could see him clearly, but he wasn’t quite close enough to hear him unless he started yelling, which was likely enough with orcs. He moved into a slightly closer yet more concealed spot and crouched down to wait and see whether he would find anything out from the orcs.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It took him and Megilaes most of the night to clear the hilltop of the dead. They carried the remains of the goblins to the bottom of the hill where they piled them about with all the dry wood that they could find. Before setting light to the pyre, Ambarturion took three severed heads from the pile and stuck them on spikes to serve as a warning to their enemies. The fire was reluctant to catch at first, as through it did not want to sully the ground with the ashes of such foul creatures. But the skill of the younger Elf at woodcraft overcame the flames’ reticence and soon there was a fire blazing that could be seen from many a mile. The reek of the fire spread about them both like a sickly haze so they retreated up the hill where the winds kept the air free.

Throughout the work, Coromswyth had remained with Caranbaith carefully tending his wound. Ambarturion had given her the small flask of miruvor that had been given him by the Lady herself. Coromswyth had given her charge a small mouthful of the drink, and they had all seen the effect of it upon him as he fell into an untroubled slumber. As Ambarturion and Megilaes reached the top of the hill they could see the wounded warrior still asleep beside the small fire that the lady had lit to keep him warm. They paused for a moment to watch and listen as she sang a low song over his sleeping form, rhythmically stroking his long hair with her fair hand as she did so.

As much unpleasant work as they had done this night there remained yet one more task. Coromswyth’s mount had been slain and his corpse lay still by the outer ring of trees. Even if the two of them unaided could have carried the body to the bottom of the hill there was no time to dig a grave for him, and no stones to build a cairn. They thought for a long time about what they should do, but in the end all they could managed was to weave about the body a tight mat of branches and leaves. As they worked, Ambarturion sang what songs he knew of protection and warding to keep away any who would wish to desecrate the final resting place of the lady’s companion. It occurred to Ambarturion that he did not even know the horse’s name, and this added tot he unwelcome sting of conscience that had been troubling him since Coromswyth had reprimanded him for his callousness toward his student.

Battle suits you very ill. Her words came back to him for the hundredth time, and as each of the times before he paused in his work, shocked by how profoundly they cut him. War had been his life; for seven thousand years, as such things are measured in the world beyond Lorien, he had fought as bravely as he could in a losing war. In that time he had slain uncounted hundreds of the Enemy’s slaves, but it had not done any good. Still they kept coming, and no matter how many he slaughtered there would always be more. He regarded his work as a sad necessity, but one that he did not relish. He was proud of his abilities, but always he lamented the sore requirement to use them. But why then, he found himself asking over and over again, do the lady’s words stick so deeply in me? Could it be that I am giving way to the fey mood of one who has lost reason? His mind went back to the slaughter he had worked upon the goblins, and even as it did a slow smile moved over his face and his hands began to tremble. He shook his head and tried to drive away the blood that ran into his eyes. When his vision cleared he saw Coromswyth regarding him with a knowing look and he scowled at her.

Megilaes was standing beside his brother, wanting to be of aid but not knowing what to do. “Megilaes,” Ambarturion snapped, “you must rest now. You have had no sleep this night, and we will be sore pressed tomorrow, for we must make haste to the River and we will have to bear your brother.” The young Elf made to protest his master’s command, but one sharp word from Ambarturion silenced him. Coromswyth assured Megilaes that she would care for his brother until daylight. Comforted by this, the young Elf threw himself upon the ground by his brother and was soon asleep.

Ambarturion brought Coromswyth her blade saying, “You should not put your blade into the ground, lady; chance stones or roots will blunt its edge.”

She took the blade back from him and laid it upon the grass beside her. “It is a habit I have, Ambarturion.” He noted the shortness of her reply and that she was avoiding his gaze. For the first time since they had set out together, he had a desire to speak with her, for he sensed that here was one who sought to understand him – and he was disturbed by the notion that he perhaps did not fully understand himself. Although there was a great difference of years and experiences between them, there was at the same time an odd form of commonality. Despite their bickering and the misunderstandings that had afflicted them in their brief acquaintance, there was something or someone in her past that made her more like him than he had realised. Settling himself upon the ground, he inquired after his student. She answered him politely and efficiently, but without venturing anything more than that. Ambarturion sighed lightly and tried again.

“Lady,” he began, in the gentlest tone that he had yet used with her. “I am sorry for my manner toward you on this journey; and I apologise for my…thoughtless words when you were tending to my student. I am, as you have rightly said, a warrior. The rage of battle was upon me still and I spoke when I would have been better to hold my tongue.”

She smiled at him with what appeared to be genuine relief. “I understand. And I am sorry for my words of doubt and accusation. I am sure that you have done all for the best.”

He nodded to her. “I thank you for that, lady, but I am afraid that you were right to question my decision to come here – as we have learned greatly to our dismay, it was a poorly considered course. I had thought that the greater danger lay to the East, and that the Moria goblins would not venture so far from their mines. I was wrong.”

“Danger lies close about us in all directions in these days, Ambarturion. You cannot blame yourself if it finds us.”

A silence fell between them once more. Ambarturion desired greatly to ask her again about her words that had troubled him the most deeply, battle suits you very ill, but for reasons so subtle that he could not understand them, he avoided the subject. He sought to reach her on another subject. “You must not think that I am always so curst and brief, lady,” he tried to sound jocular and light-hearted. “I am merely dismayed by our journey and the hopelessness of what we attempt. To have come to such a pass: begging of the Woodmen for their aid!”

She looked at him quizzically and replied, “You do not think they will help us? We have not had many dealings with them, but surely they are aware of the work that we have done in guarding these lands from the armies of Moria and Dol Guldur? Surely they will send what aid they can?”

It was Ambarturion’s turn to look surprised. “I have no doubt that they will send what they can, lady, but what use will that be to us? A band of ragged Men who scrape their livelihood from the fringes of mighty realms they have not the wit to understand? I have seen Men in their glory, and even then they were of little enough aid to us. No, I fear that with the loss of our strength, there goes all the strength that Middle-Earth has against the Enemy. The Woodmen are but the lees and dregs of a cup that has been drained of an altogether indifferent wine.” He laughed in a manner that was not altogether comely, but then stopped when he saw the look in Coromswyth’s eyes. “But what have I said that deserves such a look as this, lady?” He smiled at her once more, asking “Do you account the Woodmen among your friends and take offence that I should weigh them so slightly?”

[Durelin]

Targil, Evening

Thorvel was the first to take off, not surprising Targil. Thorvel seemed the trust the leadership of Calenvása much more than either Targil or the young Lómarandil did. And Targil was the only member of the troop that had reason to doubt the Captain's leadership abilities. Lómarandil simply tended not to think reasonably, and therefore could not reasonably mistrust Calenvása. Still, Targil never had been able to understand what Lómarandil thought of Calenvása. Perhaps it was time for a quiet talk with the young elf. It was good to know whom you fought with, especially in this case. He thought he understood Thorvel, but, staring blankly at the elf's back as he made his way quickly into the thick of the forest, he seemingly tried to see into the elf's soul. His thoughts were disrupted when the elf disappeared completely into the trees, and Targil then made his own way into them. He went another direction, of course.

Communicate...Targil would certainly communicate with his comrades, and happily give his opinion. They would not like it, though, as always. Calenvása just did not like to listen to someone who always found something wrong with him. Targil was almost completely sure that he knew Calenvása. Many times it was so simple to hear what the Captain was thinking. You could tell that the elf was not comfortable in his position, and did not like taking on his responsibilities. This was why Targil could not respect the elf enough to trust him. He knew that Calenvása had a good heart and a strong mind, but he had weaknesses that did not allow him to be a respectable leader. Targil constantly questioned his authority, not because he enjoyed seeing the elf overwhelmed with decisions and responsibility, but because he knew that every objection that forced Calenvása to handle it brought the Captain closer to being a true leader. The conversation they had just had had surprised Targil. Calenvása had truly stood up to him, this time. Perhaps it was the need that drove them all, finally finding a home in his heart. If so, Targil hoped it remained there to urge him on in the next few days. Leadership would be needed.

Targil quietly settled his body down in the forest floor. He crawled slowly into a large, leafy bush, stopping as soon as something could be soon. He had a pretty clear view in this position, and he was not going to risk adjusting or a more open spot for fear of discovery. Any elf could move silently around their forest homes, but a scout had to have the mind to know when not to try his skills. Targil worried about Lómarandil mostly because he was afraid that the elf was too rash, and too certain of his skills to take any of the precautions his life depended on. Targil sighed, regretting making any sound after he did so. The orcs near him were busy arguing, gurgling and growling grotesquely at each other. His sigh of tired sadness was quiet enough, but he was afraid to think for fear of being heard.

~

Calenvása, Night

Calenvása was just beginning to feel the muscles in his legs start to ache, begging to be given some kind of respite. He had been perched in this tree, knowing that any of the stronger branches would hold his weight. Still, he felt not at all as graceful as a bird that might perch there. High above the forest floor, he did not feel he belonged there. He felt so incredibly awkward that it was hard for him to closely observe anything around him. He had not shifted his feet more than an inch on the branch for the past few hours as he watched the darkness settle around him. It was deep now, but his eyes could see capably enough in the dark, and his hearing, of course, was not affected. What he had to remember was that orcs had very capable night vision as well. Perched in his discomfort, Calenvása felt considerably less graceful than a bird would look in his spot.

Dawn

Soft beams of light slowly began to filter through into the depth of the forest, and Calenvása welcomed their warm caress. They warmed his soul after a night in what had become such a cold place. It was his home, and so its evil was all the more chilling for him. He struggled to keep his heart warm with hope in such a moment. As the light gradually grew, he realized just how important it was that he kept hope. He began to realize how important his leadership could be. And it scared him, making him shiver more than the shadows that plagued his home did.

A great, roaring yell brought him out of his reverie of cold thoughts, and he scanned the scene before him. Another yell, this one sounding more human than animal, came. He could not make out what the various yells that followed were crying, but the rush and chaos that filled the army’s camp, with the cleaning up and packing up of gear, the angry yells at the attempt to organize orcs…the army was preparing to move.

Calenvása waited for many moments, watching the anarchy. Closest to him the air was quieter and calmer. A group of both orcs and easterlings were seemingly gathering very near to his tree. Perhaps dangerously near, though that was yet to be seen. They seemed to separate themselves from the rest of the army, and Calenvása could already see a greater amount of organization among them. He filed all this away to be thought about when he was safe; at least, a distance away from orcs, easterlings, and southrons, meeting back in the clearing with his troop.

Feeling that he had waited long enough, and seen enough, he slowly began to move, carefully maneuvering but still trusting the branch’s stability a bit too much. His legs now refused to move, stiff and sore, but finally numbed. His eyes were glued to the enemies assembled before him. It took Calenvása far too long to get onto the ground, and that was not the end of his fear and caution. Forcing his legs and arms to moved enough that he could drag himself across the ground on his belly, his mind already began to slip back into troubled thoughts. He worried about what Targil might have to say.

[Arry]

‘Oy! My feet hurt already!’

Snikdul shifted the pack on his back, wincing at each step over the pebbles and sharp little twigs that covered the forest floor. The pace set by the captains was a quick one, affording no chance of watching where one stepped. Gromwakh snorted at his companion’s complaint, reminding him he’d had the chance to grab a pair of the men’s boots last night while they were sleeping.

‘Stick my pretties in some stinkin’ sandworm’s boot?! Who knows what sort of nasty bugs’re hiding in there! I’d just as soon have . . .’

Snik’s ongoing commentary was cut short as Gromwakh pulled him out of the moving column, deeper into the shadows beneath the trees. One by one the others of their little band joined them. Quiet as snails, but quicker, they gathered in a thicket, huddling beneath the shady canopy of the trees. ‘Now listen up, lads,’ said Gromwakh in a rasping whisper. ‘I managed to listen in a bit last night to One Eye and his fancy pants group of Uruks.’ Grom rubbed his backside, recalling how his eavesdropping had been cut short by swift kick to it from one of the Uruks - one who’d gone out to answer a call of nature and unfortunately returned to find the hapless Orc squatting behind a small rocky outcropping listening in. He shook free the unpleasant memory and continued on. ‘Apparently, we’re not all going to that Elf forest together. One Eye and one of the darkling men captains are attacking a different way.’

There were murmurs and grunts as the Orcs considered what Gromwakh had heard. One of them spoke up, the others nodding their misshapen heads at his observation. ‘You know what that means, dontcha? That group’s gonna be in the thick of the fighting. Right up against those nasty Elves and their sharp, biting blades and arrows.’ ‘Well what’ll we do, then?’ another asked.

‘Anyone see where One Eye and his followers were when we started off?’ asked Gromwakh. ‘Well. Let’s see . . .,’ said one of the Orcs, standing up and facing in the direction the army had been traveling. ‘I was on the outside and . . .’ He scratched his head, then raised his left hand and pointed slightly to the side and before him. ‘I saw that Urkrásh running along. So One Eye musta been somewhere near.’

‘Right then,’ said Gromwakh decisively, standing up and motioning for the others to do so, too. ‘Then we head back the other way and stay as far as we can from them.’

‘There’s a couple of Orc squads back there moving the supply wagons along,’ offered Snikdul as they shouldered their packs and slipped out of the cover of the thicket. ‘Maybe we can offer to guard the one with the hams . . . I heard they were brought in for the captains’ tables . . .’

‘Now how’d you hear that?’ asked Gromwakh, regretting immediately he’d asked the question. It was a query that Snikdul took up happily, outlining his sources and branching off onto other avenues of information that strayed far from the subject of hams.

[Orofaniel]

"You lot; Hurry up!"

The growls from other soldiers were roaring through the army. There were no time for delay, and Herding as well as the Haradrim soldiers knew that. Herding's cold eyes met the soldier standing next to him. What fool is causing trouble now? He wondered.

"What's going on back there?" he asked the soldier, as if the problems were caused by him. "Sir, I'm not sure yet. Want me to go and check?" he asked Herding calmly while seeming innocent. He didn't seem too willingly at the beginning, but when Herding nodded sternly at him, he seemed more aware of the situation. He better be quick, Herding said to himself under his breath as soon as the soldier had left his side. If there really were any big trouble back there, it would probably cause much annoyance and anger among the other soldiers, and that was the last thing Herding wanted; Annoyed soldiers never make good soldiers.

"What's keeping us?" A yell howled from behind. The harshness in the voice hewed through the air. Murmurs and mumblings were soon to follow. "Everyone, hold you positions! Stay where you are!" Herding cried angrily. He couldn't believe how so many soldiers could be uncontrolled and weary because of something as small as this. It made him anxious in some way; to think about it. What would happen when there really is something there , lurking in the shadows? The tense situation now was probably caused by some fool in the back that didn't manage to stay on his feet. The murmurs stopped and everyone stood silently, focusing on the sounds around them. "Move, will ya?" Herding said coldly to the soldier that was blocking his way. He scouted a bit, but saw naught. "Will someone tell me what’s' going on?" Herding demanded again as he became restless. Then finally the soldier, who he had sent off in the beginning, came back. He breathed heavily and took a moment to catch his breath. Speak, man Herding though, but kept his thoughts for himself.

"Nothin' is wrong sir," he muttered. "Someone got stuck," he continued briefly. "That's it?" Herding gazed seeming a bit confused and at the same time surprised. "One fool got stuck and all these soldiers are waiting for him?!" Herding repeated, now very much annoyed and the harshness in his voice was not pleasant. "Indeed, sir," the soldier answered, sounding annoyed as well. “He fell over and then he couldn’t get up. Some of the soldiers tried to help him, others laughed,” he added contemptuously. Herding grew red. He felt the anger arisen inside, but he tried to control himself and the harsh words that his tongue was about to utter. "Well, let the fool get loose by himself, and let’s move!" Herding then said loudly. The soldiers jumped seeming surprised with Herding's words; maybe they had expected something a bit more explosive from their captain? But they said nothing, and just followed his orders, which probably was the cleverest thing to do. Herding wasn’t sure if he could handle more than this. "Sir, I think he got loose," the soldier said calmly. Herding rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, with clenched teeth.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel welcomed the dawn with gladness. Scattered beams of light made their way through the tangle of branches to his hiding place. He was rather stiff from remaining in the same location all night, and frustrated that it had all been for nothing. He had not heard or seen a single thing that would help them out, and now they were starting to move. The Captains were yelling over the din for the soldiers to get moving, sometimes in their foul orkish speech and sometimes in the Common Tongue.

He waited a moment to make sure that no one was coming near. Then he silently got up and stretched his muscles. He sighed irritably. He could only think of two things that would improve his mood. One would be hearing some information to their advantage. The other thought he relished: putting some arrows into Orc hides. He knew this would not be possible at the moment; there were far too many Orcs for their small band to attack.

He tuned and crept stealthily back through the forest, bent over slightly. His keen ears took in all the sounds of the forest. Suddenly he stopped. He had heard something that most certainly did not belong in the forest: the clatter of Orcs and their foul voices. He nocked an arrow to his bowstring as a precaution and moved carefully towards them. He could make out individual voices long before he came upon them and stopped a good distance away.

"...Then we head back the other way and stay as far as we can from them," said one Orc. From who? Thorvel wondered. The Elves? Other Orcs?

"There’s a couple of Orc squads back there moving the supply wagons along," said another. Thorvel heard them crash their way out of the forest, and their voices started to fade. "Maybe we can offer to guard the one with the hams . . . I heard they were brought in for the captains’ tables . . ." He sighed again and replaced his arrow. He didn't think that the information would be of any help. He disappeared into the forest, heading back towards the clearing.

Targil and Lómarandil were already there, waiting. Targil didn't seem very happy to be there; remembering his argument with Calenvása, Thorvel supposed he would rather be tracking the Orcs now, not returning to meet together. Thorvel honestly didn't understand why Targil insisted on arguing with Calenvása so much; he felt that it caused division and mistrust within their band. He understood that Targil might disagree, and Thorvel had no problem if he voiced those disagreements. Thorvel would do the same thing, but he didn't agree with the way Targil would continue to argue the point. Then there was Lómarandil. The young elf always seemed to have some idea of what to do, but the problem was they rarely made any sense. Thorvel saw no reason why he should trust either of them. He respected their abilities, but he trusted none but his Captain. Even if Calenvása didn't always seem thrilled about the responsibilty, Thorvel knew that he would always live up to it.

Calenvása approached the clearing only seconds after Thorvel, and this time Thorvel did not wait to speak.

"Those orcs! All night, and I get no more information than they have hams in the supply wagons! That, and some indecipherable mention of "staying as far away as possible from them". I sure hope that you all got some more information than I did, or else we will probably never figure out what they intend!" Thorvel felt better after venting some of his frustration, and then slightly embarrassed about his outburst. As he often did, he had not thought out his words before he spoke them. Looking around, he waited for someone else to speak.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Megilaes settled himself beside his brother where he could watch Caranbaiths’ chest rise and fall with each fitful breath. He kept his eyes fixed on his brother, willing each painful and spasmodic intake of air not to be the last. The gash was indeed deep and while Coromswyth’s medicine had staunched the bleeding, the silk bandage was speckled with glittering drops of the deepest red. Megilaes had never seen the blood of an Elf – never seen an Elf suffer so grievous a wound. His terror for his brother was, then, tempered by the bewilderment of an immortal having to contemplate for the first time the death of one close to him. He reached out with gentle fingers to touch the bandage, as though to see if the blood were real or merely a fantasy.

It is no dream brother. Caranbaith’s voice, strong and unshaken by the damage done to his physical existence, filled Magilaes’ mind with a familiar comfort. But neither is it, I think, a nightmare. I will survive this wound and live to revenge it upon the servants of the Enemy. Megilaes smiled to hear his brother so strong and vibrant in spirit. He took Caranbaith’s hand in his own and stroked it lovingly.

Sleep my brother, he replied. Our master has the watch and will guard us well. There sprang into his mind then the image of Ambarturion as he had fallen upon the goblins in his wrath, and he felt Caranbaith’s response: together, they remembered the vision of their master’s might. But in the midst of the memory there was a disturbing darkness that hung about Ambarturion, like a shadow or a cloak. It billowed about him, obscuring his features and blurring his motion. They did not comment on the darkness consciously, but each was aware of it, and they both found it unsettling.

Megilaes let go his brother’s hand and lay closer to him. Putting his mouth to Caranbaith’s ear he sang to him the lay that their mother had taught them both when they were very young, and would go for long walks through the Golden Woods in the springtime. Caranbaith smiled lightly and sighed with contentment, and was soon asleep. Megilaes lay awake, but followed his brother into his dreams, and together they walked through the woods once more, free of pain and darkness.

[Arry]

Gromwakh took the lead with Snikdul following close. Toward the rear of the ragged column they moved, the remainder of their companions trailing along behind them. They were just thirteen in number now, one of them having met the brutish death at the hands and foot of One Eye . . . and him, the poor dead Orc, in the midst of a winning streak with the dice. The little group kept well out of sight of the troops marching toward the Elven forest as they made their way in the opposite direction. And it was not until early afternoon that the supply wagons came into view.

Snikdul was all for running hurriedly toward them, as were the others. But Gromwakh growled at the group and urged them on behind the last of the lines. ‘They may be cooks and servers and water-fetchers but they aren’t all stupid. They’ll wonder why were running towards them from the front and some idjit’s bound to let slip to someone about Orcs that were running away from the battlefield.’ The group looked at him dumbly, no light of understanding in their eyes. ‘Just follow his lead, boys, old Grom’ll get us through. And best yet he’ll do the thinking for it.’ Now a flicker of comprehension glinted in the depths of their yellow eyes, like a small taper lit in a vast cavern.

As if by mutual agreement they all nodded toward him and waited expectantly for an order. He sighed, then belched, as if he had made up his mind. Seeing the dust from the wagons in the distance now ahead of them, he took off his pack and fished about in it until his fingers found what he sought. His whip! Braided from the hides of two tough old mountain goats he’d pursued and brought down in the Misty Mountains.

Gromwakh drew back his arm and snapped the lash with a quick snap. His companions eyes grew wide and they snarled at him, thinking he might hit them. Grom shouldered his pack and sent them shuffling off before him with a few words as he ran behind, the scourge snapping at their heels.

‘Oy!’ he shouted loud as they neared the wagons. ‘Get on you maggoty lot,’ he cried as they neared the wagons from the rear, in a voice great enough to be heard by the Orcs in charge. ‘I’ll not have you lagging behind. Some of you take up that wagon tongue, you lazy louts, and give those others a breather. The others run along beside and spell them once in a while.’

The Orcs who were pulling the wagon were more than happy to give up their work to the fresh crew. Gromwakh walked alongside his companions nudging them now and then with his whip handle for effect, all the while telling them to keep their heads low and their gobs shut . . . they’d make it through yet.

[Kransha]

“Urkrásh, why are the members of my glorious race such imbeciles?”

Urkrásh glanced glibly at his master and captain as the two of them stood at the center and front of the ragged column drifting, or oozing forward like a smoggy shroud of black moving with enervated speed across the forested plains. Thrákmazh, his armored form erect and stiffened, continued to direct the low-shouldered troops around, pointing them towards the front and issuing as many commanding gestures of he could. Out of the corner of his mouth, he spoke to Urkrásh, who blinked at him dazedly and answered as best he could. “Umm…” he searched for a response that would not anger his captain, stammering involuntarily. “I don’t know, sir.” he murmured, evading the real question.

Thrákmazh’s hand, which had been up with a gauntleted trio of fingers aimed forward and swinging to indicate the proposed movement for some very slow uruks, lowered slowly, falling limp and lifeless to his side, the chain mail riveted upon it jingling. Slowly, he turned to his orcish counterpart, who had the same ready and willing, if not slightly confused look on his face he’d borne a moment ago. Thrákmazh’s single eye narrowed icily, focusing into beady and acute orb that fixed its keen gaze on Urkrásh. After looking grimly at the servant for a dragging, slow-paced moment, Thrákmazh swiveled sluggishly to face the troops again, looking deep into their thick ranks with his single, precise eye, examining each and every mindless uruk.

“It’s because they don’t have a purpose, none at all. They serve like blind rats, being directed by those with high ranks and decorations to spare. I think I might’ve been like that once, but that changed soon enough. They’re just blind, aimless worms that do what they’re told when they feel like it. No loyalty, no devotion, no sense of purpose at all. They probably have no aspirations, no hopes, and I don’t blame ‘em. They’ll never get anywhere, not the way they conduct themselves. You and I, on the other hand, orcs like us are different. And, Urkrásh, if you serve with loyalty and show your mettle for the cause, you’d get somewhere, and any of that lot might too if they did so. But, most of ‘em won’t do anything to get anywhere, and they’ll stay in the filth they made. When they see the elves, they’ll fight all the same, and they might get some pleasure out of it, but no one will remember them, or care about them, or know their names.”

The speech was not meant, or implied as the speech it was. Thrákmazh considered himself quite the wordsmith, and impressive enough in that wording as well, for he had spent many days perfecting his skill with this second language, which most orcs did not speak well. It was considered a point of pride to be able to discourse in the common tongue diligently, as clan gatherings of orcs could not speak the Black Speech, their native tongue, in groups, for each clan and sect had a different, multifaceted dialect (though the speech was not complicated overall). Urkrásh looked now as if he was contemplating the petty oratory, looking as pensive as he could in the passing moment. Thrákmazh was not even looking upon him, had not turned to witness the other orc’s response. At last, as a disconcerting silence descended eerily over the two, though crashing, growling, rumbling, thumping, and snarling abounded all around them, Urkrásh found his voice and spoke, quietly but surely. “I see, sir.”

“I’m sure.” Thrákmazh murmured coolly, stepping back and finally turning toward Urkrásh. “Urkrásh,” he said, the commanding air faded from his guttural voice, “I want you to do something for me.” Urkrash, at this, piped up wholeheartedly, his own gait steadily brightening to reveal his constant willingness as he nodded his head vigorously. “Anything, sir.” Looking back upon him, Thrakmazh almost smiled, but contained the expression.

“I want you to take command of this column,” he continued, causing Urkrash to jump unnoticeably, “just temporary command, and make sure nothing happens in my absence. We have to see to this task with those accursed men, so I might as well see who they are. I’m going to scope them out, see what I can learn. I think that you are capable of making sure nothing undesirable happens.” Urkrash looked at him, at first, as if his commanding officer might have been possessed, but calmed down within seconds, ever eager to serve, and said, simply, “Are you sure?” Thrákmazh glowered at him, a sight which would silence most orcs who knew his reputation. It might not have been the best idea, since another uruk captain might fit the task better. Yes, Urkrásh was sometimes a fool, but a loyal fool, and would not let his master down. He would do this task as aptly as he could. “I’m always sure about whatever I say and whatever I do.”

After a deep breath, Urkrásh bowed his head and answered. “Yes, Thrákmazh.”

Not returning the bow, Thrákmazh spun on his iron-booted heel and strode off slowly, still surveying and supervising, but not for long. Soon enough he was on the outskirts of the orcish line, which was interspersed with the lesser orcs. All orcs noticed Thrákmazh, save a happily ignorant few. Most cringed, and all those he passed busied themselves getting out of his way. This all changed, though, as he neared the equally ragged columns of men, dressed in all manner of bizarre, exotic garb, which escaped Thrákmazh completely. These mortal men did not think to oblige Thrákmazh’s path, and none took note of him except as what he was, an orc. None moved for him, few acknowledged his presence, and none stopped their idle conversation on the march. Snorting indignantly, Thrákmazh proceeded towards the head of the line, hurrying slightly, as he did not relish the company of men. At long and irksome last, he found the crest of the column, with the men there who he presumed held some notion of authority. He saw one, with another alongside, who fit the description of a captain of the men he'd been told of by other orcs on the societal fringes of the army, who had nothing better to do. Worming his way with very little grace through the claustrophobic rows, he found himself just behind the man and another beside.

“You are the one called Koran Cenbryt, yes?” He queried, utterly unexcited about the meeting. But, the meeting was not to happen yet, for the crowd had carried both away. Still uninterested, and irritated, Thrakmazh headed off, towards the rocky ground that bordered the whole area where and on which the armies traveled. The orc captain sauntered towards this virtual grove as night's pale hue tinged the reddening sky above. There, seated neatly upon an elevated outcropping of stone, was another Southron captain. The one called Herding.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

"I sure hope that you all got some more information than I did, or else we will probably never figure out what they intend!"

Lomarandil was lying down amid the leaves with his eyes shut, and humming a tune. His head reasted on his hands, and Thorvel shot a very sour look at him Stupid youngster, resting and singing while the others have been out scouting, looking for clues! "Indeed, Thorvel. They're mobilising, drilling their troops. But from what I've see ntempers are running frayed. With some luck they'll kill enough of themselves not to present much challenge." Thorvel turned away, but even so Lomarandil saw the muscles in his neck and cheek jerk angrily. Lomarandil chuckled silently and forcedly to himself. He knew that Thorvel didn't really like him, but deep down he wished that he could do a better job of hiding it, he was after part of the troop and he thought it would have been nice for people not to grimace every time he made a discovery.

Calenvasa nodded gravely at the news. "We have not much time then." Lomarandil relaxed once again on the leaves. Adn started humming again. Calenvasa went up to Thorvel and whispered something inaudible in his ear.Lomarandil muttered at this, and turned over onto his front. Taking out his knife he began to cut the earth in front of him. Targil looked aver to see what it was, but he couldn't make anything out. Calenvasa moved away from Thorvel, before walking over to the rest. Thorvel joined them soon after.
Lomarandil sat up, joining the group, before finally shrugging and standing up to his full height.."We must move quickly..." Calenvasa said in a whisper.

[Alatariel Telemnar]

The army marched forward slowly, it seemed; Urkrásh stood slightly behind his master, but both of them in the center and front of the army.

‘Urkrásh, why are the members of my glorious race such imbeciles?’ Thrákmazh said, looking out at the column of uruks. Urkrásh glanced at Thrákmazh, unsure of what to say, and slightly confused by the question. Searching for an answer, he quickly looked back and forth to leaves and stones on the ground.

‘Umm…’ he said, still trying to think of an answer that would not anger his master. He slowly began to loose the question. Not wanting to stall to long or ask again, he murmured, ‘I don’t know, sir.’ His voice was only loud enough to be heard over the sounds the uruks were making.

He nearly winced waiting for his master’s response to his reply. He watched him out of the corner of his eye as he dropped the hand that signaled some slow uruks, his armor rattling as he did so. Thrákmazh turned to him, the slit in his eye grew smaller as he focused on Urkrásh. He was just about to cower in fear from the gaze when his master turned back and looked upon the army that slowly progressed forward. Urkrásh looked upon them too; his eyes pacing back and forth along the columns, wondering what his master had meant.

‘It’s because they don’t have a purpose, none at all. They serve like blind rats, being directed by those with high ranks and decorations to spare. I think I might’ve been like that once, but that changed soon enough. They’re just blind, aimless worms that do what they’re told when they feel like it. No loyalty, no devotion, no sense of purpose at all. They probably have no aspirations, no hopes, and I don’t blame ‘em. They’ll never get anywhere, not the way they conduct themselves. You and I, on the other hand, orcs like us are different. And, Urkrásh, if you serve with loyalty and show your mettle for the cause, you’d get somewhere, and any of that lot might too if they did so. But, most of ‘em won’t do anything to get anywhere, and they’ll stay in the filth they made. When they see the elves, they’ll fight all the same, and they might get some pleasure out of it, but no one will remember them, or care about them, or know their names,’ he said, not looking back at Urkrásh, but still scanning the troops.

Urkrásh looked back at him, trying to think over what he was saying. Pondering this, Urkrásh wondered if he would ever be remembered, even by his master, if he ever left him. He blinked a bit, surprised at the speech his master had given. He was also surprised to be compared to someone with such a high ranking as Thrákmazh, and to be considered like him. Urkrásh had never tried to get anywhere. He had never wanted to be in charge of a mass number. But, he had served with loyalty and tried to please whenever he could: mostly because he just wanted to save his own hide, but he did it just the same. He would get pleasure out of fighting the elves. His right hand twitched at the thought, limp and barely useful, it lamed him, a scar that time does not heal. Looking back at the uruks, Urkrásh watched them. Disorderly they were, the lines were not perfect, yet you could make out each individual column, and some uruks did not look so willing, slow and sluggish, grunting or snarling now and then; it seemed as none had taken notice of Thrákmazh’s speech. But Urkrásh found himself replying with an ‘I see, sir’ before he had truly understood what his master meant.

I’m sure,’ Thrákmazh responded. He stepped back after his time scanning the troops and faced Urkrásh, ‘Urkrásh, I want you to do something for me.’ Urkrásh straightened up a bit, ready to please, nodding his head vigorously, ‘Anything, sir.’

‘I want you to take command of this column, just temporary command, and make sure nothing happens in my absence.’ Urkrásh jumped at his, having never been put in charge of such a big number, and back in his mind was doubt and uncertainty. Thrákmazh continued, ‘We have to see to this task with those accursed men, so I might as well see who they are. I’m going to scope them out, see what I can learn. I think that you are capable of making sure nothing undesirable happens.’

Urkrásh blinked a few times, looking at his master. ‘Are you sure?’ He said, not sure of what else to say. The task of commanding a whole column was never something he was commanded, maybe an orc or two, but never a mass of uruks. Thrákmazh glared at him, ‘I’m always sure about whatever I say and whatever I do.’

Taking a deep breath, he replied ‘Yes, Thrákmazh’ and bowed his head.

Urkrásh watched as Thrákmazh spun around and slowly rode away and disappeared among the uruks and then men, most of the uruks making sure they moved out of his way as he passed. After he had passed them, Urkrásh noticed the columns of uruks became less and less orderly. He grunted to himself, wondering why Thrákmazh chose him for the job: there were other uruks and orcs that would fit it better. His eyes paced back and forth, watching the uruks, waiting for something to go wrong, trying to remember all the signals he had seen used in the past. Urkrásh began to plan out every scenario in his mind, what he were to do if something went wrong.