In the land of Mordor, the Orcs and other foul races thrived on death. Sauron was preparing to march against the pathetic cowards of Middle Earth.
To prepare for this magnificent war, the servants of the Great Eye began a mass production of swords, shields, and armor. Ringmail and scimitars were given to the snagas and Dogs, while the Logaz, Rakargs, and Tek'raks were given fine scale mail, and broadswords.
Amongst the endless toil of work, an overseer by the name of Bâzurk merely stood and watched as the snagas worked, waiting patiently for a chance to use his merciless whip. His job was to oversee the creation of a melting pit. The snagas dug fiercely with their flimsy shovels and picks for they knew that if they slacked just a little, Bâzurk would be their whip lashing out to draw their blood.
Bâzurk loved to beat the snagas. In his opinion, snagas were useless to the Eye, and any of them who could not work fast enough. As snagas were expendable, no one attempted to stop him.
Bâzurk had been watching a particularly odd snaga, known as Azklâsh. The quiet snaga, aptly nicknamed Hoshat (Silence), had neither uttered one complaint, nor grunted as he was forced to dig with his bare hands for the three months he had worked in the pit. His silence angered Bâzurk, for nothing gave the Orc more satisfaction than a groaning-or screaming- snaga.
"Snaga, grafug doramri! (You, digging with your hands)" Bâzurk called out one day, his patience spent. Azklâsh rose from the side of the pit, mud clinging to his rags and skin. "Bâzurk nar shof pun! Snaga lug gris! (I see no progress. You lazy swine)" Suddenly, Bâzurk's whip cracked against Orc flesh. Azklâsh flinched but did not cry out.
Grunting in frustration, Bâzurk struck again, and again, and again. The whip cracked twenty times before the beating ceased. Black blood had been drawn by the second blow, but Azklâsh still had not graced Bâzurk with a scream.
Unable to be pleased with the snaga's physical pain, Bâzurk made his final attack.
"Zanbaur! (Elf)" Bâzurk spat before stomping off, in search of a more responsive victim. Azklâsh remained standing for a moment more, blood dripping down his back, hands clenching and unclenching. As his blood mixed with the mud of the melting pit, Azklâsh spoke for the first time in three months.
"Ashdautas Vrasubatlat (One day I'll kill you)" The snaga vowed.
Suddenly, an unorcish scream ripped through the air. The snagas turned their heads, expecting a Wraith, the most trusted servant of the Eye, to be flying overhead.
But some of these unfortunate snagas were greeted by a huge, whistling chain, smashing into their heads. Huge, sickening cracks of bones splintering and skulls crunching could be heard as their blood flew thick in the air, splattering the ground like rain on a stormy day. A troll had been loosed.
Azklâsh, the sole surviving snaga, dived for a pick. Unfortunately, in doing so, he slipped in the mud and plummeted to the bottom of the pit.
The troll's roars could be heard overhead and Azklâsh knew he was not safe yet. Trolls were not known for their intelligence and this one stayed true to his kind and slipped into the pit. Azklâsh dived once more, barely avoiding the trolls crushing weight.
But he did not escape the chain.
The chain was huge and heavy, and it landed on Azklâsh's leg, heavily bruising it. He hissed in pain, and then his leg numbed, hindering his ability to move.
The troll, however, was quite mobile. Sensing the wounded Orc, he growled in ecstasy. Another creature to kill. He reached for his chain slowly.
But Azklâsh was too fast for him. Using his pick, he jammed it into the chain link and thrust both into the ground. The pick miraculously held.
Screaming in frustration, the troll raised its head to the sky, leaving its vulnerable neck defenseless. Azklâsh released the pick and hurled it toward the troll.
The pick tore into the troll's throat, and its blood sprayed, drenching Azklâsh. Azklâsh smiled, and licked the blood off his lips. It was warm and salty, and the Orc felt his insides warm.
All around the pit, snagas gathered at the edge, watching the Orc in amazement. Never had a snaga been so brave.
Azklâsh limped out of the pit, his leg still numbed, his back on fire from agitation. He glared at the gawking snagas, who avoided his piercing gaze.
A Logaz, noticing the sudden silence at the pit, approached the pit. Seeing the dead troll, he turned and called out to the snagas.
"Snaga vras olog? (Did a slave kill this troll?)" The Logaz hissed. One snaga stepped forward.
"Hoshat vras olog (Hoshat did)," the snaga replied.
"Hoshat prak parpara (Hoshat, step forward)," Logaz ordered. Azklâsh obeyed. Logaz snorted, taking in the Orc's unusual stance. He stood, his back straight, not crouching and groveling like the filthy snagas around him. Logaz watched as Azklâsh limped forward.
"Snaga daumab (You are hurt)," Logaz observed. Then, glancing at the snaga's back, he added, "Snaga fashaukalog (and flogged)." Azklâsh merely stood there, both the troll's and his own blood stiffening on his skin. It was a most enjoyable sensation. Logaz paused for a moment more, then grabbed Azklâsh roughly by the shoulder and led him to Barad-dur.