Posts Tagged ‘Beleriand’

#67: Meet My New Best Friend, Celebrimbor

Jun
23

Date: July 12th, 701 S.A.
My Mood Is: full of camaraderie

I don’t usually make friends, because it always turns out badly. My first friend ever, back in the Timeless Halls of Eru Ilúvatar, was Huan, that total idiot who betrayed me to the Valar traitors.

Then there was Melkor, whose was like a best friend, big brother, and boss all rolled into one. I have a lot to be grateful to Melkor for — too bad he was also a total idiot, and got his stupid ass exiled to the Outer Dark.

There was Melian, and the less said about Melian, the better.

And finally I had Carcharoth, who was to me what I was to Melkor — friend, brother, aide-de-camp. That idiot got a Silmaril ulcer, and then his ass killed by Huan, thereby proving what I always suspected; you can’t rely on anyone.

So Annatar, Lord of Gifts hasn’t had any friends to-date, unless you count Young Man Willow, which is pretty silly, because he’s a tree. A sentient, malevolent tree, but still.

All that has changed. About six months ago I was on my way back home through Eriador, wondering what I was going to do to get Gil-Galad and Galadriel around to my way of thinking, when I noticed an Elven settlement in Eregion, a woody area in the shadow of the Misty Mountains, just West of the Dwarven city of Hadhodrond. (I was going to say “great Dwarven city of Hadhodrond,” but if you’ve ever seen a Dwarven city, you’ll know the work is highly overrated. Big rooms full of unnecessary columns? Bottomless pits that serve no purpose, right in the middle of a room? Endless stairs leading nowhere? Pointless. But I digress.)

Now, Gil-Galad and Galadriel never mentioned an Elven city in Eregion. I knew it was Elven, rather than Mannish, because it was made of white stone, beautifully designed (for non-Maiar), and didn’t stink of sewage. So I stopped by.

The city is called Ost-in-Edhil, the “Fortress of the Elves,” which is laughably pretentious, considering the Elven predilection for exposed rooms, low railings, and a complete lack of military preparedness. It’s the home of something called the Gwaith-i-Mírdain or Guild of the Smiths, a society of rather clever Elves dedicated to learning the secrets of Aulë, the Retard God of Smithcraft.

Their leader is named Celebrimbor, and he is the only living grandson of Fëanor, the batcrap crazy Elf who created the Silmarils and got stomped to death by Gothmog. Celebrimbor has inherited his grandfather’s talent, intelligence, and most importantly, his willfulness. When Beleriand was destroyed and the Valar offered all the remaining Noldor the chance to return to Valinor, Celebrimbor told them where to stick their offer.

Now one of the reasons I failed to make a positive impression on the other Noldoran exiles was my lack of a decent backstory for Annatar. Galadriel especially was suspicious, although I don’t think she ever suspected my true identity. So I had been thinking about what to say, and what I came up with was perfect for Celebrimbor and his Guild.

What’s more, it’s pretty much true — Celebrimbor is smarter than Gil-Galad and Galadriel put together and multiplied by ten, so he might detect a lie. I said I was a Wizard (well I am pretty wizard) from the Uttermost West (I have in fact visited there), a Maia of Aulë (I worked under him in the Timeless Halls) sent to aid the Elves and Men of Middle-earth (sent by myself, but I didn’t mention that).

And it worked! They totally bought it. At once they offered me gold, mithril and jewels if I would teach them the secrets of Aulë. I didn’t mention that the so-called “secrets of Aulë” are in fact the secrets of Sauron, and that they were learning from the true source. But I can bide my time, until all the truth is revealed.

Celebrimbor is an exceptionally cool guy. He hangs on my every word, and he’s an excellent student. So far I have showed him how to make a proper blast furnace, mithril filigree, tempered steel blades, and a wankel rotary engine.

We have plans to work on a bunch of projects together, most of them metalworking, but also some engineering, architecture, alchemy and even calligraphy. It is great to find someone I can finally have intelligent conversation with. I mean, Carcharoth was loyal, but the repartee at dinner in Tol-in-Gaurhoth was hardly Algonquin Round Table-quality, whatever that is.

This is so great. Soon I’ll have a whole city of brilliant, specially-trained Elves under my control. Then we’ll see what Gil-Galad and Galadriel have to say to that!

#66: It’s a Fixer-Upper, But I Think I’ll Take It

Jun
11

Date: January 1, 701 S.A.
My Mood Is: ecstatic

Happy New Year and New Century!

The Men of Middle Earth count the current “Second Age” calendar from the Sinking of Beleriand by the faithless and lunatic Valar. Most Men never saw nor heard of Beleriand of course, but they did notice the massive earthquakes and weather disruptions when their entire continent shifted 300 feet to the left. And by Second Age, they mean the era after the glorious First Age, when Melkor was rightful Lord of the Earth.

Some idiot Men wanted to celebrate the end of the century in 699, but I set them straight. It’s called math, people!

Anyway. I’m no longer in Harad, but let me tell you about it before I get to the big news. After I spent some time lording it over the Easterlings, I left them with my hand-picked priesthood in charge, and very specific instructions to keep building armies and preparing fortifications. This is for their own protection – you never know when some crazy Elven exiles from Valinor will show up demanding shiny rocks and killing everyone whose skin doesn’t have an albedo over 70%.

I traveled south to the Haradwaith, a dusty desert land ruled by the hearty Haradrim. Let me tell you, these people can build a freakin’ pyramid. They were harder to bring around to my way of thinking than the Easterlings, being prideful and devoted to the worship of Námo in various mythological guises. Killing the Haradrim indiscriminately didn’t do anything to gain their loyalty, as they all thought they were going to a blissful eternity in the Halls of Mandos. Yeah, right – as if the Valar would condescend to let the Younger Children of Ilúvatar set foot in Aman, much less hang out in the “blissful” little slice of Hell that is the Elven afterlife.

In the end it was money that brought them around. I taught them how to mine for gold, which they had never seen before; and then how to trade with the Easterlings for jewels, which were also a novelty. Now the Haradrim adorn their graves with the riches of the East and dedicate them to me, which is nice.

But I had been gone from Eriador for a long time; and I missed the forest, believe it or not, and Young Man Willow. Plus, I did not want to leave the Elves out of my plans for too long — I still needed a plan to deal with them. So, leaving my proxies behind as sheiks, I set out to return to Eriador.

My Haradrim friends warned me to avoid something they called the “Fenced Land,” a vast plain surrounded by mountains that sat smack in the middle of my way home. Intrigued, I decided to check it out.

Holy Crapping Eru. Friends, I am HOME.

I mean, forget Tol Sirion, that was a freaking marsh. Angband? Nice, and pretty impressive for its era, but in the end it failed, didn’t it? Utumno? Yeah, that was just a big hole in the ground.

This place, this “Fenced Land” — well first of all it’s not a “plain,” it’s a whole country. It’s roughly square, about 300 miles by 200 miles; and there are high, tall mountains on three sides, North, South and West — all the directions the Valar might attack from.

Much of the plain itself is covered with various kinds of unpleasantness — forests, glades, glens, brooks, reflecting pools, meadows, blah blah blah, all stuff I can get rid of. But there’s water, which I now understand is important if you need servants (remind me to tell you about that little disaster back when we first set up in Angband — hundreds of Orcs dead of dehydration, and we had no idea what was going on). In fact there’s a big inland sea in the South.

But best of all, and here’s the kicker — in the northwest of the land, there’s a volcano. A big ‘ol beautiful active subduction stratovolcano, just like Pappy Sauron used to make, right where the Belegaer Plate slams into the Endorian Plate, forming the Ephel Dúath. It’s magnificent.

I have no recollection of the making of any of this. It may have been formed by the collapse of the Two Lamps at the end of the Second War. Who knows? But if I had sat down and designed my own country to rule over, a country that could also serve as a fortress, I could not have done a better job.

This is exactly the stroke of good fortune I’ve been waiting for. I’m going to call it Mordor, the “Black Land,” because of all the lovely volcanic obsidian.

I forgot to mention there are some Orcs already living here, refugees from Beleriand who fled before the War of Wrath, an act of faithlessness for which they will have to pay with sincere apologies, community service, and prolonged beatings. Also there are some Men here, the descendants of Edain who refused to fight with the Noldor. That’s good because it means I don’t have to feed the Orcs.

My plan is beginning to come together. First it’s time to return West, see what the Elves have been up to in my absence, and check if they’re more receptive to the overtures of Annatar, Lord of Gifts. Then we’ll see.

Mordor is SO COOL!

#64: Gil-Galad Was an Elven-king / Who Didn’t Know a Freakin’ Thing

May
19

Date: June 25, 501 S.A.
My Mood Is: aggravated

Un-be-LIEV-able!

After dealing with Galadriel and her brain-donor husband, I knew I had to get to Lindon quick before they could send word to this Artanáro, High King of the Noldor. So I forgot about walking, and just transfigured myself into a vampire and flew the roughly 300 miles to Artanáro’s capital.

Traveling over Western Eriador as a giant anthropomorphic bat-creature, dripping venom, proved to be disturbing to the few Elves and mortals living below. I really must learn how to transform into a flying creature that is less alarming. Anything but an Eagle — I HATE those guys.

Anyway. Lindon is just on the other side of the Ered Luin, a line of mountains that used to be the border between Beleriand and Eriador. Technically these Elves still live in Beleriand, the part not sunk into the sea by those oh-so-good and oh-so-merciful, continent-sinking mass-murdering Valar. Just like an Elf to cling to the past.

As I came down upon Lindon, I searched for the Noldoran capital. It took me a while to find — a group of white stone buildings with peaked roofs — because it was located on the ocean. Why on Arda would anyone want to live near a sea of brine-filled, stinking fish-piss? I can’t imagine.

I saw a regiment of Elves waiting for me. Fortunately, they didn’t see me in vampire form — I shapeshifted, and appeared from the trees as if from nowhere. Very impressive.

Well, the Elves of Lindon had been “warned” about my approach. I was flabbergasted — after all, I flew here! But then I remembered — Galadriel was psychic, and so it followed that her brother Artanáro was as well.

They didn’t call him that here — he proclaimed himself as Ereinion Gil-galad, which means “Heir of Kings Star of Radiance” in Elfy-talk, which demonstrates how lousy these Elves are at poetry. Just another thing to educate them in.

This Gil-Galad informed me that he didn’t know who I was, or whom I served, but that I was banned from Lindon, and must return to Eriador the way I came.

I may be the New & Improved Annatar, Lord of Gifts, Counselor to the Children of Ilúvatar, kind and just and wise and forgiving — but no one talks to me that way. He had about 20 Elven warriors with him, none of whom could have bent a hair on my head. Gil-Galad himself had a nasty-looking spear chock-full of amateur enchantments, but I was about as afraid of it as you would be of a toothpick.

Still, slaying the High King, even if he deserved it, would not make me any friends amongst Elves or Men. It might impress some Dwarves — but who needs Dwarves?

So I smiled, expressed regret that I would not be staying, and headed back East, gritting my teeth and grumbling in High Ainurian about how best to torture to death the meddlesome Galadriel.

Tackling the Elves is not going to be as easy as I thought. I’m going to try Men next, they’re much dumber and more pliable. Unfortunately, they’re like flies — short-lived and odorous. Once I have Men under my domin– tutelage, maybe the Elves will come around.

#59: This Is the Worst Day of My Entire Life

Mar
16

Date: June 16, 590 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: devastated

Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap. Holy crap.

There have been some bad times since I joined up with Melkor, but nothing to prepare me for this. This is without a doubt the worst day of my entire life. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now.

Beleriand is gone, just gone. Almost the whole continent — which coincidentally I did most of the design for, before the stinking Valar ruined the coastlines in the Second War — is now under the ocean. I could just say “good riddance” — except Angband is gone, too.

And everyone in it. Even Melkor.

There’s just a huge, swirling whirlpool of seawater above where Angband used to be, as millions of gallons of Ulmo’s stinking brine flow into its endless beautiful chasms, quenching the subterranean rivers of magma, flooding the breeding pits and torture dens, and forever drowning countless Chthonic creatures, their twisted and unnatural forms the stuff of mortal nightmares.

Those traitorous Valar bastards!

Everyone is gone. The Armies of Fire and Ice and Darkness and Death are destroyed or scattered. The Balrogs have all been slain, their fëar reduced to naught but Spirits of Malice in the Wild; well, all but that one idiot hiding in the Misty Mountains. Most of the dragons are dead, their bloated corpses bobbing on the tempestuous sea; although I hear a handful escaped. No doubt there are some Orcs left — they’re like cockroaches, and anyway they probably fled when the real fighting started. Maybe some trolls survived, but they’re useless. A couple of vampires might have made it.

Ah, the werewolves. My beloved werewolves. They would have refused to run, fighting until the end. No doubt they all perished.

BASTARDS!

And Melkor? Wonderful, terrible, magnificent and awful, the Rightful Lord of the Earth, Melkor? That idiot, imbecile, asshole, fuckwit? I’ll tell you what happened to Melkor. He hid in the lowest bowels of Angband, cowering and suing for peace. That brain donor had spent so much of his mana on armies, and monsters, and defenses, and spiky black armor, and curses designed to afflict individual warriors with bad luck, kinslaying and incest, that he had nothing left when the Valar and their Maiar and Mortal slaves swept down from the Uttermost West in a cowardly surprise attack.

Then Eönwë — Eönwë, Manwë’s toadyish little flag-waver, and not some halfway-majestic Ainu like Tulkas or Aulë –overthrew Melkor from his throne and bound him in chains. The Valar thrust Melkor out the Doors of Night into the Outer Dark, to suffer in the cold, dead vacuum as long as Arda lasts.

So that’s it. Through mismanagement, and idiocy, and caring what primitive little mortals thought of him, and lusting after magic rocks and hot Elven chicks, Melkor has destroyed everything we planned for and dreamed of, ever since those early Days Before Days in the Timeless Halls of Eru Ilúvatar when we improved the Ainulindalë.

MOTHER FUCK. Billions of years of careful planning and hard work. FOR NOTHING!

And here’s Sauron, a mere echo of his primordial angelic self, trapped within this tiny spacetime continuum for Eru knows how long — friendless, luckless, and alone.

How am I supposed to spend the rest of eternity? Sitting on my ass?

Or maybe I should slink across the the Sundering Seas to Aman, and present myself for judgment before the “throne” of  Manwë the Dickless Prick, begging forgiveness for my so-called sins, and sit out a couple of eons in the Halls of Mandos until I am deemed sufficiently “rehabilitated” to go back to work for Aulë. Christ on a cracker (whatever that is), I’d rather kill myself.

What the hell am I going to do now? What am I going to do?

#57: Three Idiots, One Day

Jan
9

Date: October 19, 510 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: pondering

Had three very strange encounters today.

I’ve been living in out in Eriador in the East. I said “living,” not “hiding.” It would only be “hiding” if I cared if Melkor knew where I am, which I don’t.

Anyway, Eriador is almost entirely forested. There are a few Elves living out here, the so-called Avari, who were too smart to follow the summons to Valinor; some Dwarves; and a good number of Men. So, there’s plenty of food. I’m still in the form of a great werewolf, most days, so it’s easy to hunt.

The nice thing about Eriador is, all of Melkor’s crap is over in Beleriand by the sea, where Ulmo can interfere. Eriador is far, far from the sea, and always will be.

I like living in the forest. The trees shelter me during the day from the heat and light of the accursed Sun; and at night I don’t have to look at the useless Moon or at Varda’s filthy stars, which mar the perfection of the Celestial Firmament that Melkor and I built with our own hands. You know, back when Melkor wasn’t an incompetent boob more concerned with shiny gems and the affairs of mortals than with achieving our revenge against Manwë the Dickless Prick and his Valar Traitors.

Anyway.

So I’ve been living out here, taking it easy, bossing around the local wolves and trolls, and snacking on a wide buffet of  mortal creatures — even Dwarves, when I’m hungry for something stringy and gristly that tastes like ass. It’s worth it to hear them scream.

This morning I was sleeping under a huge willow tree down by the river — a nasty, mean-spirited tree with a heart of pure blackness, so we get along fine — when I was awakened by singing. Why is it that every bad thing in my life starts with singing?

At least it wasn’t the thin, reedy, fingernails-on-a-chalkboard-whatever-a-chalkboard-is singing of an Elf, nor the gruff atonal caterwauling of a Man, nor the deep, flatulent intonations of a Dwarf. No, this was proper singing. Ainu singing.

I immediately threw on a pleasing anthropomorphic form, the kind of thing I used to wear when sneaking around Taniquetil or the borders of Doriath. I hid in the bushes, and saw a woman approaching — clearly a Maia, but one who had taken on the form of a Mannish princess, for some unfathomable reason. She was fair-skinned and blonde-haired, like the accursed Edain of north-eastern Endor; and she wore a green dress shot with silver, and a gold belt.

I needed to know why she was there — was she a spy for Manwë, or worse yet, for Tulkas? Was she somehow related to Melian? I stepped out into the open and greeted her.

Here’s what I learned. Her name was Golodhbereth, and she was one of the lesser of the minor nature spirits, a Naiad; and a servant of Yavanna, the slut wife of my former boss Aulë. She had wandered out of Aman and into Middle-earth because she was “collecting flowers.”

And you know what? This chick was so mind-bendingly stupid, I could believe it. Seriously. I’ve had more enlightening conversations with piles of Orc dung.

So, I had options. I could have seduced her, or better yet raped her; but I’m not really interested in that sort of thing, and I’m saving up all my raping and killing energy for when I encounter Melian again. I could have destroyed her, damning her spirit to wander formless and cold across the face of Arda until the Final Battle — but someone might miss her (unlikely, but a possibility), so I decided to spare her. In the end, I just sent her on her way, down to the river, to collect “water lilies,” whatever the hell those are. I wasn’t terribly worried about her reporting my position to her friends in Valinor, because (a) she didn’t know who I was and (b) she probably forgot me five minutes after leaving me.

I changed back into Dire Wolf form and laid back down, and was just settling into a wonderful dream about ripping apart and consuming Manwë’s twisted hröa, when I heard more goddam singing. Yes, Ainu singing, although the worst I had ever heard.

In fact, I recognized it — don’t you?

“Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dadar!
Iar Wain, jolly wain, Iarwain Ben-adar!”

It was him.

Since Melkor and I had arrived on this shitty little disk of rock so many geological eras ago, we had not seen hide nor hair of Iarwain Ben-adar, the mysterious and unidentified spirit who alone had preceded us into this universe. We had decided it was some poor joke by the typically hilarious Eru Ilúvatar, and forgotten all about it.

But here he was, tra-la-la-ing along the forest path like some ruddy Mannish homosexual, mincing and prancing like he owned the forest. MY forest.

So I attacked, leaping into the air with slavering fangs three feet long, claws of blood-stained Adamant, eyes like twin wheels of fire. I fell upon him like a mountain of black, overpowering death.

Something went wrong, and the world twisted, and a moment later I was on my back, dazed, while Iarwain Ben-fucking-adar continued on his flouncing way like nothing had happened.

I leapt to my feet, summoned a storm of lighting and smothering darkness in the sky overhead; covered the forest floor for miles in all directions with a greenish miasma that sucked the life from all things; howled a terrible howl that chilled the Sun, froze the blood, and was remembered in the whispered mid-winter tales of every mortal tribe living within a thousand miles for centuries to come; and leapt again, ready to rend the limbs from the poncy little poltroon, consume his soul and crap it back out down his throat.

Twist, blank, and I’m on my ass again — and he’s hopping down the bunny trail. WTF?

Fine. Whatever. Who cares? Big deal. Let him go down to the river. I hope he finds that Golodhbereth chick, they deserve each other.

Unhappily, I found my spot under Young Man Willow and laid back down. I was just settling into a wonderful dream where Melian was begging me to take her back, but I didn’t care and was ripping her intestines out through her nostril anyway, when I smelt something burning.

At least no one was singing.

I looked up and saw that the forest was on fire. Well, that was cool, burning was what trees were best at. I decided to head over, because I was still pretty bummed out by my run-in with that asshole in the feathered cap, and living things dying agonizingly in flames always cheers me up.

So imagine my surprise when I saw that the flames were being left in the wake of the passing of a Balrog. I recognized him — a fellow named Lungorthin, one of Gothmog’s crew.

Now see, if I were hiding in Eriador, I would certainly have avoided letting Lungorthin see me. Also, I did not reveal myself to Lungorthin because I was desperate for the company of one of my own kind after years in exile. That would be pathetic.

No, I approached Lungorthin to be polite.

He was surprised to see me. Apparently, the belief around the Angband water cooler (whatever a water cooler is) was that I had been destroyed along with my tower at Tol-in-Gaurhoth — as if! Sauron Gorthaur the Deceiver, Lord of Werewolves, Chief of the Maiar, destroyed by that half-breed whelp Lúthien Tinúviel? Puh-lease. She’s lucky I let her live.

Strangely, I guess those Balrogs I ran into in Taur-nu-Fuin never reported to Melkor that they had seen me. Let me tell you , it’s all phone calls and telegrams with those people in Angband — rumors spread like wildfire, but genuine information is hoarded like Silmarils. (Whatever a phone — oh, you get the picture.)

Lungorthin filled me in on what’s been going on in the four decades or so since Melkor let Melian’s little brat steal one of his shiny rocks from right off his noggin. The big news, as far as Lungorthin was concerned, was that Gothmog was destroyed, slain while killing an Elf-lord of Gondolin. Yes, Melkor finally found Gondolin, and Nargothrond, and destroyed them both. Carcharoth, that traitorous little dumbass, was dead too, killed by Huan, of all people.

But the big news was this — that little bitch Elu Thingol was killed by a bunch of Dwarves (fighting over that damned Silmaril), and Melian bailed on all the Elves and went back to Aman!

What!?

At this point, I stopped Lungorthin. For one thing, it was a lot to absorb. For another, it was beginning to look like the tide had turned for Melkor, and through sheer luck the old moron was actually achieving his goal of ridding Beleriand of the accursed Noldor and Edain.

Which made me look like a complete and total dumbass for quitting and going to Eriador. And what was I going to tell Melkor? That I got lost? I didn’t keep track of the time? I had something important to pick up in the Hithaeglir, and I forgot to mention I would be gone so long?

I realized the only thing I could do, while I mulled all this new information and formulated a plan, was kill Lungorthin. I couldn’t have him heading back to Angband and concocting some lie about me hiding out under a willow tree in Eriador getting fat on Elf-flesh.

So I leapt to my feet, summoned a storm of lighting and smothering darkness in the sky overhead — you know, the works. Now let me assure you, I could easily have killed Lungorthin. He’s quite subordinate to me, and doesn’t carry any weapon but a big flaming whip. Unfortunately, he’s fast. Balrogs may not have wings, but they can run like they’re flying. I chased Lungorthin for hundreds of miles, until he wormed his way down a hole under the Misty Mountains and I couldn’t find him again. Asshole.

Well, he’s not getting out of there. I’m going to keep an eye on Eregion, and if Lungorthin so much as sticks his ugly flammable nose out for some fresh air I’ll have his head.

So. Melkor is consolidating his hold over Beleriand. Melian fled back to her Valar friends in Aman, taking all her power with her. Things are beginning to look up.

How the hell am I going to get back into Melkor’s good graces?

#42: We Kicked Thingol’s Ass!

Apr
16

Date: Before the Sun and Moon, but after the Count of Time began
My Mood Is: vindicated

Sorry I haven’t posted in so long, but we’ve been really busy, Melkor and I. Plus, with the world plunged back into darkness, there’s really no way to keep track of time. (I need to invent a way to do that — maybe something I could put on my wrist, and watch it whenever I want to know what time it is. Hmn. I’ll talk to one of the better Craft Spirits about it — his name’s K’lak.)

Anyway, after Melkor came back to Angband, he spent a lot of time telling me about his stunningly dull adventures in Valinor. When I could finally get a word in, I told him everything we had been up to in his absence.

And I told him about the whole Thingol-Melian thing.

Believe it or not, I think he was even angrier than I was. The idea of a Maia and an Elf doing the humpty dance is — well, it’s offensive on every level possible. It goes against the natural order. It’s just sick.

So Melkor declared we would go kick Thingol’s ass, which is exactly what I wanted. Almost everyone we lost from the debacle at Utumno had wandered back to join me at Angband. Plus, we finally finished creating the Orcs. They’re waaaay better than Elves — the upgrades Melkor and I designed have really worked out great. Sure, they’re not aesthetically pleasing, but after we drive the Valar traitors into the Everlasting Dark, we’ll destroy them all (and the filthy Elves and the stinking Dwarves) and begin again, designing our own mortal races that will live to worship us.

Anyway. We put together an army of Orcs and sicced them on Thingol, sending them south into Neldoreth and Region. Let me tell you, none of the Elves were ready for us. They had never seen Orcs before.

And I’ll let you in on an important difference between us and the Elves. Elves make their armor all light and pretty, with artistic patterns and jewels and flowing capes and feathery helmets. Their swords are thin and graceful, and sing as they are wielded.

Yeah. We dress our Orcs in thick, heavy, unadorned iron armor with helmets and greaves and gauntlets and braces and solerets. They have thick iron and wood shields as large as their bodies. They wield massive iron blades with razor-sharp edges.

Guess who does better in battle?

Now you’re probably going to find out that practically all our Orcs were killed. We sent out about 10,000, and about three dozen came back. In fact, the Elves are already spinning this as their “victory.”

Know why none of our Orcs came back? We wouldn’t let them. After the Orcs ripped through Beleriand, killing every Elven warrior, raping every Elf-maiden, using the children for shooting practice and eating the babies for dinner, we sent them West and East, burning every green leaf as they went.

Eventually, Thingol and his buddies did indeed kill almost all our Orcs. But you know what? Who cares! We can crank out another 10,000 Orcs in about a year! They’d have to kill a hundred Orcs before it would hurt us as badly as when they lose one Elf. And we killed thousands of Elves.

Best of all, we apparently killed this guy Denethor, King of Lindon, some kind of butt buddy of Thingol’s. Unfortunately, we did not get Thingol himself, or his whore wife Melian. Next time.

Now Melian has constructed some kind of lame magical barrier around Doriath, to keep herself and her sex ape safe from our wrath. Nice try, bitch!

Listen, as long as the skies are dark of the light of the Trees and the Valar cower in Valinor, we shall be invincible!