Posts Tagged ‘Melian’

#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!

#60: No, THIS Is the Worst Day of My Entire Life!

Mar
24

Date: June 17, 590 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: completely humiliated

I thought things couldn’t get any worse than they were yesterday. I was wrong.

Today I was hovering over the maelstrom where the seas are still rushing into the great chasm that was once Angband. I’ve dropped my physical form and have been manifesting as a naked fëa, just for mobility’s sake. Also, I didn’t want anyone to see me blubbering my eyes out over the loss of a billion years’ hard work and effort. And in spirit form, only other Ainu can see me.

Then some other Ainur saw me.

Somebody cleared their (metaphorical) throat, and there revealed was the spirit of Eönwë. He’s the lick-spittle who took over my position as Chief of the Maiar when the Valar rebelled against Melkor. His official title is “Banner-bearer and Herald of Manwë, which is pretty retarded since immortal anthropomorphic personifications of eternal verities don’t really need flags or bugles to make their wishes known. But whatever.

“Hearken, o Sauron, spirit of Craft,” he said, intoning in that bullshit Biblical way that lesser Ainur use when they want to seem all serious (whatever a “Bible” is). “The bonds that Morgoth has lain upon you are strong. But redemption still lies within your grasp.”

The bonds that Melkor laid on me? This from the asshole who polishes Manwë’s buttocks on a nightly basis?

“The Powers of Arda call on you, Sauron, to return to Taniquetil in Aman, and place yourself in judgment before Manwë Súlimo. Admit to and repent your crimes, against the Valar and Maiar; against the Children of Ilúvatar, the Elder and the Younger; and against Eru Ilúvatar Himself, and you will know justice, and forgiveness.”

Now, you know how you always wish later you had thought of something really clever to say, something witty and cutting that would really put someone in their place? That esprit d’escalier, when you think of the perfect comeback ten minutes too late? That always happens to me. Because what I wish I had said — what I wish I had said — was, “no, thank you.”

But I couldn’t concentrate, and all I could think of to say was, “listen here, you piss-ant little shit-bag. I wouldn’t give Manwë the Dickless Prick the life-altering honor of licking the Orc-pus off the bottom of my iron-tipped boots, much less let that syphilitic sideshow freak hold me in so-called ‘judgment’ over deeds I committed, by right, as Chief Lieutenant of the True Lord of the Earth. So why don’t you go back to your satin-lined hidey-hole in Aman, lube yourself up, and insert yourself right back up into Manwë’s distended rectum where you belong!”

And with that, I made to leave. But there were more Ainur present, and I recognized them both, unfortunately. One was that jackass Curunír, the useless little Craft spirit who used to spy for me in Almaren way back before the Second War. He was apparently still afraid of me, because he was hiding behind the allegorical skirts of another Maia — Olórin, that sanctimonious jackass whom I almost killed in the First War. Of course he would be here at my lowest possible moment.

“Sauron,” Olórin said, “reject not the pity of Manwë, for there are those in Aman, of your own people, who love you still.”

Pity? Pity?? If I had harbored any fleeting desire to limp simpering with my tail between my legs to Valinor to cower at the heels of Manwë the Dickless Prick, it was obliterated in that moment. Pity? Suck my big, fat, hairy werewolf balls.

But, before I could share with Olórin my deeply held, well-reasoned, and carefully-worded thoughts on the matter, another Maia appeared. And you know that whole bit about “lowest moment of my life?” Yeah, well, up until this moment, it was my freakin’ birthday party. I didn’t know what “low” was.

A voice spoke — a gentle, musical voice, more beautiful than any other amongst the Maiar. “Mairon,” it spoke, “my beloved Mairon, do not speak so harshly, nor let bitter feelings mar thy beautiful spirit.”

Mairon? Nobody ever calls me Mairon. Not in billions of years. Not since the Timeless Halls. Not since her.

Not since Melian.

There she was, being beautiful, and sweet, and loving, and caring, in all her glorious lover-betraying Elf-buggering glory. My Melian.

“Set aside your hate, and anger, and pride, and willfulness, and desire for mastery,” she implored me, with as much condescension as you might imagine. “Join me, Mairon, and return to your people. Together, we will create things of beauty for all to enjoy.”

I have to admit, I just looked at her for a long time. I mean, where the hell did she get off? Seriously! She left me. She betrayed Melkor. She shacked up with an Elf. She spawned the half-Elf abomination that razed my tower, murdered Draugluin and stole Melkor’s shiny rock. She led the Elves of Doriath in revolt against me, and then abandoned them to slavery and death the moment her Elven boy-toy was dead.

And I’m supposed to ask for forgiveness? Me?

I should have attacked. I should have assumed the form of a great werewolf — huh, bad idea, open water, um… a great Fire Drake, or a Sea Serpent — and ripped her freaking head off. I should have reduced her to a quailing spirit of misery and remorse, plaintively singing laments over the face of the waters until the Last Battle. I should have destroyed her, and Eönwë and Olórin and that other one. Bitch called me Mairon.

But I didn’t. I just fled. And they didn’t follow.

Worst. Day. Of. My. Life.

#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?

#53: Melkor Has Completely Lost His Mind

Nov
6

Date: March 12, 464 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: rankled

Melkor has completely lost his mind.

Look, I get it. He was trapped over in Aman, chained in the Halls of Mandos (real name Námo — did I ever tell you about Námo? Don’t get me started on Námo) for three ages, and was then forced to live amongst the idiotic Elves of Valinor. Just to amuse himself, he got involved in their petty political crap, and was able to get a good chunk of them to rebel against the Valar. Which would be a great accomplishment, if those same Elven rebels hadn’t come back East across the seas to get all up in my shit.

So even though I would never involve myself in petty Elven nonsense, and I would never concoct elaborate schemes to gain control over a bunch of quasi-immortal hairless monkeys or get my hands paws on their stupid jewelry, I can understand why Melkor did so. In Valinor. But now he’s back in Middle-earth. So why is he still so obsessed with the so-called Children of Ilúvatar?

How obsessed? I’ll tell you.

Melkor commanded that I set out from Tol-in-Gaurhoth with an army of werewolves, to invade Dorthonion. (The “werewolves” aren’t actually werewolves — that is, they can’t change form like I can. They’re just a bunch of the more useless lesser spirits of Entropy, Darkness and Death that I corralled and inserted into the bodies of giant wolves. I wanted to add shoulder tentacles, but Melkor shot that down. Anyway, they’re basically mega-Wargs.)

So why is Melkor sending an entire army, headed by his Chief Lieutenant, Sauron Gorthaur, Lord of Werewolves, Master of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Duke of Angband, Designer of Eä, High Commander of the Forces of Fire and Ice and Darkness and Death, into Dorthonion? To destroy the Noldor? To invade Doriath? To do anything useful at all?

No. He’s sending an entire army into Dorthonion to kill one guy.

One. Guy.

And a Man no less, a tissue-paper version of an Elf. Some idiot named Beren, the son of that Barry the Hero guy whose limbs I ate four years ago. (He’s still on Tol-in-Gaurhoth — I use him to wipe my feet whenever I get home.)

An entire army. And me. To kill one Man. That is what I call a proper strategic deployment of personnel and matériel.

NOT.

So, Melkor has lost his mind. The question is, what can I do about it? He’s up there in Angband, sitting in the Nethermost Pit, with that iron toilet seat covered in elfy gems perched on top of his head. I moved out here to the Pass of Sirion so I wouldn’t have to deal with the Lord of the Mopers Earth.

Now, Sauron’s going to have to save the day again. I just have no idea how.

By the way, we didn’t find Beren. Got to the edge of Doriath, had to turn back. Close enough to smell Melian’s yoni. Soon, vengeance will be mine.

#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.

#42: We Kicked Thingol’s Ass!

Apr
16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guess who does better in battle?

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

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

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

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

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

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

#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.

#38: What!?!

Jul
16

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

She… I mean… WHAAAT????

#37: I Will KILL Elu Thingol!

Apr
10

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

You will not believe what I just found out. I don’t even know where to begin. I — I can’t believe it.

Some background: when Oromë (he’s a stupid Earth spirit who imagines himself a great huntsman) “found” the Elves, many years AFTER I found them, he lured three of them back to Valinor so they could get all impressed by the stupid trees and return to con the rest of the Elves into going to Valinor to worship the Valar traitors. Which they did.

So these three Elves led the rest across Eriador AND Beleriand. They weren’t marching in ordered groups, either. They just kind of wandered. It took DECADES.

So the first two groups get to the coast of the Belegaer, the Great Sea, and of course they don’t have boats because boats haven’t been invented yet. Whatever a “boat” is. For once, the Valar do something with style, and rip off a big chunk of land for the Elves to ride on. This portable island takes off across the sea, and Huzzah! my Elf infestation problem is solved.

EXCEPT — the last group doesn’t go. They can’t find their leader, Elwë — he just up and vanished one day, and no, it wasn’t because of me. Remember, I wanted them to go, as quickly as possible.

Eventually, they took off without Elwë, and I forgot about the whole thing. Until today, when one of my spies informed me that Elwë was still alive, and founding his own kingdom among the Sindar, aka the “Grey Elves.” He’s even calling himself Elu Thingol, “King Greymantle.”

Which is bad enough. But — and here’s where words fail me, so I’ll just get it out.

HE MARRIED MELIAN.

MY MELIAN.

What?? How??? I mean — WHAT?????? First of all, why was she even in Middle Earth at all? Why would she fall in love with a MORTAL??? And a stupid Elf at that? Is this even allowed, Maiar shtupping Mortals? I mean, it’s disgusting! It’s like you having sex with your dog!

Is she CRAZY? Why? I just want to know why she did this.

Oh, and I’m going to KILL Elu Thingol. Count on it.

#32: OMFG! I Found the Freakin’ Elves!

Dec
20

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

I found the Elves!

Carcharoth was out in Middle Earth, trying to sniff out Valar spies, when he came across a group of strange creatures hanging out by a lake. He’d eaten several dozen of them before he realized he should probably report this news back to base.

Carcharoth came back to Angband with a few captives and presented them to me. They were weird, sickly little things, hairless apes with pointy ears and translucent skin. I’m the one who figured out they had to be the so-called “Children of Ilúvatar.”

I immediately reported to Utumno with the captives, and told Melkor that I had located the so-called “Elves.” He was thrilled. I gotta tell ya, I earned a lot of points that day.

After killing a few with the terror of his gaze, Melkor commanded me to start thinking about how we can exploit these “mortal” creatures. We can’t just have some race living in our Middle Earth without serving us. The first thing I want to do is redesign them — they have the stink of the Valar all over them. I want to hunch them over (for underground work), give them tusks (for fighting), and maybe toughen up their skin (it’s all soft and dewey right now). Also, I want to make up a language for them to speak. Right now they tend to sing in something that sounds like Finnish (whatever that is). They need a new name, too. I’ll think about it.

One of the female elves reminded me of Melian in her hominid form. I killed it.