Posts Tagged ‘Gondolin’

#78: In Which I Reconsider My Strategy

Apr
4

Date: July 10, 2030 S.A.
My Mood Is: contemplative

Well, here I am in Lugbúrz, looking out over my vast minions and domains, and considering that carbuncle on my ass known as Eriador. It seems I can invade and hold every inch of Middle-earth except the northwest. Every time I conquer the western lands, someone comes sailing over the Sundering Seas and beats me back.

Why do the Valar, and their Eldarin and Númenórean toadies, care so much about Eriador and its inhabitants? Why do they care nothing for the Easterlings and Southrons? Hell, I don’t even bother to post an eastern defense anymore. Nobody’s coming from that direction. It seems that as long as I’m willing to let that ponce Gil-Galad alone, the Valar and the Númenóreans will let me be.

Needless to say, I am not willing to let Gil-Galad alone.

Like I said in  my last post, I’ve been thinking a lot about the good ol’ days in the First Age. You know, when Men were Men, Balrogs were Balrogs, and I was a ravenous giant wolf preying on delicious Noldoran rebels. What went wrong? Why did it have to end?

I’ll tell you. Melkor screwed it all up, and I just made the same mistake.

We always thought our greatest strength, mine and Melkor’s, those of us on the side of RIGHT and JUSTICE and ORDER, was the Armies of Fire and Ice and Darkness and Death — our balrogs and trolls and giants and vampires and werewolves and Watchers in the Water. We thought might and force were our greatest tools for victory.

But the War of Wrath proved this wrong. This latest War of the Elves and Me proved it wrong. Might is not our greatest strength — MY greatest strength.

THE RING is my greatest strength. Corruption. Influence. Quiet power. Look at our great successes in the First Age — the fall of the children of Húrin, last Lord of Dor-lómin; the treachery of Maeglin that led to the fall of Gondolin. All of our best work came about because of lies and deceit, not claws and steel.

This needs to be my new tack. Forget armies — for now, anyway. I have 16 greater Magic Rings burning a hole in my front pocket, I might as well get some use out of them. If I can’t pervert the Elves to my service, certainly Men and Dwarves are more… suggestible.

I even have my Eye on a primary target. For the last few centuries, the accursed Númenóreans have been colonizing the western coasts, bringing the lesser men of Middle-earth their corn and wine and architecture and new ways of doing long division. One of these so-called “sea kings” is Er-Murazor, a wealthy Númenórean not overfond of Gil-Galad and that gap-toothed bint Galadriel. My spies tell me he fears death, and seeks a path to eternal life.

Well, El-Murazor, I can give you life everlasting. It’s nothing for Sauron Gorthaur, Lord of the Maiar. Just take this ring, this tiny little ring that the Elves made. Isn’t it pretty? Take it, and live forevermore.

BWA HA HA HA HA HA!

Oh hey, lunch time, gotta go.

#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?

#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.