LotR SI: Mordor for the Orcs

Thrag failed to signify any change when the mighty spirit of the God Emperor of Krogankind descended upon him, for Thrag was a simpleton. A smooth brain. A mountain of muscles with any capacity for proper thought beyond stringing words together like Food Thrag Food and Thrag Food Hunt and Smash Smash Good being prevented by the prodigious brain capacity needed to process the feedback from his sharp eyes, powerful nose, and sensitive ears.

I greatly appreciated Thrag's enhanced sensory suite, and even more his over seven foot height and four hundred pound lean frame. This was the body of a god, a war god. I was pleased by the meat temple I now inhabit.

Around me a few orcs remained, mostly backing away and hoping to get far enough to escape without the undead tark leaping on their back. This put me in prime position to see the ranger force the orc captain on his knees bleeding heavily from the one sided battle he joined unwillingly when Talion rolled up as he does and laid waste to the crew.

With an economy of motion completely unseen from Thrag's formerly uncoordinated body, I closed distance as the ranger put his sword in the captain's chest and efficiently caved the man's skull in with the wooden club that was the only weapon a simpleton like Thrag was trusted with.

I normally advocate delivering extra strikes to ensure death, but from the way Talion's teeth and eyeballs comically shot out of his head it was fairly obvious that his brain case was ended rightly.

"Oi, you lot!" the wounded Feral Tribe captain shouted as he clutched his chest, "Get my new brother some prappa armor! He just slayed the tark. THE TARK SLAYER!"

I wasn't paying the orc any attention, but instead felt a fascinating rush of power coming from the act of slaying Talion. The transition from nobody to somebody was exceptional and I gained power from the recognition of the orcs of Mordor. It was a heady thing, knowing that I can empower myself based on the legend I build for myself.

Seeing the captain going on and on about how the pair of us will find glory in service to Sauron together, I bashed the bastard on the noggin with much the same result as with Talion, causing the remaining orcs of our crew to hoot and howl in fear.

With a grin I let them know what was what, "I am the captain now." ___________________________________________________________________________

I'd landed myself in Nurn, without a doubt the most beautiful location in Mordor, and spent the next weeks familiarizing myself with the lay of the land.

Despite his excellent eyesight and years spent running around the place, Thrag had no concept of general geography, and instead most of his memories were of scents and sounds. The two came in damn handy though.

During my travels with my newly forming gang of minions, I encountered a scent that was a priority memory for Thrag, caragor. I held a great fondness for the beasts as they were damn handy in the games Shadow of Mordor and Shadow of War, but I also knew that orcs were particularly shit at taming them and high up on the beast's preferred list of prey. Despite knowing this I still circled my little crew around the pack and approached the beasts in complete silence.

Standing nearly five feet at the shoulder and broad as a bear, the leather hided Caragor is not a friendly and approachable creature, and the sharp bone spurs striking out of its head, neck, and shoulders might lend that some credence, but it didn't stop my from hopping on the back of the nearest beasty and holding on for dear life with one hand while whacking the maws and claws of his contemporaries with my club in the other.

My gang stood nearby slack jawed until they realized I was winning my wrestling match against the pack, at which point all twenty of them ran out of the brush and piled on the remaining pair of caragors, holding the beasts down like an uglier version of Steve Erwin and his crocodile wrangling crew.

Soon Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner learned like many animals before them that their true purpose in life is to please me, lest they make me prove once again that my pimp hand is indeed strong. On the plus side, this time my doggies are big enough to ride and fast enough to chase down any form of game my nose can pick up, and soon I had myself a bearskin saddle to help with the ball crushing gallop of the well titled 'Mordor Motorcycle' and it also put a thick layer between me and those damn bone spurs.

I spent my days roaming the greenest pastures in Mordor, taking game and making a stronger and stronger name for myself. There wasn't any trouble until I established myself in a good spot for a more permanent camp, and kicked my minions about while teaching them simple fortification strategies.

"Tark Slayer!" a high pitched voice shouted as a big bodied orc covered in furs with a tower shield of wood and troll hide came down the path to my camp with his band of similarly outfitted orcs, "You killed Shaga!"

"Dafuq's a shaga?" I asked him as I got out of my comfy bone and hide lounge chair and walked up to look down on the fat orc.

"A… are you da Tark Slayer?" the now far less confident orc stammered.

"I slay a lot of other shrak too." I spat, "What of it?"

"I do believe I made a mistake and left the campfire burning back at home." The orc reached for an excuse, "It was a great honor to make your acquaintance. Ta ta for now."

The unnamed captain backpedaled as my boys laughed at him. They laughed so loudly that I almost missed the sound of an arrow in flight and only managed to twist myself enough that the glowing blue elf shot landed in my meaty shoulder rather than my neck.

"It's the Tark!" someone helpfully shouted and the sight of me wounded filled the fat orc with confidence and he shouted, "For Shaga!" before charging back up the path at me.

Just great. Now I had to kill some asshat over a shaga and worry about Talion's next move in this attempt on my life. Fortunately, crying out for his shaga did not in fact lend great strength to this particular orc captain, and when he tried to impale me on his spear, I stomped it into the ground and kicked the guy in the shield so hard he fell over onto his ass.

Not a good place to be against a member of the Feral Tribe.

I pounced on him and began stabbing into his belly with the bone wrist blades I'd taken off the first captain I killed. The fat orc squealed like a pig as I tore open his belly, his squeels almost enough to mask the incoming soft footsteps.

Almost, but those steps were what I was listening for.

I spun around swiftly and put a pair of sharpened tusks into Talion's forearm as he tried to assassinate me with his dagger, Acharn, the runic elven blade reforged from his son's broken sword.

"Ah ah ah, you didn't say the magic word." I laughed as I took another swipe at him with the other hand that the man dodged as he ripped his arm off my wrist blades carelessly.

He drew his frankly gorgeous sword, Urfael, and we squared off as my boys finished off the Squealer's crew and formed a circle around us, hooting and hollering. This time in anticipation.

I drew my old captain's chopper, the thick blade was rather well made for an orcish sword and far more agile in hand than my trusty club. An important attribute when facing off against a swift foe.

"Look at that focus, boys." I laughed, "How long before it turns into frustration?"

Talion threw an ethereal dagger at me which I caught and countered with a slash of my own that he had to hastily deflect while stopping his charge coming in behind the flying blade.

I came back with a twist of my wrist and another slash, this time with the added power of my huge tricep behind it and Talion deflected it again and tried to vault over me, earning him a belly full of wrist blade for the trouble.

With elven grace he completely halted his vault and backed away, only allowing my blades so much purchase in his guts, but the wound was too painful for his stoic façade to completely ignore. His torn up core muscles protested each and every move of our fight and eventually his deflection faltered and my sword carried on through into his guts and I put my back into the drawing slash to tear the man in two.

"Wat yew expect?" shouted a member of my gang as he ran up and got into the dying ranger's grill, "He's the Tark Slayer and yew's a tark! Stupid tark! Getsum finky bits and try again and again. It's always gunna be da same! Tark Slayer!" he pointed at me, "Dead tark." then pointed at the now fading wraith.

I'd have to get that boy a raise. He knows how to lay the trash talk down.