Oobilong was an Orc. And at the moment, a very unhappy Orc. He was unhappy because he wasn't an Uruk-Hai.
Uruk-Hai were strong. They were brave. They made everyone fear them. They even got special face paint. All Orcs respected and envied Uruks, but Uruk-Hai were even better. They bore the hand of Saruman.
It was rather a fad at the moment to have a white hand on your face. Several of the Snagae had been foolish enough to put one on themselves, but that didn't sit well with Saruman's Orcs. They liked to boss, and they liked to beat up little Orcs who tried to be like them.
Oobilong hadn't painted a hand on his face. He knew he would be beaten up. But he did want to be an Uruk-Hai. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything before.
'One day,' he thought, 'I'll go to Isengard. One day the great Wizard will make me into an Uruk-Hai, too.'
His chance to go to Isengard came sooner than he expected.
'Oobilong!' growled a large Uruk to him one day, 'Pack your bag. We're going to Orthanc.'
Oobilong had learned not to ask questions, so he obeyed without a word, and before night fell a small band of Orcs started West towards Isengard. They had heavy packs full of something shiny, but none of them knew what it was.
'Whatever happens,' yelled the great fat Uruk who was leading them, 'march fast! There's said to be stinkin' Elves wandering about, and we don't want to run into any of those.'
No, Oobilong didn't. Elves were nasty and mean. They slapped and beat you. They questioned you about things you didn't know. They cut off your head when you didn't answer them. They had long hair that flew everywhere and confused you. There was nothing Oobilong hated more than Elves. So he marched fast.
On and on they went, ever towards the great Isengard, where stood the tower Orthanc. It rose up tall, piercing the sky like a needle. And atop it at this moment, while the little Orcs marched closer and closer, sat Saruman the White.
He liked it on top of his tower. A nice cool wind blew there, but the sun warmed it enough so that it was usually the perfect temperature. Unfortunately the top of Orthanc at this time was not so nice a place to sit and muse, for he had a visitor. A very unwelcome visitor.
It was Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey; the old wizened Wizard who could not escape Saruman himself, much less deliver his companions from Saruman's white hands. Slowly Sarumand's Uruk-Hai would capture and kill all left in Middle Earth who were not loyal to Sauron. Slowly Saruman would become greater than Sauron himself; and finally in an epic battle between wrong and wronger, Sauron would be defeated and the not-so-dark side would prevail.
Saruman looked forward to that glorious day, but in the mean time he could not get distracted. He was busy at the moment taunting Gandalf and trying to turn him evil. Not that Gandalf was so much use to him, but a Wizard is a Wizard, and better to have an extra one on your side than not.
But Saruman was rudely interrupted in his taunting, for Grima Wormtongue ascended the tower* and asked for an audience.
'Lord Sauron says he is sending the Mithril,' said Grima sourly. No more sourly than usual; that's just how he talked. Always sourly. 'He says it should arrive in a day or two, along with some Snaga and an Uruk or two for you to keep for your own purposes.'
'What use are Snaga, or even Uruks to me now that I have my dreaded Uruk-Hai?' asked Saruman. 'One of them is better than ten Snagae.'
'I had thought you might want them for further experimentation,' said Grima. 'But whether useful or no, they are coming. It means that we need somewhere to put them.'
'There is always room,' said Saruman shortly. 'Always room in the forges, in the breeding factories, in the forest if nowhere else. Have them cut down the trees to keep them busy. We need more wood anyway. Oh, and Wormtongue,' he added, turning away to descend his tower, 'send one or two Snagae in for me when they arrive. I'd like to see what effect terentheria colotus has upon their mental faculties.'
'Yes, master,' said Grima. He hated to be called 'Wormtongue,' but he never dared say so. Often he felt so misunderstood by all around him. There was Eowyn… yes, Eowyn, fair niece of the king of Rohan. It was strange to think one so fair could reject and hate so much; but she did. She would have nothing to do with him. Then there was Eomer, her brother, who despised him above all living creatures that walked the earth. Even his best friend, Saruman the Wise, mistreated him sometimes. He could bear it; he could bear it for their friendship's sake. But if Saruman himself ever cast him out, if Saruman ever rejected him, he was sure he would die of grief.
He descended the tower after the Wizard, vaguely wondering what 'terentheria colotus' was.
Several days later, just as Sauron had said, the group of Orcs, sadly diminished from the amount that had set out from Mordor, entered Orthanc. Of the twenty that had started the journey, only six remained. Yes, the life of an Orc is hard.
*Read 'The Escalator of Orthanc' by OneSizeFitsAll for a detailed description of Saruman's means of ascending his tower.