Disclaimer: I am not associated with J.R.R Tolkein or any of his works professionally.
Author's Note: This is a sequel/related story to "The Dark King."
From the North he came, wild, young and carefree. In the beginning, he had been merely looking for somewhere to live, somewhere where he would not be asked questions about his past or bothered about his appearance.
Looking back on that day, when he crossed into Middle-earth, full of young hopes and foolish desires, he laughed at his dreams for an idealistic existence. Nothing such as he would ever be able to live in peace. He studied his face in the still bowl of water he had filled. It was gray and expressionless, dull black eyes staring unblinkingly up at him. His thin lips twisted in an expression of self-disgust and anger. He slammed his fist into the bowl, shattering the image of himself, the water distorting his face.
Forngor stood up, throwing the bowl away from him, and turned to the door of the now-deserted house he had ransacked. Forngor was a rare species, a misfit among misfits, born with a remarkable ability. He was a shape-shifter. When Forngor had entered Middle-earth, he had searched out a village where he could stay. His odd appearance was received with screams of horror and scornful looks of revulsion. Forngor had run that first night, his fangs bared with anger. He would return and those Men would pay for their taunts.
His shape-shifting allowed him to become anything of a species, but not an individual. But what he had was enough. He came into town as a hungry, lost traveler, seeking shelter for the night and a warm meal. After making his way to the local inn, the Sign of the Drake, he became a Warg. Howling savagely, he threw himself at the townspeople, tearing and ripping with his fangs and claws. Forngor leaped to the doors as people tried to get out, barring them with his body. He snarled, backing into the doors and slamming them shut.
"What do you want from us, monster?" a man shouted. As soon as the words had left his mouth, the man fell to the ground, his eyes open and unseeing, blood leaking from his throat.
"Nothing that you can give me." Forngor hissed, his words garbled and twisted.
Then he attacked.
That night, the village of Manrake was destroyed. The one survivor spoke of a Warg in the inn and a troll demolishing the buildings and then of a Dwarf hacking fleeing townspeople with his axe. As they ran, there was an Elf archer, picking off the fleeing people with uncanny accuracy. After his story was told, the poor man fainted. That night, an archer visited that village and in the morning, the man was found dead, an arrow in his throat.
Forngor traveled in such a way, going to villages in his normal form and seeing what sort of reception he was given. If he was greeted with anger and taunts, he would return that night and the next morning, the smoke from the remains of the village would be seen rising above the treetops.