First Contacts

by Grey-Orc

Sequel to Strange Luminescence. When after the War of the Ring, an orc has a chance to choose her own path, she chooses light. Yet a trip into Mordor complicates matters for her. Now comes the battle that no one should fight alone - making a hard choice and sticking to it. Will she be able to hold or will she be lost like so many others?

1. Of Wargs and Orcs

First Contacts

By Grey-Orc and Sevilodorf

With beta assistance from Debi

2016

A Note about Burping Troll Adventures

Like many Tolkien fans, we wanted to move to Middle-Earth. And like many others we created a Role-Playing Group to do so. The Inn of the Burping Troll opened February of 2002 on the Netscape LOTR Message Board and was soon populated by an exotic assortment of elves, men, hobbits and orcs, along with a bartending balrog and a lyrical warg. As the months passed, the personae we adopted took on their own lives. The characters brought in friends and relatives, and a mysterious stranger arrived to turn the place on its ear.

The second phase of The Burping Troll began with the creation of to archive the adventures the characters insisted we tell. New, more canonical, guidelines were established concerning our use of Tolkien's landscapes; however, the warg, the balrog and the rehabilitated orcs refused to leave. Thus, our stories are set in the Fourth Age of a Middle-Earth where orcs play cribbage with elves, a balrog serves Rangers steaming cups of mulled wine and hobbit lasses scold the warg for tracking mud on the common room floor.

This story follows directly from "Strange Luminescence", so if you haven't read that you might want to. It also makes references to people, events and/or things from the Burping Troll universe. The tale takes place concurrently with the off-camera beginnings of Southern Exposure, and also skirts the edges of What Hope Remains, though you won't need to have read those specifically to understand this tale.

Chapter 1

Of Wargs and Orcs

November 1423 S.R.

Wetwang Marsh

The last rays of the sun vanished as Warg lifted her nose to savor the faint smell of snow on the air. So faint she dismissed the possibility of the icy white stuff doing more than drifting about in the air for a moment or two. It certainly wasn't anything to delay the plans she and Nik had made. Now, if the little orc would just hurry himself up, they could be off.

Warg gave a quick look over her shoulder. No sign of Nik. He was still in the barn attached to the sturdy house belonging to Russbeorn. Nik's pack master, or "Teach" as he called him since Russ refused to accept being called anyone's master, would no doubt be curled up in his enormous bed sound asleep. Russ slept more and more as the days grew colder, leaving Nik to deal with the animals and other necessary chores. This expedition would be their last chance to explore until warm weather returned. They would have a week - If, that is, they ever left.

Warg gave her left ear an irritated scratch, then considered how times had changed. Five years ago, Nik was one of Saruman the Deceiver's Uruk-hai. Not that Saruman even knew who the orc was. Less than half size, Nik was the runt of his litter and had spent as much of his time as possible staying clear of the other orcs. Warg had been in a pack that roamed the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains between the Old Forest Road and the River Gladden. Not that she'd called them that then. Never had either of them thought that they would one day be packmates with elves, men, hobbits and a skinchanging Beorning, but here they were. Warg chuffed a laugh. Imagine, putting an orc and a warg in charge of tending chickens. Times had certainly changed.

"I'm ready."

"About time! We've ..." the scolding tone vanished as Warg picked up the scent of the honey cakes Nik was stashing in the leather pack he would sling across his back. "Now, that's a good idea. Sweets are hard to come by in the Wild. How about we eat some right now?"

"I thought you said you ate an entire haggis just this afternoon?" Nik frowned at the bag. "Maybe I should get some more."

"No, no. Let's go."

Nik gave a crooked-toothed grin at Warg's enthusiasm and nodded eagerly. He pulled at the barn door's latch once more, and then satisfied it was secure, jumped onto Warg's back. He settled into the low crouch that allowed for the greatest speed and said, "Let's ride."

West toward the Anduin was their direction. Nik had heard stories of Rauros Falls and wanted to see it. Maybe, if things went well, they would even go north along the river and see the Argonath. Warg didn't care about the stories, though she liked to settle by the hearth while they were told as there were always lots of interesting snacks to accompany the storytelling. But she did care about Nik, and if staring at a waterfall and a statue were what he wanted to do, that's what they would do.

A week later, Warg's willingness to follow Nik's lead was being sorely tested. Rather than take the same route back that they had used on their way to the river, Nik picked a path through the Dead Marshes. Why, Warg could not imagine. And though they had finally abandoned that dreary place, both warg and orc were covered in foul smelling mud, and now trapped in the outer edges of the Wetwang where momentum was no more than a plod. Warg resisted a sigh. It would take days for her to get this mud out of her fur, and the taste would linger in the back of her throat for a week or more.

Warg sniffed the air delicately. Expecting only the overpowering scents of the wetlands, she was surprised to catch a new scent. She stopped and lifted her nose to follow the gusting wind. Nik slipped off her back with a soft splash, moving to stand sniffing as well.

"Too much swamp for me to make anything out," Nik said, after a few minutes.

"It's strange. Fire and metal, with leather and wax. But it's definitely an orc."

Having made The Burping Troll her home for several years, fire and metal, separately and in combination, were familiar enough. As were wax and leather. The faint bitter musk of orc had been known since her earliest memories. What was strange was that this was not an orc Warg knew. Humans, hobbits and elves, along with the occasional dwarf, might cover their scent with fruity or flowery soap, but she could detect none of that. Inhaling deeply, she focused on ignoring the ever-present smells of rot and stagnant water.

"An orc?" Nik looked confused. "One of Gubbitch's lads?"

"No. Not anyone I know. It's faint, but the scent's there. Not too far away. It's alone, and not of the pack."

"Should we go around?"

There are all too many reasons to be wary of unknown orcs. It would be the wise thing to do, but this one was a puzzle Warg suddenly wanted to understand.

"We could, but this one has an odd scent. I want to see it."

"Which way?"

The wind was becoming increasingly shifty and gusty, which made the scent hard to catch and hold, but Warg indicated the direction with a flick of her ear. Whatever had gone wrong with the Isengarder's breeding to leave him barely half-sized had done no harm to his eyes. Nik leaned far forward, shifting his weight slightly as his eyes scanned the ground, and he soon picked out a path. Warg resist another sigh as he guided her deeper into the swamp.

About an hour later, they spotted it. Completely alone, cloaked and hooded in a big fur. There was no way to tell whether it was male or female, but it was certainly an orc. It was too short to be a man, and no dwarf would come out here. It wandered among the pools of swamp muck, peering intently into each, a knife tapping lightly against its thigh. Soon it became plain that while focused on its task, it was not unwary and scanned its surroundings for any threat. Nik and Warg stayed well back and weren't spotted. Suddenly it made a move to stoop.

Warg could see no difference in the piece of muck it lifted up, but the stranger cut into it several times, removing chunks and putting them in a big bag. Very odd. Whatever was going into that bag didn't smell like food.

"What's it looking for?" Nik asked, and received a wargish shrug in reply.

The two friends continued to watch the strange orc cut out bits of whatever it wanted badly enough to scrounge around a dank, cold swamp. Finally the bag was full, and the orc turned to leave.

Wordlessly, Nik pointed out a path that would keep them on the stranger's trail. It could not be allowed to threaten the pack.

Through the swamp, they followed with no sign their quarry was aware of their presence. Tracking prey was prime sport and Warg and Nik exchanged more than one sharp toothed grin as the hours passed. As the stars faded and black sky brightened to gray dawn, the stranger crossed the road and headed into the foothills south of the ruins of the Black Gate.

As the trail shifted north, Warg threw herself under a prickly bush with a grunt. "Not sure I want to follow it in there."

Nik pulled the stopper from his water bag and squeezed some liquid into Warg's mouth then his own. "Agreed. That's no where we want to go. But..."

Warg gave a grumbling growl. "I know, I know. We have to tell the Rangers. That is not one of Gubbitch's orcs, and if it's roaming around the ruins of ..."

"Don't say it," Nik interrupted. "It's bad luck to even say the name."

Warg rolled her eyes. She didn't know where Nik got his ideas, but the Black Tower was not a place she'd ever been and not one she ever had any intention of visiting. Elves had some crazy idea of restoring the slopes of Mount Doom, but in her opinion planting trees would not clear that place of evil. It was best to simply stay away.

"Got any honey cakes left?"

Nik pulled two from his bag. Chewing slowly, they watched the hillside for any sign of their quarry; nothing appeared to be moving, neither up the hill nor back down to the road.

"So who do we tell first? Gubbitch or the Ranger boys?" Warg asked.

Scratching his ear, Nik shrugged. "Maybe it's just passing through."

"And maybe it's a scout for a group coming in from the East."

With a sigh, Nik stood. "There's no way of knowing, is there?"

"Not without tracking it down and making it tell us. And we're not going in there alone, so … Gubbitch or the Rangers?"

"The Rangers," Nik responded after a long moment. "It's their job to know about the roamer. And it's ours to tell them."

"All right then." Warg stood and shook herself, then her eyes brightened. "As it's 'official business', we can use the road."

Nik opened his mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. "It would be faster."

Warg crouched, and Nik mounted. Down the hill they raced, avoiding stunted trees and tumbled boulders by a hair until they reached the King's Highway.

Broad and level, the product of years of toil by crews led by dwarvish engineers and surveyors appointed by the King's Council, the road ran from Minas Tirith past the ruins of the Black Gate and north across the Wilderland to the banks of the River Running. Today, their route led south. With the Ephel Dúath towering on their left and the marshes of the Wetwang on their right, Warg and her rider thundered down the middle of the road. No obstacles slowed them and there were no travelers to scatter, though in their hearts they almost wish to come across a few.

Mile after mile they ran. The road curved west and the heights of the Ephel Dúath were blocked by the towering trees of Northern Ithilien. Swampland was replaced by thickets and copses of young trees planted in the years since the War by the elves who now made these woods their home. A stone bridge arched over a thin stream and a startled deer hurtled into the protection of the trees.

Nik laughed, and leaned forward with a joyous shout.

All too soon, the lands to their right became a fallow field with three cows and a small herd of goats. The grazing livestock raised their heads to stare at the swiftly moving pair; but save for a belligerent buck who reared up and stood glaring long after they passed, their interest was fleeting. The animals had become accustomed to sights far more unusual.

As the Inn of the Burping Troll came into sight, Warg slowed. The chickens housed near the inn's barn would be sure to raise a ruckus if she dashed into the courtyard at full speed. Upset chickens would upset the hobbits, who would scold and nag. Furthermore, news of a strange orc roaming the hills was not news Warg wanted the hobbits worrying about. Better they keep to the business of feeding the Troll's guests and residents.

Nik slipped off Warg's back as they reached the porch. "Where is everyone?"

Warg raised her head and sniffed. "Kitchen. It's a baking day." Then she led the way to the long narrow building that stood to the south of the inn. "Celebsul's in his workroom."

"But we need to see Captain Halbarad," insisted Nik.

"Don't smell any men around. Just hobbits and elves. So we'll go see Celebsul, and maybe he'll know where the Rangers are."

A frown crossed Nik's face and for a moment Warg wondered if he was going to get stubborn. Ever since the hearing last year when some lord had declared Nik a citizen of the realm, subject to all the laws and rights inherent to a free man, the little orc had become a stickler about doing what was right and proper.

"All right." Nik shrugged off his pack and began brushing at the mud caked on his trousers and shirt.

"If you could see what you look like, you'd know that is not going to help."

Nik held out his arms and looked at them, then down at his chest and legs. Finally, he turned and studied Warg. "Well, you don't look any better."

"Wasn't my idea to go mucking about the marshes," retorted Warg.

"Good thing we did though, wasn't it?" Nik asked. "Otherwise, we'd not know about..."

"Which we need to tell someone about rather than worry how pretty we are. Come on."

Warg made her way to the workshop door and raised a paw to pull down the handle. Celebsul had tasked his apprentice, Aerio, with the creation of a door knob that Warg could operate without leaving teeth marks on the hardware. Unlike many things the mechanically minded elf produced, this was kept deliberately simple, and therefore worked a treat.

After taking a moment to wipe her feet, just to prove that she too had manners, Warg entered the workshop. Fresh cut pine, paint and the sharp scent of turpentine filled the room, as well as the aroma of stew and fresh bread from a tray on the edge of a well organized workbench. Nik, who chose to remove his mud encrusted boots, followed on red stocking feet with his hands clasped tightly behind his back and eyes wide with wonder at the assorted projects scattered about the room.

Setting aside his tools, a silver haired elf rose to greet them with a solemn smile. "I hope your journey proved enjoyable. You," eyes shone with a brief flash of humor, "appear to have found an interesting route."

Warg snorted. "If by interesting you mean muddy, then it was. But mud wasn't the most interesting thing we found." Warg stopped and peered at the elf intently. "There's something wrong. I can smell it."

Celebsul nodded and the humor faded from his eyes. "Disturbing news has arrived. But first, you look as if you've traveled hastily. For enjoyment or because of what you discovered in the marsh?"

The elf waved Nik to a sturdy stool, set a mug of cider before him, then into a metal bowl he poured half the stew and settled it on the floor while presenting the remainder to Nik. When his guests were tended, Celebsul raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Knowing that prying information from the elf would be nigh impossible, Warg slurped down the stew and allowed Nik to tell of the stranger in the swamp. When Nik had finished, Celebsul turned his eyes to Warg.

Warg licked a spot of gravy from her paw, then asked, "What could it have been digging up? Stones, like Gubbitch's boys find in the hills? Or plants like Sevilodorf collects?"

Only Warg's intimacy with the elf allowed her to see the concern that darkened the elf's eyes at the mention of Sevilodorf. What had the Rohirrim healer gotten herself into this time?

"There are many useful plants in the wetlands," replied Celebsul. "So I suppose it is possible that this unknown orc was looking one. What I find most puzzling, even disturbing, is that you say it returned to the hills near the Morannan."

"More to the south. Across from the slag mounds," said Warg, looking to Nik for help in describing the location.

"The man holds," muttered Nik. "It was heading that way."

Celebsul studied the little orc without speaking. Nik hung his head. "Some of Gubbitch's boys told me about them. They said Gubbitch would skin them if they went near them."

Celebsul placed his hand on Nik's shoulder. "Gubbitch is right in telling his lads to avoid any remnants of the Dark Lord's fortresses. There is the possibility, especially for those who once labored under his control, lingering spells would lead to terrible consequences."

"As is often the case, troubles do not travel alone, but in groups." The elf lowered his head and closed his eyes in thought. After several minutes, he said, "You were right to bring this matter to the Troll. The Rangers will need to know and be on watch for this stranger. As will Gubbitch and all who roam the hills."

"Like Sevilodorf," Warg stated softly. Many times, the Rangers and Sevilodorf's companion, Anardil, had requested Warg act as guard to the woman as she went about her work. While the Rohirrim trader strongly resented the implication she could not look after herself, as time passed she came to accept Warg's company as that of a friend.

"Yes, like Sevilodorf."

"Tell us, Cel. What troubles have followed her home this time?"

"If only they had come home," Celebsul said. He explained that five days ago news had reached the Troll that Anardil, long away on a mission to the northeast, was believed dead. The report, a mix of speculation and fragile evidence, had the Rangers, all long time comrades of Anardil, mired in the depths of despair. Sevilodorf, to everyone's consternation, had stated clearly that she did not believe the report and then retreated into an impenetrable silence. At the moment, the Burping Troll Rangers, save for Bob and Morling, had traveled to Henneth Annûn to learn more and to receive their orders.

"Poor Sevilodorf," said Nik. "To not know for certain would be the hardest thing."

"She is certain," said Celebsul. "Certain that Anardil will return."

"But..." Nik's face twisted in confusion.

"Stranger things have happened," growled Warg. "Leave her alone."

"To a point that has been my suggestion as well," said Celebsul. "As for the stranger you have discovered, we will inform Bob, as Ranger in charge. Also Gubbitch, as he and his lads are most likely to come across our visitor. And of course, Russbeorn. All of us will watch our borders carefully."

"And our people. We will not lose others of the pack," Warg stated in a growl.

On another evening a few weeks later and far more chill with the breath of winter, Nik emerged from the barn after seeing to the animals, bringing with him an unusually large sack of honey cakes. Warg had not been waiting long enough to get irritated at the delay, but her nose twitched interestedly at the sack of cakes. Good food was never to be missed, after all. Nik tossed her one of the cakes.

"Teach knows we may be gone a few days this time," said Nik as he clambered astride Warg. "When I told him we were going to stay out until we followed it home, he said…" He paused to adopt a fair imitation of the big man's most bearlike growl, starting off light but growing more ominous toward the end of the impersonation. "Good. Now maybe I can sleep in peace. You watch that strange orc and make sure it keeps away from here."

They set out hunting. The trail took a bit of time to find, but soon it was evident that the stranger was once again heading into the swamp, a place the Rangers and Gubbitch's group were more than willing to leave to Nik and Warg. For the past few nights, they had observed the orc filling a bag, then retreating back into the hills. Nik had finally noticed a red tint to the water around where the orc was doing its cutting into the muck, but they still had no idea what it sought.

Each time previously, they had believed they were growing closer and closer to its hideout. But always the return trail was lost in the foothills, as neither footprints nor smells keep well on hard rock. Always the orc kept itself cloaked and hooded when out in the swamp or on the roads, as if it didn't wish to be known. There was no hiding its race from the nose of a warg, but most humans would perhaps think it a child while the cloak was up. Tonight though, they were determined no disguise or woodcraft would allow it to slip away. They left their prey to its collecting; and a point above where it frequently crossed the road to head into the Ephel Dúath, they settled to wait.

In the end, it was a dusting of snow that aided Nik in tracking its prints, and they discovered where it went every day. A deep sheltered cleft in the mighty wall comprising the western border of the land once called Mordor concealed the entrance behind rock that narrowed almost to the point of coming together. Then, they spent hours searching out a spot from which they could see the entrance to what appeared to be a rather large den that had been lived in for several months. Perched on a ledge scarcely wider than her body, Warg sniffed delicately, analyzing the smells, some of which were potent enough that Nik could detect them with his relatively less sensitive nose.

"It is heavy with the scents of the orc, food, running water, leather, fire, metal, freshly cut wood and some others I don't even recognize. The musk of the orc is still the faintest, though, Nik."

"I smell chemicals for working hides," Nik added.

"That would be the odd ones, then," decided Warg.

They lingered for several days, believing themselves out of the strange orc's knowledge, but mysteriously, starting on the third day of their watch, kills were left outside the cave.