Azgalia
Since she had been a wee lass Azgalia felt that she was different. Well she looked pretty much the same as all those other orc lasses, with swarthy skin almost without warts, slanted eyes giving a seductive, feline-like air to her tilleul orbs and attractive bow legs. She was tall for her sex, almost five feet tall. Her leucocratic tresses were relatively rare yet not unheard off. What made Azgalia different was her sweet character, however. She found no joy in torture, she killed quickly and efficiently. When hunting or given a slave condemned to execution, she got no jollies from screams of pain or convulsions. Azgalia always went for the jugular, ripping out throats or plunging implements of death into beating hearts as to bring a merciful swift end. Otherwise she spent her days as was becoming of a highly born orc maiden, bathing, dressing, undressing, making exciting underwear ...
Oh yes, there was one more difference between her and her sister she-goblins. She did not like the leather underwear which had been the rage among orc kind for the last three ages. Azgalia liked plain cotton knickers. The first examples she acquired from looting a mannish caravan. Later, at her instance, her brother the high king of orcs established a trade route to adventurous dwarrow and mannish merchants. Those brave souls, boldly taking coin from all races of Arda in an example of progressive equal-opportunity trading, brought cottons and silks and satins to the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains, where the Kingdom of Angmar had been in times past. She cut the cloth herself, as neither mannish nor dwarrow designs give full credit to her figure. She wore satin pants on days when she felt like pampering herself, and old ones, regardless of cut or material on her critical days.
She wore a breast-band solely as chaffing protection. Her perfectly round pert breasts were firm enough as not to require support for everyday activities. Azgalia's bosom needed support only for strenuous physical efforts, like sports or hunting or executions, and then she wore figure shaping (flattening, in her case, as she was a modest girl at heart) vests of warg leather.
This sweetness of Azgalia's character made her brother Bolg turn to drink in despair. Whatever puppies he brought to her to torment she broke the necks off immediately, refusing to make them suffer. Being a Good Brother – their father, Azog, had been murdered by dwarves – he wished to see her wed well. But all suitors were turned off by the softness of her ways. All those dashing young goblins never took her out on a second date as they did not expect her to bear strong sons. Not that there was anything wrong with her figure, no! She was not fat or thick or heavy or big boned or anything like that, nor too skinny, she had just the right amount of feminine curves. And the piercings in her melichrous nipples made her cool to hang out with. Had it not been for her gentle nature, that is. What had worried the prospective orc-beaus that a goblin lass of such sweet disposition would bear sons who would be wimps and would not find liking in male behaviour. Such off spring would like to sing, wear nice and matching clothing, dance, maybe even – here shudders run along the curved spins of conservatively minded orcs – not find pleasure in mating with the other sex but their own ... eww! Or so they thought. In typical misogynist disdain for female autonomy they did not consider what sort of daughters they might have, certain that brutal orcish child rearing would infuse them with traditional values, mould them in line with society's expectations.
Yet every time Azgalia tended to her cuts, welts and bruises Bolg gave her after she had chased away another suitor by wishing to dance and sing in sun-splashed mountain meadows bedecked with flowers, instead of bringing a slow and painful death to some creature, or – even better – a round of initially innocent wrestling turning into a flesh rending spasmatic grope-fest culminating with frenzied coupling of their slick covered bodies, the orc maiden knew that Bolg really, really cared for her. He just showed it in his own, peculiar fashion.
November 2941, the gore soaked southern approaches to Erebor
"Sound the retreat!" – Bolg bellowed to his horn and drum ensemble.
He gleefully rubbed his hands together. He had found a sucker to sick his lil' sis' upon! His work here was done.