Collection of One-Shots

》blood maiden

A barrel of opened grog sat next to poorly repaired wooden tables. Laid out on the splintering surface was freshly butchered meat. A gathering of Uruks was readying to feast to the day's spoils. "We had a good run today, boys." The leader of the small raiding party drove a spear into the hard ground and glanced back to the crates filled with the spoils of war.

The leader, an Uruk and an Olog dumped out the crates of gold artifacts and weapons into a pile by the tables. It appeared that they'd stripped it from every Marauder in Mordor. "Equal shares for all of us!" The helmet muffled the voice of the leader, but the voice was not deep nor did it bear semblance to the guttural rasp of Orcs. "Now, let's feast!"

The Ranger stopped on the horizon when he saw the smoldering campfire. There's a feast nearby. Celebrimbor noted with disdain. I can already hear their infernal singing. The horrendous voices were carried on the wind, singing their poor excuses of songs.

His back was flush against the ruined wall, dagger poised to strike. There was a woman sitting at the table, sharing in the violent delights and camaraderie of the twisted creatures. Talion, the Ringmaker hissed, Slay them all.

She's in no danger, the Ranger countered, watching as she partook in the feast, chanting the songs and cheers just as the Uruks around her did. Talion hesitated.

And that had been his mistake.

The Olog came from the shadows in silence and pinned him against the stone, pulling the broken sword from his hand and gripping onto his wrists. A small, deformed Uruk picked up the dagger and motioned for the Olog to take the captive to their leader. Ur-Hakon pushed the man forward onto his hands and knees.

"Found this one lurking about," Zâthra remarked, proud of the prize he could present his mistress. The Uruk looked over the Ranger's broken blade, testing the point with the tip of a mutilated finger.

Talion rose to his knees though before he could reach for his sword the point of a spear came to rest against his neck. The metal was cold, still coated with the dark blood of some unfortunate Uruk. "Who are you?" The woman demanded.

He held her gaze as he pushed the spearhead aside. "Talion," he answered. She waved the Olog and Uruk aside and the Ranger rose to his feet.

"These orcs?" The Ranger questioned. They bore no brand, no sign of control like those who did the Bright Lord's bidding, and every Uruk and Olog of the group had discarded tribal symbols for a painted red sun.

"Uruks mind you!" Zâthra snapped, but the Olog shoved him toward the fire. He quickly amended that statement. "'Cept for the big guy."

The woman let out an exasperated sigh and drove the point of the spear into the soft earth next to her foot. "A loyal bunch, so long as they get some grog." There was a cartful of grog and spoils next to the tables, along with four sleeping caragors.

"The Lady's a good leader," Ogg said. Agreements echoed around the camp. Talion glanced around at the rabble of Uruks and back to their leader. She wore the faintest of smiles. Rightfully so, Celebrimbor uttered, though he seemed reluctant to do so. She and her orcs may be a worthy ally against Sauron.

"Better than that piece of shrakh, Grom," another added, raising a wooden cup brimming with grog. The Olog rose to his feet. The tongue of Mordor came out fragmented with rough pieces of Westron. "I protect mistress with life."

"Don't need the Dark Lord when we got her," Zâthra chimed. The antics of the smallest and most disfigured reminded Talion of Ratbag the Coward.

"Thanks, boys," she remarked, turning back toward Talion. He could hide that he was impressed by her ability to command the obedience and loyalty of self-serving creatures. Her eyes trailed over his features. Rugged and handsome, like all men from Gondor with the blood of Numenór. Her eyes came to linger on the scar wrapped around his neck, though. "Seregwen." The sound of her name was almost unfamiliar, but it surprised the Ranger.