Posts Tagged ‘Manwë the Dickless Prick’

#65: Now THIS Is More Like It!

May
28

Date: December 12, 578 S.A.
My Mood Is: delighted

Now this is more like it!

After my dismal experience trying to ingratiate myself to the Elves of Eriador, especially the loathsome Galadriel and the hapless Gil-Galad, I decided to try my luck to the East. If you head that way, as the vampire flies, from Lindon, you cross the Ered Luin, the Hithaeglir, Cheerywood the Great, and Rhovanion. There you will find the distant land of Rhûn, with it’s inland sea that was hewn violently from the earth so long ago where Melkor gallantly defeated the cowardly Tulkas.  This is the home of the Arhûnedain, that the unlettered simpletons of Eriador refer to as “Easterlings.”

Those who dwell in the North-east on the steppes are horse-riders, who worshipped Manwë in the form of the sun. I put a stop to that right quick; after I performed a few simple magic tricks and desalinized their water supply, they declared me King of the Gods. I should turn their worship to Melkor — I’ll get to that at some point.

To their South live their close cousins and mortal enemies, tribes who dwell in crude city-states. These Men I prefer out of any I have met, because they did the coolest thing. After I wowed them by making the Moon swallow the Sun and vomit it out again (Arien and Tilion pulling one of their pointless “eclipses,” but I took credit), they built me a pyramid! Sure, it’s nothing but a bunch of big rocks piled on top of each other, but still. I was so touched I almost shed a tear. This is exactly the kind of sycophantic, worshipful behavior I was hoping for when I devised this whole “Annatar” scheme.

I’ve been living here in the East for a while as a god-king, albeit maintaining my friendly, elf-like visage. Soon I will move on the the South, see what I can do to sway the Men down there.

But my mind always returns to the Elves of the West. Remember, Manwë and his traitors blasted a whole continent into the sea in a Pyrrhic attempt to “help” those people. If they, the Elves I mean, go complaining to the Valar about good ol’ Annatar, who knows what moronic stunt Manwë will pull? I have to get the Elves on my side, even Galadriel and her slower brother.

I need a plan. A base of operations. Maybe an army.

But what plan? How do you get a bunch of stubborn Elves to do what you command? Even when it’s for their own good?

Must think on this.

#63: Hey Galadriel — See You Next Tuesday!

May
5

Date: June 23, 501 S.A.
My Mood Is: resilient

Well, my new adventures as Annatar, Lord of Gifts haven’t gotten off to the promising start I was hoping for when I invented the “new me.” But I can’t give up — the road goes ever on and on. Hey, that might make a good song.

I took on my new, more pleasing form; and fashioning myself a hefty walking staff from a limb donated by Young Man Willow, I took off for Lindon. I was hoping to not have to walk the whole way — indeed, I considered assuming my true form and flying — but I figured if I’m going to relate to these Children of Ilúvatar, I had better learn to live like them.

So it was walk, walk, walk. I kept an eye out for horses, those gangling beasts that Men rode into battle against Melkor — a preposterous mode of transportation, but better than all this walking. No luck. Apparently, horses are not sylvan creatures.

Every once in a while I came across a settlement of Men — usually mud huts, or tiny villages on stilts out on bogs. These Men wear their hair in dreadlocks, sport leather skirts and paint their faces blue. They must be the dumbest beings I have ever encountered. Seriously, I have traded wittier banter with cave trolls.

The largest Mannish settlement I visited was called Brehyll, a village of about 20 huts located along an old east-west Dwarf road. Its occupants survive by grinding acorns into pancakes and selling watery beer to passing Dwarves. They didn’t know what to make of me — they called me a “wizard” and asked me to make it rain. This was trivial, so I did — and they went ballistic, declaring I must be an agent of their beloved god, Manwë Súlimo.

You would have been proud of me — I didn’t overreact too much, and I hardly killed anybody. It seems these Men used to worship Melkor, but had recently come into contact with some Elves living to the north, who had taught them to worship the Dickless– I mean Manwë.

So I apologized profusely, and asked how to find these Elves. They sounded like they might be the kind of people who could use my advice. And maybe, eventually, after seeing how much I was doing for them and how little the Valar were willing to contribute, these Elves might turn their worship to Melkor, or better yet to me.

They lived in a place called Lake Evendim, in the north of Eriador. It was cooler there, and there were fewer trees, which was all the better to me. It turned out to be a mixed settlement of a few hundred Noldor, Sindar, and Green-elves. For some reason they had splintered off from Lindon, under the leadership of a Sinda called Celeborn and a blonde-haired Noldo named Galadriel.

Galadriel. She is going to be a problem.

I mean, this guy Celeborn, he’s friendly, charismatic, fun to hang out with, and dumb as a bag of Orcs. If the other Sindarin Elves are as gullible — I mean trusting, I won’t have many problems. But his wife…

First, the positive. She’s hot. Really smoking hot. Hey, I’m not going to go there — I still think it’s basically bestiality, a Maia and an Elf — but I can appreciate that she is very attractive. Were Melkor to return from the Outer Dark and I to go back to my former ways, I could totally see raping her to death.

What? That’s totally a compliment.

But the negatives far outweigh the golden hair lit by the sun, the skin like a gossamer cloud, and the great rack. She’s the niece of Fëanor, the guy who made Melkor’s shiny rocks; which means she’s pretty much the most powerful Noldo left in Middle-earth (although she is not High Queen of the Noldor — note to self: look into this.) She is much smarter than her dimwitted husband, and appears to possess strong psychic abilities.

The moment I was presented to her as “Annatar, Lord of Gifts, a Wise Wizard of the South,” she attempted to penetrate my mind. I cut her off, quite easily — but this aroused her suspicions. While I chatted with her inane husband, she probed me with telepathic questions.

“Who are you? Do you come from the Uttermost West?”

“Open your mind to me. Why do you conceal your fëa?”

“I sense evil in your staff. It comes from a tree with a black heart.”

What? An evil tree? How can a tree be evil? It’s a freakin’ tree!

They let me stay for about a week. There were feasts, and a lot of singing. A lot of singing. Singing is okay, but too much singing is the reason I left the Timeless Halls of Ilúvatar in the first place. Most of them were songs from something called the Quenta Silmarillion, which is supposed to be the story of the Valar and the Maiar and the First Wars, and the Lamps and the Trees and the War of the Jewels. But boy oh boy, are they getting their facts wrong. Once I am advising these people, I will be rewriting quite a lot of this Silmarillion. Good thing I’ve been keeping this blog as a reference!

The whole time I’m at Lake Evendim, this Galadriel is undermining me. Whispering against me behind my back. Shooting me icy stares. Following me around, trying to catch me in some kind of misdeed. My mind was closed to her, but hers was like a smashed open coconut to me. All suspicion and doubt.

Oh, and the snarky comments! “Perhaps the great Lord Annatar could enlighten us on his views on the Gift of Men.” Or “Will the Lord of Gifts see fit to share with us his thoughts on the fate of those Eledhrim whose fëar refuse the summons of Mandos?” Jeez, can you please shut up?

Wait, some Elven spirits refuse to go to the Halls of Mandos? Note to self: look into this too.

Figures this chick was trained by Melian back in Doriath. I am hardly surprised.

The upshot is, Celeborn politely and regretfully kicked me out after a week, caving to his shrew of a wife. It’s okay — once I get in good with Artanáro, the High King at Lindon, this Galadriel is going to have to listen to me. Or else.

I mean — or else we’ll have a long, constructive conversation, leading to a shared consensus. The new me doesn’t make threats!

#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!

#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.

#46: I Hate Eagles

May
21

Date: April 15th, 1 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: in a snit

So now it’s Eagles, is it?

Remember that Elf we had chained to the face of Thangorodrim? Well, he’s gone. Left behind nothing but the shackle, his severed right hand, and the fresh smell of pine.

It seems this Noldor called Fingon rescued the Elf, Maedhros, who is his grandfather’s first wife’s grandson or something. Yes, now I’m having to keep track of these ridiculous Elves. Melkor has got me sending my spies to keep watch on what these unevolved little bags of skin are up to.

It seems Maedhros’ camp stole some boats and abandoned Fingon’s group back in Aman, which was quite the assholish thing to do. So good on them. But instead of marching back to Valinor with their metaphorical tails between their legs (wait — do Elves have tails? I’ve never looked!), Fingon’s contingent decided to cross over to Middle Earth, on foot, across the Grinding Ice of Helcaraxë.

This is the single dumbest thing anyone, Ainu or mortal, has ever done in the history of Creation ever EVER EVER. Good work on designing those Elves, Eru!

First, the Helcaraxë is nothing but 500 miles of glacial ice literally grinding up against itself. It’s like, put 10,000 metric tons of firn and glacial ice into a blender (whatever a “blender” is), press “Puree,” and then leave it on forever. That’s the Helcaraxë. It’s not a freakin’ promenade, its the 10th Level of Icy Blue Hell.

Okay, and second, they COULD HAVE BUILT BOATS. But Sauron, you say, followed immediately I hope by “Lieutenant of Melkor, Lord of Werewolves, Chief of the Maiar, and Master of Angband,” perhaps these stupid Elves did not know how to build boats. Fine. So why not spend 20 years learning to build boats? Or 50 or a 100? You’re Elves! You’re frikkin’ immortal! Who cares how long it takes?

Aaaanyway. A whole bunch of these Elves got ground up by the Grinding Ice, which is pretty much Darwin at work. (He’s one of the minor Craft Spirits — I think it’s actually spelled “Dahruin.” He invented Natural Selection, which meant all we had to do was drop some amino acids in a pond, wait 4.5 billion years, and ta da — a complex disc-wide ecosystem. Saved us a lot of effort.) So by the time Fingon and his half-frozen friends got to Beleriand, they were royally pissed.

So, long story short (I know, too late, but what are you going to do about it? I’m a god!) Fingon’s group and Maedhros’ group weren’t exactly getting along. So Fingon decides to do something to mend fences.

What’s that? Fingon’s group were the victims, so it should have been up to Maedhros’ people to make amends? Well, you only think that because you have a brain in your head.

Fingon climbed Thangorodrim (that was him singing, if you want to call that reedy Elvish caterwauling “singing,” that I mentioned in my last post), and tried to rescue Maedhros. Which was no use, because when Sauron forges a chain, that chain does not break.

And then came the Eagles.

Apparently, Manwë the Dickless Prick has corralled a bunch of the smaller, less intelligent air spirits and let them loose in the form of a race of giant talking birds of the family Accipitridae. I wonder if Eru knows his protégé is running around inventing races?

So these Eagles came, and helped Fingon save Maedhros, and carried them off by air to Melkor knows where. And all we had to show for it was a hand, which was stringy and tasted like chicken.

So now we have to deal with these Eagles. Fortunately, Melkor is still working on his Flying Fire-Breathing Monster Project, which is still unfinished, despite the fact it’s been in development for thousands of years. I was in charge of the Elf-to-Orc upgrade, and that only took me a few centuries. Melkor needs to get with the program.

#36: The Orcs Are Coming Along Nicely, Thank You

Apr
5

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

Well, the elves have pretty much left Middle Earth. That’s not to say they all accepted the “invitation” from Valinor — lots of elves stayed behind. The so-called “Eldar,” who have wandered off to grovel at the feet of the Valar traitors, call the elves who stayed behind “Dark Elves.” I call them “tomorrow’s loyal thralls.”

I have spies amongst the Eldar, of course. And when the Elves balked at traveling across the sea, I assumed a pleasing form and walked among them. Yes, I encouraged them to flee to the Uttermost West.

Why, you ask? Well first of all, I don’t need them. The new “Melkorized Elves” we’ve been working on are coming along nicely. I’ve even invented a language for them, The Black Speech. In that tongue they call themselves “uruk.” But they’re not ready for prime time, yet. Soon.

Second, this is the perfect way to get my spies into Valinor. Right now, I have no idea what’s going on over there. And I fear I don’t have the power to pass through Valinor unheeded, not with those stupid trees radiating light everywhere.

I need to know what they did with Melkor. Is he a prisoner? Or was he banished from the world?

Or… did he “repent” and join with the Valar? I hate to even think it. When Carcharoth dared to suggest it, I clawed him to within an inch of his life. But secretly, I fear it’s a possibility.

Melkor begging forgiveness from The Dickless Prick — it makes me want to vomit just thinking about it. Then again, he could be cozening up to Manwë, planning to betray him later.

I have no way of knowing. These stupid Elves need to travel faster, and get to Valinor already. Maybe I’ll set some Wargs on their tail.

#26: I Don’t Like Ale, Not at All

Oct
3

Date: Before the Sun and Moon
My Mood Is: hung over

Ugh. My head is pounding, my mouth tastes like crap, and my whole body aches. If this is what happens after a night of getting drunk, I’m never doing it again.

Here’s what happened. We’ve already begun our final assault on the Valar, and those boneheads are just beginning to figure it out. Melkor has created a Corrupting Miasma, and it’s spreading out from Utumno league after league, killing all life that it touches. It’s pretty cool. Meanwhile, we’re getting ready for the big fight.

For me, that means making sure our buddies inside Almaren are ready for us. One of the most important is called Curunír, a clever little fellow who resents the way Manwë lords it over all the other Ainur. Personally, I think it’s Curunír who would rather do the lording; he’s really one of us.

Curunír is a spirit of craft like me, but he didn’t come over to our side because he’s a frightened little pussy. But he concocted a potion that will put anyone to sleep, and his job is to keep Tulkas unconscious. Just a few drops every once in a while should keep that big blond idiot blissfully asleep, until Melkor comes to put a spear through his eye.

Now, while I’ve been sneaking around amongst the Valar, I noticed that they’ve taken to fermenting barley and drinking the ale this produces. I freaking invented fermentation, so I certainly understand the principle. Still, it’s a weird thing to do, intentionally imbibing poisonous alcohol to depress the central nervous system. I wasn’t going to let the Valar get anything over us, so when I got back to Utumno, I brewed a batch on my own.

It was pretty damn good. Melkor praised it as well as my brewing arts, and pretty soon we had a party going. The stupid Valar only drink a few bowls, and “sacrifice” the rest to Eru. Morons. We drank the whole damn thing. It was wild.

Let me tell you, Melkor is not a fun drunk. He gets all morose and angry, and starts complaining about every wrong thing anyone ever did to him. Especially Eru. Oh, did he go on about Eru. He also said some weird stuff about he and I being “special friends,” so much closer than anyone else. I should be thrilled, but I don’t know, it just came across as creepy.

I did learn something I didn’t know. Have I mentioned Varda? She was pretty big back in the old days in the Timeless Halls. She was chief of the female air spirits. I never thought much of her — she had a reedy singing voice.

Anyway, she’s shacked up with Manwë the Dickless Prick. I happened to mention it in passing the other day, whatever a “day” is. When Melkor got drunk, he started in on a long tear — it seems he and Varda were an item, back before the Ainulindalë. This might explain some of the bad blood between Melkor and Manwë.

Seriously, what would a chick like that see in Manwë anyway? He’s a sniveling little worm!

The next time I write should be after the final assault, when we destroy the Valar and feast on their flesh! Victory is ours!

#23: Why We Didn’t Win The War

Sep
20

Date: Before the Sun and Moon
My Mood Is: resolute

Well, the First War is over. That’s what we’re calling it because it won’t be the last, let me assure you.

We didn’t lose. We just didn’t win. It was pretty much a draw, except they lost more guys than we did. Still, like I said last time — while our side has a greater Host of Maiar than the Rebels do, they have 14 Valar, and we only have one.

I said “14.” You’re probably thinking, wait, aren’t there 13 rebel Valar, who turned against their rightful lord Melkor? Well, not any more. Eru changes the so-called “rules” whenever He damn well feels like it. And once again, our side gets the shaft.

If I never mentioned Tulkas before now, that’s because he was a person of absolutely no consequence. He’s a chthonic spirit, a being of stone and metal and brute force. He’s also really, really dumb, and I think Melkor tried to recruit him early on. It must have gone quite badly, because Melkor doesn’t talk about it.

But he never took sides in the Ainulindalë — I guess he just stood in back and hummed. He denied both Melkor and Manwë, and took no counsel but his own. When we came down into Arda, he stayed behind, to spend all eternity praising Eru and pulling his pud like the others.

We had victory in our grasp. Melkor beat back the combined force of the rebel Valar, and finally broke through to face Manwë alone. (A coward, Manwë hid behind his so-called “followers,” even the women.) Manwë ran as Melkor gave chase, stabbing at Manwë with his mighty spear, and leaving great chasms in the earth whenever he missed.

Meanwhile the Hosts, under my command, routed the Army of the Maiar. We drove them further and further south, hoping to press them against the southern firmament, and there finish them. In the form of a great werewolf, I alone slew 12 of the Maiar; Gothmog, in the guise of a balrog, eight; and Carcharoth, inspired by me to take wolf form, six.

We lost 14 of our guys, wounded until they became mere shadows, unable to take form again while the World lasts. It’s okay, it wasn’t anyone important.

So, as I say, we were winning. I was pinning down the Maiar in the south, while Melkor beat down on Manwë.

Then the Door of Night, the gate in the firmament of Arda through which we entered, and which was sealed behind us by Eru “for as long as the World lasts,” was flung open. Needless to say, we all turned and looked. There was Tulkas, clothed as a burly blond elf and wielding no weapon. He charged forth, and fell upon Melkor like an animal.

I won’t belabor what happened. Melkor lost. He was injured and drained from fighting off 13 Valar — and Tulkas fell on him without honor or mercy. (You think our side has no mercy? I spared Olórin, didn’t I?) As soon as I saw what was happening, I broke off from the southern fighting, and sped north across thousands of leagues to aid Melkor; the best among us, Gothmog and Lungorthin and Draugluin and Carcharoth, followed in my train. But we were too late.

When we arrived, Melkor had already fled. In fact, he didn’t just flee back north — Tulkas chased him out the Door of Night, and into the Outer Dark!

I couldn’t believe it. Melkor had fled Arda!

That was the end of the war. I couldn’t keep the news of Melkor’s flight from the Host — they routed, and in the end we ended up scattered and dispersed. I did my best to round up as many as I can, and soon most of the Fire and Dark spirits had rallied to me.

We no longer had a leader or a hiding place. I did not know what to do, so I led the remnants of the Host into the Outer Dark.

The Outer Dark is VERY dark. And VERY cold. There is no life in the void.

From Arda, one can’t see through the firmamment into the outer dark. But from the Dark, one can see in.

The world was utterly ruined, both our magnificent work and the so-called “improvements” of the rebels. The whole place looked like it had been thrown in a blender and pureed. Whatever a “blender” is.

After a while I found Melkor, brooding in the inky Void.

At first, I was furious with him. But then I saw what had become of Melkor, and man, was he a mess. Melkor is of course the fairest and most beautious of the Valar, being second only to Eru. But now he bears the scars of the First War, and his face is twisted by rage. Righteous rage, I feel it too.

One might be tempted to see this outcome as a complete rout. But after speaking with Melkor, I can see it was a kind impromptu strategic retreat. Right now, the Valar can neither see us nor reach us. But we can watch them, and bide our time.

So, the Valar are not yet destroyed, but only because they cheated by calling in a last-minute ringer.

Next time, they won’t take us by surprise.

#20: The Valar Are A Bunch Of Meat Monkeys

Jun
12

Date: Before the Sun and Moon
My Mood Is: amused

To summarize: Melkor and I got in trouble for making better music than Eru, the so-called “One.” (I have “one” asshole, that doesn’t make it special.) So Eru created a world out of our song, and let us go down to live in it. But He also sent along a bunch of useless Ainur, the so-called “Valar,” who’ve done nothing but get in our way. Now their leader Manwë , a.k.a. The Dickless Prick, has driven Melkor and me into the far north of Arda, and set about ruining everything we’ve accomplished.

The time is coming soon when Melkor will gather all the loyal fire and darkness spirits, and we will attack, driving the filthy Valar from this world. Let them sit in the Outer Dark, cold and alone. Especially Melian, that whore.

Melkor has tasked me with keeping an eye on the accursed Valar. He gives me all the important jobs because honestly, who else is he going to rely on? Ungoliant? She ran off soon after we redeployed to the north, and hasn’t been seen since. Glaurung? He’s not too bright, and anyway, Melkor has some special project for him. Gothmog? He sits in the lava pits, playing with his whips. Cripes, why did we bring any of these losers along with us?

So anyway, I’ve been snooping around invisibly, watching the Valar and Maiar as they foul up everything in Arda — “oceans” and “clouds” and “forests” and all that crap.

But here’s the most astonishing thing. And I’m not kidding — I couldn’t have made this up. The Valar and Maiar have clothed themselves in flesh, and taken the form of… primates. That’s right, Eru-damned monkeys! They’re walking around like two-legged meat sausages, eating and drinking an excreting and sweating.

It’s ridiculous! We’re frikkin’ gods, fer crissakes! Apparently, the accursed “Children of Ilúvatar” are going to be primates. Seriously! So Manwë and his brown-nosers have decided to dress up like “Elves,” and prance around in silly skin costumes. I gotta tell ya, I reported this to Melkor, and he was so surprised his iron crown fell off! We had a good, really long laugh about it.

It wasn’t so funny, though, ’cause when I was sneaking around, I saw Melian. Her Elven form is particularly… shapely, I must say. I mean, looking at her, I could see what all the fuss is about.

Stupid bitch.

Anyway, the rest of us are going to have to consider adopting fleshly forms, just to deny the Valar any advantage. One more thing to worry about.

But if anyone thinks I’m gonna start using a toilet, they have another thing coming.

#19: I’m Not Too Fond Of The New Digs

Apr
11

Date: Before the Sun and Moon
My Mood Is: unapologetic

I would apologize for not posting in so long, but I’m not really in the mood to apologize for anything.

When the Dickless Prick and his little friends rose up against Melkor, I was all for pounding their asses right then and there. Melkor and I even argued about it. I pointed out that, since Arda was still all fiery and lava-ey, we could use the situation to our advantage. Rally the fire spirits and attack. Use Arda Itself as a weapon. Hurl all the forces of Fire and Heat against the Valar, and destroy them.

But Melkor was afraid that we would fail. He said that all of our power was tied up in the Creation — that by being the principal architects of Arda, we had placed too much of ourselves into the World. The Earth, Wind and Water spirits, on the other hand, had yet to spend their powers on Creation, and so still retained all their energy. He bid us to wait, until our enemies had used up all their fëar on Creation. Then we would attack.

So we have bided our time. And Melkor was right about one thing — the stupid-ass Valar have been happy to splooge their so-called “beauty” all over our ordered and efficient world.

Let me tell you what Arda looked like when Melkor and I were done with it — beautiful vales of igneous rock, filled with magnificent rivers of flowing lava. Volcanoes that sent golden sprays of molten rock high into the air, and filled the spaces above the Disc of the World with lovely flammable gases. It was as fantastic as it sounds.

Well, from our stronghold in the North, we’ve watched the so-called Valar destroy everything we worked for. The igneous vales are now covered in noxious soil, and the soil itself is infested with grasses that cover all like a mold. I have nothing against trees — the fires have to have something to burn — but now there are trees everywhere, blanketing the land in monochromatic green. I have nothing against water, either — the fires need something to boil — but you will not believe me when I tell you how much water they have used to drown the World. No less than seven tenths of the Disc’s surface is now hidden beneath foul-smelling, salty water! I think it’s just their attempt to put out our fires!

Fortunately, our fires burn deep underground, and even the seas of water can not extinguish them. You know why not? Workmanship.

Soon, the Valar will have expended all their energy on burying the World underneath a thin scum of imperfectible life. Then, their resources drained, we will attack.

I mentioned our “stronghold.” Ever since we redeployed to the North (not “fled” — redeployed), we have labored on constructing a great military base from which to launch our assault upon the Valar traitors. Basically, it’s a really deep pit surrounded by giant mountains. I don’t like it. Melkor sits at the bottom of the pit, brooding, while I have to direct all the spirits in its construction. I’m trying to make it something more interesting than a big hole– but since this is the first actual building in the history of Creation, I’m forced to make things up as I go along.

For instance, I’m still trying to figure out how people will get in and out of the fortress. If I make a hole in the mountain range, our enemies can get in. If I don’t, we can’t get out. One of the spirits of craft suggested that I put part of the wall on a hinge, so it can be pulled open and shut. That seems like a good idea. But what should we call it? I’ll have to ask the spirit — his name is Doër.