Hi! 1) These guys are all Tolkien's creation (save a few characters, which
are mine). 2) I like reviews, pleeeeze!!!!!!! 3) This is a humorous, quase
Mary-Sue (don't run!!!) fic. Enjoy!!!!
Chapter 1
It had been a long day for the Dark Lord, and he was now returning tired and dusty across the long waste before his main gate of Morannon. He walked briskly, a tall dark shape in the setting sun, a menacing figure. It seemed unreal, to the orc guards standing on the battlement of the gate, as he approached. He looked as carved form black stone and smoke and shadow, a figure from an elder world, and image come from a nightmare or an elven song that spoke of dread.
The orcs cowered and ran as they saw him come, more afraid of the stories and the legend that surrounded their Lord, than of any actual threat he brought. In fact, Sauron was not concerned in appearing threatening at all right now. He was a bare mile from the main entrance to his land, a place he knew none dared oppose him, and where he was safe and sovereign. He did not need to use his skill of terror to make his coming known, his servants feared him enough as it was. Besides, he had other matters to think about.
The day had been long. That morning, as he sat on his throne in the tall Tower of the Eye, and gazed upon his realm, he noticed a strange occurrence. A brisk of blue flame and then gold in a place on the north east of the gate, where all should normally be barren and empty. Fearing his enemies were up to something, not wanting to send an orc scout (too much noise, and so sloppy on the job), and not having any of his Nazgul at hand, he decided that a walk would be an interesting diversion, so he set himself to see upclose what it was.
To his surprise, a new dragon attack was being planned on his land. Apparently Scarath, his dragon-enemy of old was not deterred by his infamous loss nearly a century ago, when Sauron led an orc/troll army against him and his minions on the plains east of Mordor, and dizimated the fire out of them. Scarath had returned, with a new ally, a poisonous Dragon from the Rhun wastes, and the blue - gold flame Sauron saw was the morning breath of this beast.
The battle had been long, and Sauron barely won. He missed his Ring dearly, for it would have given him extra strength, but he was not a small rat to reckon with even so. In fact, lately, he had felt his strength increase, and had been practicing his new favorite skill: transformations. Sauron was of old a shapeshifter, his transformation into an enormous wolf at the meeting with Luthien was recorded in many an elven song (not much else was recorded correctly about THAT meeting, Sauron noticed as he walked, but than the elves always had a manner to glorify themselves in their songs, exaggerate somewhat their noble deeds, and present their enemies as horrid phantoms or distorted beasts).
Shapeshifting, as any skill, was 10% talent (or, in Sauron's case, innate Maiar power), and 90% practice. Even loosing his Ring did not matter to Sauron's abilities, which only increased with the years, and that particular day he could feel satisfied that he had overcome the poison dragon by turning himself into one of the kind himself. Sauron smirked satisfiedly thinking how imposing he had been, a golden-red dragon, huge in size, with scales running smooth as mail down his back, fire roaring from his opened jaws, teeth as elven swords and white. Nothing like he looked now, a tall shape man-like and clad in simple black, hood over his face and raven hair that lay loose and dirty over his shoulders. Could use a bath, he thought. The walk had been long and he was feeling at the end of his strength.
Chapter 1
It had been a long day for the Dark Lord, and he was now returning tired and dusty across the long waste before his main gate of Morannon. He walked briskly, a tall dark shape in the setting sun, a menacing figure. It seemed unreal, to the orc guards standing on the battlement of the gate, as he approached. He looked as carved form black stone and smoke and shadow, a figure from an elder world, and image come from a nightmare or an elven song that spoke of dread.
The orcs cowered and ran as they saw him come, more afraid of the stories and the legend that surrounded their Lord, than of any actual threat he brought. In fact, Sauron was not concerned in appearing threatening at all right now. He was a bare mile from the main entrance to his land, a place he knew none dared oppose him, and where he was safe and sovereign. He did not need to use his skill of terror to make his coming known, his servants feared him enough as it was. Besides, he had other matters to think about.
The day had been long. That morning, as he sat on his throne in the tall Tower of the Eye, and gazed upon his realm, he noticed a strange occurrence. A brisk of blue flame and then gold in a place on the north east of the gate, where all should normally be barren and empty. Fearing his enemies were up to something, not wanting to send an orc scout (too much noise, and so sloppy on the job), and not having any of his Nazgul at hand, he decided that a walk would be an interesting diversion, so he set himself to see upclose what it was.
To his surprise, a new dragon attack was being planned on his land. Apparently Scarath, his dragon-enemy of old was not deterred by his infamous loss nearly a century ago, when Sauron led an orc/troll army against him and his minions on the plains east of Mordor, and dizimated the fire out of them. Scarath had returned, with a new ally, a poisonous Dragon from the Rhun wastes, and the blue - gold flame Sauron saw was the morning breath of this beast.
The battle had been long, and Sauron barely won. He missed his Ring dearly, for it would have given him extra strength, but he was not a small rat to reckon with even so. In fact, lately, he had felt his strength increase, and had been practicing his new favorite skill: transformations. Sauron was of old a shapeshifter, his transformation into an enormous wolf at the meeting with Luthien was recorded in many an elven song (not much else was recorded correctly about THAT meeting, Sauron noticed as he walked, but than the elves always had a manner to glorify themselves in their songs, exaggerate somewhat their noble deeds, and present their enemies as horrid phantoms or distorted beasts).
Shapeshifting, as any skill, was 10% talent (or, in Sauron's case, innate Maiar power), and 90% practice. Even loosing his Ring did not matter to Sauron's abilities, which only increased with the years, and that particular day he could feel satisfied that he had overcome the poison dragon by turning himself into one of the kind himself. Sauron smirked satisfiedly thinking how imposing he had been, a golden-red dragon, huge in size, with scales running smooth as mail down his back, fire roaring from his opened jaws, teeth as elven swords and white. Nothing like he looked now, a tall shape man-like and clad in simple black, hood over his face and raven hair that lay loose and dirty over his shoulders. Could use a bath, he thought. The walk had been long and he was feeling at the end of his strength.