Author's Note: Hey, everybody, name's IAmSecretlyNotRonnie300Fan91 (SPOILER: I actually am). I've been working on refining this story for a while, but never had the guts to publish it here. I finally built up the courage to publish it here, and, well, here it is. This is my first story, so constructive criticism that will allow me to strengthen my writing is welcome and appreciated, but flames and pure hate reviews will not be tolerated. This story begins during Shepard's first visit to the Citadel in Mass Effect 1, and directly before the Ringwraiths depart from Minas Morgul. I plan on writing another fic that will serve as a backstory for Dâgalûr, our protagonist/anti-hero, but that won't be released until I reach the end of the events of Mass Effect 2 in this fic, as to avoid massive spoilers (even the first chapter of my planned origin story would completely spoil this fic). Also, this fic is rated M for a reason. Expect copious amounts of blood/gore and a good amount of cursing, ranging from mild to severe (f-bombs will be dropped casually at times). I am not responsible for anybody's reaction to the cruelty and indecency shown in this story. There will be romantic encounters, but most of the smut will be included only in special edited versions of chapters that will not be posted here because Fiction-MA isn't permitted on this site. You've been warned. You didn't come to read my ramblings, so let us begin this journey.

NOTES: Some elements from various video game adaptations of The Lord of the Rings (Namely Middle Earth: Shadow of Mordor, Middle Earth: Shadow of War (for which there will be MAJOR spoilers), War In The North, The Third Age, and The Battle For Middle Earth II) are going to be taken as canonical, along with various references to other universes/IPs and various things I made up to fill in the blanks left behind by Tolkien. This fic will primarily use the Peter Jackson film trilogy's depiction of the physical appearance of characters and what not, but the event dates given in the Appendices of The Return of the King will be the dates of the events that occur in Middle-Earth in this fic, and things from the book that weren't included in the films (such as Tom Bombadil and Dol Amroth) will also be referenced or used. I attempted to make this story as canonically faithful to both The Lord of the Rings and the Mass Effect trilogy, but it is not canon for obvious reasons. Dâgalûr and all other OCs that will appear in this story belong to me unless stated otherwise, Middle-Earth and LOTR belong to J.R.R Tolkien and his estate, The LOTR video game license belongs to WB Games, and Mass Effect belongs to Bioware.

"The world is changed… I feel it in the water… I feel it in the Earth… I smell it in the air… Much that once was is lost. For none now live who remember it." -Galadriel

The Demon Of The Galactic World

"It began with the forging of the great rings. Three were given to the Elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings, seven to the Dwarf lords, great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls, and nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of Men — who above all else, desire power. For within these rings was bound the strength and will to govern each race. But they were all of them deceived; for another ring was made. In the land of Mordor, in the fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged in secret a master ring, to control all others, and into this Ring, he poured his cruelty, his malice, and his will to dominate all life. One Ring to rule them all." -Galadriel

In the beginning, there was nothing. But the Ainur sang the Ainulindalë to create the world. Their beautiful music created Eä, the universe. The song was only intended to create one single universe, but it rippled out into the nothingness. The music traveled beyond the edges of the Void, and its harmony brought life to millions of other universes, each unique in one way or another. The Father took pity upon these universes, blessing each one of them with life, but the Ainur had no knowledge of these universes, only knowing of Eä. The Father made every attempt possible to conceal the existence of these worlds, for fear of the spread of Morgoth's corruption and malevolence, but when sorcerers and apprentices dabble in the arcane arts, the will of The Father, and the workings of the universe- and the many others surrounding it- mean nothing. Dâgalûr, the left hand of the Dark Lord himself, was one such unfortunate soul caught in the crossfire.

An accident in some far-off cult of magic in the East had caused tears in the fabric between universes to open, and one such portal had brought him to a strange new galaxy of different alien races, each with its own culture, achievements, and goals, all pettily squabbling with each other while an ancient evil reared its head. Ripped from his homeland, and with no other options (save jail), He joined the crew of The Normandy SR-1, under Commander Jane Shepard, and embarked on a quest to save this new, strange world from extermination, and hopefully watch his old one burn in the process.

Prologue: From The Domain Of Shadow

The ash from Mount Doom polluted the air of the tainted landscape, seeping into the plateau's soil and forming thick, dark clouds of smog which blotted the sun's rays. The ever-watching Eye of Sauron looked down upon the barren landscape, its piercing gaze ensuring that nobody entered or escaped from Mordor. The only sounds to be heard were worn bits of metal clanking against metal and inhuman yelps and growls from the pits in the far off distance.

Dâgalûr rode atop Bolgdyr, the once-feared Pack-Leader of Nurnen. He lead a small battalion of the usual lot; sniveling, shrieking orcs from the tribes, men that were either greedy enough or unfortunate enough to come under Sauron's grasp, a feral, frothing warg on a leash here and there, and what not. It was all Dâgalûr had been doing for the last few years. Escort troops at point A to point B, Watch over this, monitor that. It was mind-numbingly boring. It wasn't as if there was an ever-present threat of Mordor being sacked by the Westerners, and he needed to minimize casualties from skirmishes with plunderers. Since the Shadow Wars ended and the tribes united, the only violence to be had was when disputes over plunder occurred.

Dâgalûr yearned for the times he could spread mayhem to the Free Peoples of these lands, but those were few and far apart, much to his dismay. Dâgalûr couldn't wait for Gondor to pay him back for the lives of those he once cared for with the blood of its sons and daughters.

He focused his attention to the task at hand again. "Pick up your feet, you worthless gits! Crack the whips harder before I hang ya from racks 'nd take yer hides as trophies!"

The taskmasters cracked their whips on the backs of the troops much harder, to the point where Dâgalûr could've sworn he heard the snapping and cracking of bones. Blood was dripping down the backs of those unfortunate enough to not have adequate back-plates, indicating the taskmasters were doing their jobs a little too well. Nevertheless, the pace of the troops accelerated to a fast walk as they attempted to evade and escape the lashes. The camp wasn't too far away, but it seemed like it would take an eternity for those being flogged to near-death.

Some of the more rebellious among the rabble began to instinctively speak out against Dâgalûr, despite knowing their punishment would increase tenfold.
"Woi's it dat we's gotta suffa woile yer fat arse gets ter push us 'round? You's ain't even a real orc!" cried a sniveling, pus-yellow runt.

"Yeah, right, 'e's right! Roight! I'm bloody well not takin' dis shite from yer!" yelled an unsightly brown Uruk.

One of his own taskmasters was the next to attack him verbally. "They's got a point! Oi! You's so chummy wiv Sauron, right, but you's nuffink more than a 'og in armor. If we kill yer, we're bound ter 'ave yer place by 'is side!"

That little outburst was nothing short of mutiny. Dâgalûr swiftly dismounted Bolgdyr, his boots crunching the pebbles underneath. He shoved his way past many a man and orc before he reached the orcs who foolishly opened their gobs. He may have been heavy, but he was no pushover.
"OI! LEMME SHOW'S YA 'OW I CLIMBED ME WAY UP TER DA TOP!" He screamed, tackling the smallest among them.

A circle formed around the four orcs. The bystanders roared with glee as they watched the carnage unfold. The taskmaster jumped up on Dâgalûr's back, and tried to dig his claws into Dâgalûr's throat while he focused on the small one, but he responded to this by falling backwards, crushing the bones of the taskmaster with a sickening crunch. A 300-pound half-uruk in a 100-pound suit of armor was no match for the frail frame of the orc, and he choked and sputtered on his own blood, his windpipe damaged beyond repair. The crowd dragged his body into the fray, and tore into his flesh while he let out wheezy shrieks.

The Uruk took the opportunity to kick Dâgalûr while he was on the ground, causing him to vomit, but broke his toes by doing so. He yelped in pain, clenching his foot, and Dâgalûr rose, wiping the spittle from his mouth. He growled, drew a small dagger from his belt, and dashed towards the Uruk, who blocked the stab with his spear just in time. The small Orc ran up to Dâgalûr while he was distracted and slammed a mace into his leg, sending him to the ground once more.

"Not so 'igh and moighty now, are yer, git?" the orc said.

The orc was cut off by a sweeping kick by Dâgalûr. He fell to the ground and his head connected with a large rock, opening up an unsightly wound. The Uruk went in for vengeance while Dâgalûr dealt with the orc, but was swiftly taken down to the ground with a punch to the temple as Dâgalûr turned around. Black, viscous blood began to leak from his nose as he stumbled about in a haze. Dâgalûr took the opportunity to grab the orc's head and continuously slam it into the rock until nothing but a pulpy mixture of blood, brain matter, cartilage, and skull bits remained. The crowd quickly swarmed the carcass and began to dig in, just as they had with the taskmaster's remains.

"Two down, one more ter go."

The Uruk was unable to recover fast enough before he felt Dâgalûr's clawed gauntlets digging into his stomach. His vision was blurred, but he could feel an excruciating pain coming from his midsection as something wet and slippery gripped around his neck. Soon enough he realized he was being strangled with his own intestines. The light began to drain out of his eyes as the Uruk drew his last breaths, his remains left by the crowd for the Morgul Bats and crows to pick apart.

"Oi!," Dâgalûr began to huff and puff from exhaustion. "get a move on, ladz! One rabble ain't gon ter meen you's all gets a break!"

He remounted Bolgdyr and began to catch his breath, taking a flask from another Uruk as he reached for the reins. He opened it up and inspected its contents. The putred smell could only be one thing: grog. Dâgalûr took a few swigs from the flask before tossing it back to the Uruk. He felt somewhat rejuvenated from the drink, but it would not heal his leg injury, the claw marks on his throat, and the many bruises from his falls.

The battalion continued their march as the taskmasters became increasingly unforgiving with their duty. By the time the unit reached the camp, a trail of tar-like blood had been left behind, and it stretched several yards back. Those unlucky enough to be struck multiple times had lost so much blood that they could barely stand, most collapsing from exhaustion. It seeped through their armor and stained their crude cloth shirts with a deep black hue. A few casualties was nothing to Dâgalûr. Death and injury were simply as much a part of life in Mordor as sharp, pointy objects and freezing cold ash-winds were. The job was done, and that's what mattered. Orcs were being produced in the vats by the hundreds every day, a few dead ones wouldn't cripple their numbers.

Dâgalûr no longer had remorse or compassion for most who dwelled in Middle-Earth. Everything and everyone he'd ever loved had been taken from him long ago, and his behavior since then had teetered on sociopathy. His shattered conscience took a back seat to the only thing he cared about now, and that was vengeance. He would do anything or kill anyone to get it, even those he considered to be the few true friends he had. He was the son of slain parents, the husband to a murdered wife, a father to three butchered children, and the master of a slaughtered apprentice. Not one of them had done anything to deserve such a fate their entire lives, so there was no reason whatsoever that they were either left lying in pools of their own blood or hung from gibbets. Dâgalûr had done some fairly despicable things up to that point himself, but that didn't justify their deaths. Gondor had just waltzed in, called for a crusade to take back what they claimed to be their lands, razed the quaint little village Dâgalûr and his wife had settled down in, and raped and massacred everyone who resisted them even slightly.

The worst thing about it was that he was not even close to being the only victim; that had happened repeatedly in villages and towns that bordered Gondorian territory at various intervals over the last few hundred years or so. He had found his apprentice as an infant in the aftermath of one such raid while scouring the rubble for supplies. Crusade after crusade had been called upon by the corrupt and rotten Stewards throughout the years, though a large chunk of the Gondorian Armed Forces opposed the raiding and sacking (Unless it was Orc settlements in question, then there was no hesitation from any of them, down to the last imp). Dâgalûr didn't care, however; they were still to be held accountable for their peers committing such atrocities regardless of whether they wanted to commit them or not.

Dâgalûr's blood boiled at the thought that the Kingdom of Gondor were commonly held up as altruistic by the other cultures of Middle-Earth, when in reality they were nothing more than a band of bloodthirsty tyrants posing as paragons. "History is written by the victors, and the victors will write the truth about Gondor." was a thought that he commonly recited in his head, often several times a week. Once Gondor was absolutely annihilated, its cities razed to smoldering heaps of ashes, its people slaughtered in droves, its women violated to the fullest extent of indecency and perversion, its children worked to death and devoured by wargs, and its legacy purged from history and memory, he would finally be at peace.

Mordor wasn't much better, but it was still better. At least they had shown him some grudging respect once he had climbed to the top. Dâgalûr was the "left hand" of Mordor, and he greatly enjoyed some of the perks that came with that position, namely all the food he could eat, some of the finest weapons and armor available in all of Middle-Earth (especially when compared to that crudely sewn leather and cast iron garbage that the footsloggers wore), and a ticket to be spared from the coming darkness that would blanket all of Middle-Earth, but he didn't truly care about Mordor, or Sauron's plight.

Sauron, although a truly gifted and blessed craftsman and smith, was a deceitful, manipulative trickster, and his soldiers and minions were nothing more than puppets to him, but Dâgalûr was able to see through such disregard for others because Mordor sought to eradicate Gondor, and Dâgalûr was a firm believer in the saying 'The enemy of my enemy is my ally'. He didn't care if he was serving under a liar. He saw through the lies, and had worked, fought, and killed his way to the top, and had slowly gained Lord Sauron's favor along the way, even if he was only viewed as a simple instrument to be used against his enemies.

Many orc leaders detested him, the reason varying from captain to captain, from warchief to warchief, and so on. One reason was that he had chosen the promise of power over his own race. Instead of focusing on the history, rituals, and art of his people (however crude and simplistic), Dâgalûr had cast aside the ways of old and become caught up in pushing the war machine and reducing orcs into cannon fodder and pawns, abandoning the traditions and culture of the tribes. He was the most powerful orc in Mordor, yet had forgotten what had made him an orc.

Others fueled their hatred with racism towards the race of men, pointing out his white, blotched skin. His only directly visible distinctions from the average human were the upward slants his alae took in an attempt to resemble a more Orcish, piglike snout, and the small, outlying blotches of dark, leathery skin that painted his body, the most distinct of which being one that covered the left part of his face and forehead, and the yellowed discoloration of the sclera of that eye. 'Halftark-filth' and 'Pinkskin' they would call him.

His mannish appearance was a curse bestowed upon him by his father's lineage. His father's father was a Gondorian, and Dâgalûr was not pleased about it. That same lineage which cursed both him and his father was ultimately his father's downfall, as well. Dâgalûr could still remember the harsh words of his grandfather, a monstrous, hateful man who detested Dâgalûr with all his being. The curses and insults he spewed out about Dâgalûr often haunted him as he thought of the hatred he held for Gondor. The noises of his mother's shrieks and wails as she watched her only child escape from a fate she would soon meet drove a knife through Dâgalûr's now twisted, blackened heart.

Dâgalûr was too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice that someone was trying to gain his attention. It was one of his lieutenants, a bloated, fat orc with heavy facial scarring, leaving him with no visible nose. He held a long, metal staff, the end of which bore a vibrant red cast of the Great Eye. Laga was his name, and he was chiefest of the sorcerers and librarians that followed Dâgalûr.

"BOSS! Listen!"

Dâgalûr snapped out of it, giving Laga a dreadful scowl. "What in tha' hell do you want?"

"Ya need tuh see this." the lieutenant said, as he pointed something about a mile out in the distance.

The only visible feature on the object he was pointing to was a blinding white light radiating from it, as if Varda herself had called down a star from the heavens and it had crashed down into the earth. Smoke and dust clouded Dâgalûr's ability to get a good look at the rest of whatever it was.

"Look, master, over there. Wha' is that? Sum Elvish trickery been slippin' inta 'ere?"

"I dunno, lad, but I'm goin' in alone to check it out. If I'm not back before nightfall, consider me dead." Dâgalûr said.

He kicked Bolgdyr in the sides and tugged at the reins, and the great and terrible caragor set off for the object.

The ride was bumpy, as the ground was littered with stones and thorn bushes that Bolgdyr was forced to navigate around, but the two reached the source of the light fairly quickly. The object in question was a rift of some sorts, several feet tall. A gloriously bright light was shining from it. Dâgalûr had stopped a few feet away from it, and dismounted. He was absolutely dumbfounded and awestruck.

He'd never gazed upon anything even remotely close to it in all his years. He had seen Necromancy and the like before, but no such wizardry or Elven spell-craft had ever been seen within these mountainous borders. Perhaps it was the result of the experiments by some cult far beyond the Eastern Desolation, or even creatures from the stars. Bolgdyr quickly retreated as far away as his paws could carry him, but Dâgalûr didn't even notice the cowardice his steed had demonstrated, as he was too caught up in whatever phenomenon lay before him. He slowly approached it from the rear, only to find it identical to its front.

Dâgalûr contemplated what would happen if he touched it. "Will I die? Bah, I got nuffin' left to lose. But will I ever come back? Where would I go?" These thoughts ran through his head, and he concluded, "I dun' care about this place. Maybe, if I'm lucky, It'll kill me 'nd take tha world with it!" Not knowing what to expect at all, he put his open hand up to it, immediately being enveloped within the second he made contact.

Author's Note: For those of you reading from 2019 and onwards, this entire story has been significantly reworked and updated, but it still retains the events of the original Prologue, with the flashback sequences removed for pacing. Everything is being reworked in order to provide better dialogue, more realistic interactions between characters, and an overall better reading experience. I've decided to make a Redux version of this story while still keeping the old one to see how much I've grown as a writer these past few years. Until the next update, everyone. Whenever it may be.