DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters or happenings of middle earth. They belong to J. R. R. Tolkien and sometimes Peter Jackson's stuff might fall in too. I only own my OC. Please, feel free to leave any comments and questions. Follow the story in which ever way you would like, but make your thoughts known. Thank you!


CHAPTER 1

A battle rages in the midst of a rocky field. Littered around are bodies, tents, and freshly stamped out fire pits as weapons clash, sparking with each clang of crudely wrought iron. At the center of it all is Azog, the giant, pale, Gundabad orc. A mutation even amongst his own, he towers above all with ease. Muscles bulge from beneath his flesh, barely contained beneath the tough exterior. His hide of pale leather-like thickness illuminates his icy blue eyes which spark with an intellectual sharpness that rivals his daggered fangs. He toys with his opponents, if you can call half starved and beaten foot soliders by the title, allowing them to come close enough for him to disembowel each with his scimitar. The curved blade was created with a hooked point to yank the innards of the enemy from the torso. The wound does not end their lives however, no, he leaves them to slowly walk the path to darkness. Before they reach it however, he returns and smashes their skulls with his spiked mace. It has become a pattern, a ritual almost, though none have been able to escape despite knowing the orc's aim. The reason behind his slaughter is simple sport; weeding out the weaker members of his army to enhance the strength over all. It also passes the time. Waiting idly is never an option when there is greater strength to be procured. A squeal of outrage is all that is needed to confirm that what has been awaited has come to pass. A commanding roar halts further attacks as Azog's hulking form strides from the self-made arena without a scratch upon his skin. He approaches the only standing tent, shoving the guard from the entrance with an order.

"Feed the weak to the wargs." He jerks his head with a scoff at his dead goblins "Give the survivors a female."

Without waiting for an answer, Azog pushes aside the flap and enters the shelter. The scent of blood is heavy in the air, tickling his sensitive nose with the familiar aroma. All things bleed, from beast to plant, and the orc is no stranger to it. Many times he has bathed in it, giving his skin color the only way it can obtain it. Silently dismissing the orcesses gathered he moves toward a bundle, blackened with the dark substance. Reaching in, the orc grasps a limb and forcefully yanks it into the air. Holding the bloody wriggling mass of flesh to his face, the pale orc examines the imp. It is large, far larger than any orc should be at birth. This is supported by the cooling corpse of the she orc who birthed him. Separated from the floor by a few scraps of dirty cloth a mere foot away, she bleeds out from the completion of her duty. Though she had a name the chieftain never made the effort to learn it, using her body for the purpose of providing an heir. There are others, there will always be others, and the orc has already forgotten her. Azog pays little attention to the nameless female, feeling no pity for her fate as she has given him what he desired: A son. The wargs would have enjoyed the flesh of a child had it been female. His skin is a deep gray, similar to the ash left by the night's flame. His face, unevenly flat like it has been crushed by a hammer, is curled into an animalistic snarl. It gives a clear view of twisted teeth that already glisten in his muzzled mouth. The orcling twitches in his sire's grasp as he nods his acceptance of the imp, holding him upside down by the ankles.

"He is large." A general, Yazneg, of the vast army acknowledges when their leader exits the enclosure, still holding the newborn in the strange position "What of the carrier?"

"She has served her purpose." The ruler responds without compassion for the life lost "My heir has arrived just as he should: covered in blood with death at his heels."

"May he serve you well."

"He will." The heavy newborn is raised into the air for all to see. A roaring cheer resounds through the caverns, accepting the successor "His name shall be Bolg. All shall tremble at its utterance."

The orcling grows fast, chasing after his sire with a hungry goal of one day surpassing him. Quickly his world expands from the gloom he was born to, into the darkness he would thrive in. Nothing is given freely; not food or shelter. All needs to be fought for, killed for. The strong live to fight again while the weak are used as fodder and cast aside. In the end, it all comes back to power. The more one gains, the better they are. The best, or worst, is his sire Azog. He is a powerful and cruel ruler, caring only enough for his men and offspring to ensure their growing strength. Day by day, month by month, year by year. Strength is the only goal and when it comes time to test that strength, Bolg's darkness impressed even his father with his ruthlessness in battle. The young orc hacks at his enemies, each swipe of his bone club delivering a killing blow with such ease that all would think his was born with the weapon in hand. Upon reaching his majority, Azog gifts his heir with a mace similar to his own, showing his pride for his strength in the only way deemed acceptable. Bolg found most of his violent inspiration in how Azog dealt with his enemies. While he would quickly snap the neck of men and chop off the limbs of elves, he held a special disdain for dwarves. When the now full grown orc finally asked his sire of his hate his answer was much simpler than expected.

"Men are weak and elves are fearful but dwarves… dwarves will fight with their all and crushing that spirit is more satisfying than anything else."

His passion for slaying dwarves becomes so intense that he takes to ending entire lineages. Fathers, mothers, children. It matters not, as long as they suffer. The females he enjoys in numerous ways, earning the fitting title of 'defiler' for his preference of virgins. Each time he succeeds in collapsing a family tree, he adds a scar to his face so that all will know of his prowess. It is by chance that he leads his army to Moria; the abandoned dwarven city. The underground chambers are filled not with golden flecks or sparkling gems, but with mithril. He uses the silvered steel to enhance to deadliness of his army. It is fitting that should Azog defile the dwarven body, that the home should be next. As often as possible he brings dwarf dams, though rare because of their overall lack of abundance, into the city of their ancestors to sully them in the holes that were once seen as sacred to all that walked them. He teaches his ways to his son, but Bolg finds more enjoyment in simple death than torture. It always ends in darkness for their victims, regardless of which sword they meet it at the end of. It remains this way for many years. The halls become soaked with centuries of blood and the cries of pure anguish can always be heard. For Azog, life is as it should be. Then, there was Thror.


New story time! This is my 2nd story and I'm actually really excited about it. Not that I wasn't excited about the first. This one won't be nearly as long though. If you haven't, go read my other story too, though they aren't co-dependant on each other and can be read separately. Anyhow, review! I need to know how you all feel about it. See you next time!