Posts Tagged ‘Tol-in-Gaurhoth’

#56: That’s It, I QUIT!

Dec
14

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

That’s it, I quit. I’m done. No more.

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

Fuck him. Fuck him right in the ass.

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously, what is up with those rocks?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

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

Unbelievable.

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

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

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

Whomever “Jesus” is.

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

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

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

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

#55: Huan Is The Biggest Asshole In The World

Nov
20

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell was a “Ghuuaaaaaaaaan?”

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

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

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

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

Huan.

HUAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#54: Elf-King Tastes Like Chicken

Nov
11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#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.

#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!

#50: I Have My Own Place Again

Sep
23

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

Hooray! I have my own place again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they fled. The elves. All of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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