Posts Tagged ‘Carcharoth’

#77: %$#@! &%*#!! @#$%!!!

Jan
18

Date: March 25th, 1700 S.A.
My Mood Is: fuck! shit!! damn!!!

Fuck! Shit!! Damn!!! Every time things start to go my way, it all goes to shit! And – of course – on my birthday, too!

I had Middle-earth all tied up — all tied up in a little red ribbon of flame, disease and death — when who shows up? The Númenóreans! Like, hundreds of thousands of the shiny-armored buggers in thousands of shiny ships, pouring over the horizon like shiny lemmings.

And the motherfuckers know how to fight! In just two weeks they’ve pushed my main force out of Lindon and all the way back to mid-Eriador, by the banks of the Baranduin. Now they’re slaughtering my Orcs and Wargs and Trolls and Evil Men, and the river is running red and blue with thick, chunky blood. How can people with such atrocious taste in headgear be such effective warriors?

Assholes! Go back to Westernesse where you belong! Mind your own business!

I’ve tried negotiating with this Ciryatur the Ship-Lord, the admiral sent by the Númenórean emperor to aid his buddy Gil-Galad. And by “negotiating,” I mean “tricking into going home.” But no go. And yet… and yet there’s something to these Númenóreans. Something… corruptible. I wonder if some of these Númenórean princes might like their own domains in Middle-earth, with their own magic rings…

Bwa ha ha. Bwa ha ha ha ha. BWA HA HA HA HA HA!

Oh crap! I just lost two deathyderms and six Fell Beasts. This battle sucks — IT SUCKS!!!

You know what I miss? From the First Age? Werewolves! My boyz like Draugluin, and that other fella, what was his name… Carcharoth! Yeah, whatever happened to those guys? They wouldn’t stand still and let a bunch of stupid Sea Kings rip them to shreds in a meadow.

Oh, man. There go the last of my Watchers in the Water. I’m gonna have to retreat again.

Shit! Fuck!! Damn!!!

#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!

#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?

#56: That’s It, I QUIT!

Dec
14

Date: June 12, 466 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: lugubrious

That’s it, I quit. I’m done. No more.

I am not spending another aeon of my precious immortal existence serving that mouth-breathing moron, Melkor.

Fuck him. Fuck him right in the ass.

After that filthy, faithless, sniveling turd of a canine Huan drove me out of Tol Sirion, and that half-breed abomination Lúthien (as I have now learned) razed Tol-in-Gaurhoth to its foundations (which is idiotic, since Minas Tirith was an Elven tower — bet no one will ever use that name again), I ended up strategically retreating to Taur-nu-Fuin in vampire form. No, I was not hiding. I was waiting to regroup with Carcharoth and the others, so we could go back, avenge Draugluin, and retake the Pass of Sirion.

So no, I was not hiding from Melkor because I’d had my ass handed to me by Huan and a girl. Shut up!

Anyway, I waited for months in the forest of Taur-nu-Fuin amongst the foul-smelling pine trees, picking up the occasional Man, Elf or Dwarf as a light snack, until finally I espied a troop of Balrogs making their way south. I accosted them, and they didn’t recognize me at first — I had forgotten I was still in vampire form. So I re-assumed my accustomed, anthropoid form, and let me tell you, those boys were glad to see me.

But the story they told me was absolutely freakin’ unbelievable.

Remember that Man I was holding prisoner, the one who sang to Thingol and Melian’s little genetic monster? Well, he and Lúthien headed straight to Angband, with nothing on their minds but stealing one of those stupid Magic Rocks.

Seriously, what is up with those rocks?

So they arrived at the gates of Angband, and who was guarding the entrance but Carcharoth? Here’s what I’ve figured out — Carcharoth did not go to Angband to get messages from Melkor. Rather, Melkor summoned him back North to take over as some kind of seneschal — indeed, possibly to replace me. And neither one had the courage to say anything about it.

Anyway, Lúthien managed to get herself and her Mannish boy-toy (what is up with all the inter-species pollination?) past Carcharoth using some kind of Spell of Command or Word of Oblivion — the Balrogs weren’t clear on the details. Then the two of them walked tra-la-la-lolly past every Orc, Evil Man, Ulfsark, Werewolf, Troll, Giant, Balrog and Dragon in Angband, straight down to the Uttermost Pits where Melkor was sitting in his Iron Crown, brooding or whatever he calls it.

Now that’s security! Good work, everyone! I leave for ten minutes, and it all goes to hell.

Lúthien walks up to Melkor, aka Morgoth Bauglir, The Black Enemy, Master of Angband, Rightful Lord of the Earth, He Who Arises In Might, on his own throne in his own fortress, and starts singing.

If it was anything like that caterwauling she let loose at the foot of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, I’m glad I didn’t have to sit through it.

Now, if you’re asking yourself why Melkor didn’t just squash her with his boot and wipe it off on the nearest Werewolf pelt, well, anyone with half a brain would ask the same question. But the answer the Balrogs gave was really, really disgusting. But I believe them because I won’t put anything past Melkor anymore.

Melkor spared the Lúthien-creature because he wanted to have sex with it.

Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

So she used her Word of Oblivion again, and Melkor must have rolled some kind of quadruple critical miss on his saving throw, because he dropped unconscious. The Man pried a Magic Rock from Melkor’s crown, and the two of them hightailed it out of there.

Unbelievable.

I mean, yes, I was temporarily kind-of semi-defeated, but by Huan — a fat idiot, but at least a full-fledged Maia. Melkor gets thoroughly humiliated by a MORTAL and a HALF-ELF.

Now you might ask yourself, didn’t anyone in Angband acquit themselves adequately in this whole fiasco? Why yes, one did. Guess who? Could it be my first lieutenant, personally trained by me, one Carcharoth Anfauglir, The Red Maw, Chief of Werewolves? Yes.

Carcharoth overcame the abomination’s sleepy-spell, and bit off the Man’s hand, taking the Magic Rock with it. He ran away, I have no idea where, but at least someone bit something. Jesus.

Whomever “Jesus” is.

I would head up there to kill the half-breed and her Mannish pet myself, but it’s no good — those meddlesome Eagles once again played Manwë ex machina and carried them away. Assholes.

The point is, I cannot continue to work for an Ainu this staggeringly incompetent. That’s it– it’s over. I am setting up my own shop.

Let Melkor play kissy-kiss with all his little hairless apes. I’m going to raise my own army, and fight the real fight — killing Manwë the Dickless Prick, Melian the Back-stabbing Bitch, Huan the Sniveling Toady, and all the rest of the rebel Ainur and Maiar. And when Sauron Gorthaur is King of Aman, I will return to Middle-earth, and declare myself Lord of the Earth.

And maybe, just maybe, if he’s obsequious enough, I shall permit Morgoth Bauglir to serve me!

#55: Huan Is The Biggest Asshole In The World

Nov
20

Date: October 31, 465 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: confounded

I am really tired of getting my SHIT all FUCKED UP!

I don’t have Tol-in-Gaurhoth anymore. Nope. My beautiful island tower, gone. And guess whose fault it is? Melkor? Good guess, but this time, no. Manwë? In a sense — everything is the Dickless Prick’s fault. But not directly, no.

Once again, I have been betrayed by someone who was supposedly my friend.

I was hanging out in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, going over the billing (you think it’s easy maintaining an army of Orcs and Werewolves? The amount of paperwork is incredible). Carcharoth, my aide-de-camp, was off to Angband, to ask Melkor for more Orcs — we always need more Orcs. We go through them like Kleenex. Whatever a “Kleenex” is. I sent Thuringwethil to Melkor first; she’s a vampire, and an idiot, and she never came back. So Carcharoth had to go.

Anyway, that left me stuck with stupid old Draugluin, who’s a moron. Seriously, when I get my shit back together, I need a better class of servant. Some non-Maia servants, because I gotta tell ya, some real winners followed us to Eä from the Timeless Halls. I should create my own lackeys — maybe I can corrupt some Elves or Men, and magically warp them to my own liking. Sounds like a good long-term project.

But I digress.

I was going over the billing when I heard someone singing. Not proper, deep, guttural singing, like the Orcs — it was that high, reedy whining the Elves call “music.” Then a caterwauling starts up from the garderobe. Apparently, when a Man sings, it sounds like a manatee gargling a bag of cats.

I had forgotten I put those Elves and that Man down the garderobe. I guess the Lesser Wargs had been using them for kibble. I kicked a huge pile of wolf ordure down the hole, which put an end to that noise real fast. But the screeching from outside continued unabated.

I looked down from the tower, and saw an Elf-wench standing at the base, making all the racket. She was wearing some kind of bizarre clothing made of hair, which should tell you something about the standard of living of Elves. But something about her was utterly bizarre, something that only Ainu eyes could detect.

The Divine Light was burning within her. She was an Elf, and yet she was also a Maia. Which meant she could only be one person — Lúthien, the bizarre half-breed spawn of Melian and Thingol.

Well, well, well. What connection she had to the Man in the toilet, I had no idea. But clearly, capturing the abomination produced by the disgusting, inter-species union of Melian and her hairless ape could give me the secret to breaching the wall of sorcery protecting Doriath. Then I could kill Thingol, rape and kill Melian, find Melian’s disembodied fëa and rape and kill it again, and present the spoils of Doriath to Melkor in exchange for a Sauron-snack. Life would be good.

So I sent one of the Werewolves down to fetch her, and waited. But he never came back. So I sent another. And another. And another. After a while I got suspicious. I peered over the railing, and there was Lúthien standing next to a pile of dead Werewolves. See what I mean about needing new lackeys?

So I yelled for Carcharoth. But it was Draugluin who showed up, because Carcharoth was off in Angband. I sent Draugluin downstairs to get the girl and bring her up ASAP.

Ten minutes later, a 500-pound pile of bloody chuck ground comes crawling into my chamber, trailing viscera and effluent. It took me a moment to realize this was Draugluin. He crawled to my feet, cried out “Ghuuaaaaaaaaan is here,” and died.

What the hell was a “Ghuuaaaaaaaaan?”

Nothing ever changes. If I ever want anything done, I have to do it myself.

I raced downstairs and burst out of the entrance to Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Someone jumped out of my way, which I barely noticed — I’m used to people fleeing from the terror of my countenance — and I leapt upon Lúthien, intending to crush her enough to not quite kill her, just to maim her permanently, leaving her a wreck of ruined flesh and twisted limbs incapable of speech and movement, capable only of tapping once for “yes,” two for “no,” and three for “please kill me.”

But then I was hit by the stench from her disgusting hair cloak, and for a moment I swooned. At that second, some cowardly creature leapt upon me, ripping into me with great bloody claws.

So who was this creature, this great giant slobbering DOG trying to gnaw at me with its huge stinky teeth?

Huan.

HUAN.

See, “Ghuuaaaaaaaaan” was supposed to be “Huan.” Thanks for the warning, Draugluin, you asshat. If I come across your disembodied spirit of malice wandering the wilderness, I will kick your ass.

So Huan, my former best friend from the Time Before Time, now literally a lapdog to Manwë Súlimo and his Valar traitors, who I haven’t even thought about since before the Fall of Almaren fifty aeons ago, appears out of nowhere and gets all up in my shit.

And let me assure you, back in the Timeless Halls of Ilúvatar, I could have easily trounced Huan with both metaphorical arms tied behind my metaphorical back. But I don’t know what’s in the water over there in Valinor, because before the Black Gate of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, that tubby bitch KICKED MY ASS. I shifted shape a few times, but he kept me pinned down under those big greasy paws of his.

Huan held me down while that see-you-next-Trewsday Lúthien threatened to destroy my hröa and send me back to Melkor.

“There everlastingly thy naked self,” she said, “shall endure the torment of his scorn, pierced by his eyes, unless thou yield to me the mastery of thy tower.”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” I said. But still, I had to give up the tower. There’s no way I’m going back to Melkor, and explaining I was defeated by Huan. Better a strategic retreat.

Huan released me, and I took vampire form so I could fly the hell out of there. Now I’m hiding in the murky woods of Taur-nu-Fuin, waiting for Carcharoth to get back so I can retake the Isle of Werewolves and get my revenge.

And where the hell are my Orcs? If I were in charge, I would NEVER use Orcs!

#54: Elf-King Tastes Like Chicken

Nov
11

Date: June 16, 465 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: amused

So I was sitting in the tower of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, working on my novel. Didn’t I tell you about it? It’s a romance, about a vampire and a teenage girl.

So I had just gotten to the part where the vampire (which is, of course, a kind of giant humanoid bat) rapes, tortures and devours the teenage girl — soon after this, the romance part happens — when I saw a squad of Orcs passing by. They were far down below, crossing one of the bridges, but I have really good eyesight, because I’m a FREAKING GOD.

These Orcs didn’t seem right to me, because they weren’t stooping, or shambling, or hacking up fluids, or cursing, or hitting each other, or singing “Where There’s a Whip, There’s a Way”; and they weren’t covered in shit. Well, when I see well-behaved, hygienic Orcs with good posture, I know something’s up.

I sent Carcharoth downstairs to fetch them, and bring them up to my Conservatory. Well, it’s not so much a “Conservatory” as it’s a turret atop the tallest tower, where I like to sit, think, write, and drop Elf prisoners to watch their heads explode when they hit the pavement. It’s where I’m writing this blog entry right now. Do you know how hard it was to get any writing done in Angband? Or Utumno? Or the Timeless Halls, for that matter? Thank Eru for the Isle of Werewolves. It’s the only place I can get anything done.

Anyway. Carcharoth dragged these “Orcs” into My Terrible Presence, and I figured out right away they were Elves wearing some kind of glamour that made them look like Orcs. They were wearing real Orc gear, which means either they slew a bunch of Orcs, or there’s a troop of naked Orcs out there counting their Elf-money who will shortly be getting a visit from Uncle Gorthaur.

Mostly I knew they were Elves because they smelled like Elves — lembas and lavender. Ick. So I yelled “I disbelieve!” and made my Saving Throw Versus Illusion. I rolled a 20, and their glamour fell away like wet tissue.

Yep, twelve Elves — well, eleven Elves and a Man; I assume it was a Man because it was shorter, hairier and smelled like poo. I did my usual Giant Evil Werewolf routine, to put the Fear of Me into them. But the Elf leader, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, pretty little poofter, stepped forward and challenged me to a magical duel!

This was pretty absurd, but I accepted the challenge, both because it would be amusing, and because I didn’t like the way Carcharoth snickered — it wasn’t necessarily at the Elf’s expense.

The Elf started singing — it was going to be Song Magic, then. Well, it’s not like I sang the Universe into existence or anything. The battle was quite amusing, and I have written a poem about it.

I chanted a song of sorcery
of breaking, trampling, of butchery
distending, engorging, castrating
tearing off limbs and defenestrating.
The Elf-prince there barely standing
sang a song of cowering
trembling, gibbering, urinating
resisting the urge to flee screaming.
A song of surrendering, capitulating,
of regretting the mistake he was making.
I sang then of seasoning, and marinating,
setting to broil at 450º, and baking,
having friends over for the meal I was making.
Elf-flesh and marrow, a soup of his testes,
Of eating and enjoying fillet of his breastes.
Chewing and rending and masticating
gnawing the bones, then defecating.

I broke the little Elf’s magic, and he was spent. I grabbed all 12 of them in my claws and threw them down the garderobe, which can double as a particularly disgusting oubliette.

I won’t let them out until they tell me who they are ever.

Back to work on the novel. I think I’ll add a werewolf, who can fight the vampire. Then they can go out together and rape-eat dozens of teenage girls. That’s the romance part.

#52: Why Can’t People Just Leave Me Alone?

Oct
31

Date: September 1, 460 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: annoyed

I am trying to get some work done around Tol-in-Gaurhoth. For one thing, it was designed and decorated by the Noldoran Elves, so everywhere you look are carvings of those stupid magic trees that Melkor did us all the favor of destroying. Trees on the walls, trees on the floors, trees on the doors. Trees on the freakin’ toilet lids.

So I’m having all these carvings scraped and clawed away; everything smoked, burned and painted black; and I have commissioned a new series of historical murals, depicting the True and Correct History of the World.

For instance, I have devised a carving showing how Melkor and I wrote the Music of the Ainur; another of Eru Ilúvatar praising us for our work, and inviting us down into Eä; one of Melkor and I creating Arda; and then one of Manwë Súlimo and the others betraying us and fleeing to Valinor.

In some of them I am larger than Melkor, but that’s only because I’m supposed to be closer to the viewer. Anyway, it’s my house.

So there I am trying to work, choosing just the right shade of crimson enamel for the blood in “The Death of Manwë the Dickless Prick at the Hands of Sauron Gorthaur, Lord of Werewolves” when Carcharoth tells me the Orcs have brought a prisoner.

I assumed this prisoner had something to do with either finding an entrance into Doriath, since this is my top priority, or finding that idiotic “hidden kingdom of the Noldor,” “Gondolfin” or whatever, since this for whatever stupid reason is Morgoth’s top priority. In fact, I asked for a couple of Urulóki to do reconnaissance by air to find this elf kingdom, but Morgoth turned me down — so it must be really important. That’s sarcasm.

Crap. I keep calling him “Morgoth.” If I do that to his face, he’s gonna kick my ass.

Anyway. This prisoner had nothing to do with Doriath or with Gondorfin. He was just some random Man called Gorlim. Works for some guy who calls himself “Barry the Hero,” which is pretty darn egotistical if you ask me. Carcharoth says this Barry is the friend of some elf “king” that Morgoth — MELKOR — wants to kill.

By this time, I didn’t care — my head hurt from trying to keep track of all these elves and mortals and their idiotic names, and I wanted to get back to my murals. But then Carcharoth reminded me that I ate this guy’s wife a few months ago. I barely remember this — I eat a lot of people — but it did give me a chance to play with this fella a bit.

So Carcharoth brought this Gorlim into my dreadful presence — clearly the Orcs, and then Carcharoth, had been pretty rough on the little guy. I was in my “colossal wolf” form, which I wear most of the time now, because it’s scary, I don’t have to wear clothes, and I can poop wherever I want.

I said “I hear now that thou wouldst barter with me.” I always do the “Ainu talk” when outsiders are around. It’s important to sound Biblical when you’re trying to impress people.

Gorlim said that if I reunited him with his wife, he’d tell me how to find Barry and all his Merry Men. I had to admit I felt sorry for this guy, that he’d fallen in love with a woman too stupid to avoid getting caught by Orcs and eaten by me. Then again, he’d been captured by Orcs and was about to be eaten by me, so I guess they were meant for each other.

“That is a small price to pay for so great a treachery,” I replied solemnly. At this point Carcharoth was trying not to crack up at my “serious voice,” which was making me start to crack up, so I had to finish quick. “So shall it surely be. Say on!”

Gorlim spilled the beans, which Carcharoth jotted down on a Post-It. Whatever that is. Then I laughed, told the guy I’d be reuniting him with his wife — BECAUSE SHE’S DEAD, BWA HA HA — and then I ate his limbs off, and told the Orcs to use him as a doorstop.

Anyway. I’m sure I’ll never hear anything about it again. I’ve come up with a great idea for a mural, depicting Morgoth’s victory over Tulkas. I’ve got to do some sketches.

Damn it!!! MELKOR!!! Melkor’s victory over Tulkas!

#51: Rooting Out Elves Is Like Digging for Chiggers

Sep
29

Date: October 12, 458 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: exasperated

I am getting really tired of Melkor and his fascination with these Elves.

It’s not a fascination — it’s an obsession. It’s like he cares what these little animals think of him. Personally, my sole interest, apart from killing Thingol, is in the traitors, the Valar and their filthy Maiar slaves, hiding behind the mountains in Aman. These are the enemy, not a slew of hairless monkeys.

Sure, I want to destroy Doriath, and murder Thingol in the most humiliating and painful way possible. And I can think of a lot of possibilities. But I only want to kill the Elf Thingol because he’s boning a Maia, Melian. My Melian. So you see, it’s an Ainur thing. Divine business. You screw over Sauron Gorthaur, Lord of Werewolves, Master of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Chief of the Maiar, Lieutenant of Melkor the Lord of the Earth — and you will get screwed back.

And we know exactly where Doriath is located. It’s no mystery. We could destroy Doriath in a day, and still be free for dinner, except that Melian has encircled the land in a wall of enchantment and confusion. Believe me, she EXCELS at enchanting then confusing.

But we can get through that “girdle.” It will just take time and effort — time and effort the Boss would rather spend finding another two Elven kingdoms. Elven kingdoms we can’t locate, and which probably don’t exist.

By the way, that reminds me — guess who gave these idiotic Elves the idea to build hidden cities? No, guess! Ulmo! Remember that asshole? He’s the Valar responsible for water. Wow, that’s great, Ulmo — you’re in charge of one entire molecule! Me, I designed the metaphysical template of the cosmos, and was responsible for designing all the transition elements and all the metals and metalloids. And antimatter. And dark matter. But you’ve got dihydrogen oxide. Good work, dude!

It was the Dickless Prick, Manwë Súlimo, who decided all the traitors would hide in the Uttermost West while Melkor and I actually ran the damn planet. But Ulmo decided to defy Manwë, which would be promising, except he didn’t do it for any good reason. He’s defying Manwë so he can help all the widdle hewpwess Elves and Dwarves and Men.

So he sends messages to the mortals through rivers, streams, the rain, and… I don’t know… pissing, probably. And he told two of these so-called Elven “Kings” to build hidden kingdoms. One is a hole in the ground (does anyone EVER do anything that I didn’t think of first???), and the other — well, we have no idea. Seriously, it probably doesn’t exist.

But the other day Carcharoth discovered that a couple of Men actually found their way to this other hidden kingdom. No one knows where it is, but supposedly it exists and it’s somewhere near my new place on the River Sirion. So now it’s my job to search everywhere until I find this hidden city for Melkor.

Great. Like I didn’t have anything else to do.

#50: I Have My Own Place Again

Sep
23

Date: April 23, 457 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: content

Hooray! I have my own place again!

You’ll remember that after I designed and constructed Utumno, I built my own (smaller, but better) fortress at Angband. After Melkor got his lame ass kidnapped by the Valar, the filthy traitors destroyed Utumno. That’s okay — it was the first building ever built, and really wasn’t much more than a giant pit surrounded by mountains. A really well-designed giant pit surrounded by mountains, but still.

Angband is far superior — an actual fortress, with walls and parapets and bastions and machicolations. But when Melkor came back from Valinor, he moved right in, leaving his laundry everywhere and eating food from my shelf in the fridge, whatever a “fridge” is. Asshole.

After the Battle of Sudden Elven Incontinence Flame, I noticed that we hadn’t captured one of the elven strongholds, a place called Minas Tirith in the Pass of Sirion. Even though it was built by stinking elves, this tower is actually really well designed and constructed. Here’s what I figure — back in Valinor, these elves were instructed by maiar of Aulë, who were instructed by me back in the day.

So not only is it my talent that got the place built, but really if you think about it, it belongs to me already. I mean, they didn’t have my permission to use my knowledge to build that tower.

Anyway, I figured I could capture the place rather than tear it down.  So listen to this. I assembled a strike team of a couple of Balrogs, a few platoons of Orcs and Trolls and Wargs, and some of the lesser fire and darkness spirits who have never settled into a permanent form (smart move on their part).

I worked out an entire attack plan, which Carcharoth explained to the boys. Then after marching in parade formation past Melkor (who sat on his throne, head bowed under that ridiculous crown that looks like the front bumper of a Ford Galaxy with three klieg lamps on it, complaining about migraines), we headed off to Tol Sirion.

(Okay, seriously, what the eff is a “Ford Galaxy?” Or a “klieg lamp?” What the hell am I talking about?)

As we approached, Carcharoth led the troops into formation. I started casting and stacking spells, setting up the ranged attacks first, filling up all my slots. As soon as that bitch Arien pulled the Sun down behind the horizon (the Orcs hate to fight during the day — they get squinty), I launched the first attack — a potent Fear Enchantment that cast a pall of terror over the whole of the Isle of Sirion.

And they fled. The elves. All of them.

They didn’t hold their ground. They didn’t raise their defenses. They just dropped their swords and ran. Even this guy Orodreth, the so-called “King of Nargothrond.” King of my scabby ass.

Now I get it, I’m freakin’ terrifying in my giant werewolf form. When I attack as a 50-foot-tall crinos with fiery eyes and slavering jaws, people lose their shit. (I really like the fiery eyes. I should work on that effect, play it up.)

And I was being tailed by a host of scary freakin’ creatures, the Balrogs not the least bowel-loosening. Plus, that Fear Enchantment is pretty badass.

But any other time we used these tactics, the elves were at least able to hold their ground for a bit. Just turning tail and bolting? What a bunch of pussies.

So the others took off to chase the elven cowards to their deaths, while I took possession of Minas Tirith. I have decided to rename it Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves. You know, because I’m in werewolf form. Yeah, it’s not very clever, but it rolls off the tongue. Tolllll-in-Gaurrrrrrhoth. Listen to those liquid consonants.

This is going to be a great place to get away from Melkor, and plot the next big move — the total annihilation of Doriath and the rending into tiny bits of one Elwë “Thingol” Singollo.

#39: OMFG, I Found the Freakin’ Men… Except Not

Jul
22

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

Okay, I’m still just totally — what? Disgusted? Sickened? Perplexed? Infuriated? over this whole Melian situation. I mean, I get that we could never be together again — she sided with the Dickless Prick. It’s not like I’m still in love with her or anything.

But marrying an ELF???? Listen, I’m into some pretty sick shit, what with the burning and torturing and killing and all. In order to breed the Orcs, I’ve had to do some pretty nasty things to them. Lots of incest, for one thing. So it’s not like I’m one to judge.

Except I’m not going around shtupping any freaking Elves.  I can’t even imagine being attracted to one of them. I’m a freaking Maia of the freaking Ainur of the freaking Timeless Halls, for chrissakes.

Anyway, this is not what I was going to blog about today. There are other things to worry about than Melian getting her metaphorical pooter diddled by a pointy-eared ape.

Specifically, a few years ago Carcharoth was out roaming the darkened forests when he came upon yet another race of bipedal mortals. These were significantly different from the Elves, which are tall, fair and quite tasty, with really tender white meat.  The new mortals are short, squat and stringy — all nasty, foul-tasting dark meat.  Perfectly good for feeding Orcs, but no good for the rest of us.

Well, obviously I just assumed these were Men. After all, Eru Ilúvatar would never lie, right? And He said there would be two races, right? Elves and Men. And since these weren’t Elves, they had to be Men. Simple deductive reasoning.

I quickly determined these “Men” would be of no value to us, and ordered the various werewolves, vampires, trolls and giants I’ve got roaming Middle Earth to kill them on sight.

Well, I was over near Eglador, wearing a pleasing Elvish shape, just spying things out. I happened to be near Menegroth, that hole in the ground that Melian and Thingol hide in, but that was just a coincidence. I was mapping out terrain in preparation for invasion, not spying on Melian and her fucktoy.

Anyway.  I ran into a bunch of these so-called “Men,” who were on their way to see Thingol. I could have destroyed them with a wave of my hand, but I didn’t want to reveal myself to Melian, so I played nice and pretended to be a friendly Elf prince.  And that’s when I learned — these aren’t Men!

The elves call them Naugrim, and they call themselves Khazâd. But they’re just Dwarves. Stupid, stunted Dwarves. And not Men at all!

Turns out Aulë made them, long ago. I’m not surprised — they look like Aulë’s work, shoddy and ill-designed. And did Eru punish Aulë for his presumption? Of course not. Because that would have been FAIR.

So Eru LIED about there only being two mortal races. And He punished Melkor and myself for original thinking, but not Aulë. Infallible my ass!

Now I’ve got the boys on double patrols, looking for Men. And any of Aulë’s stinking Dwarves they find are to be euthanized on sight.