Chapter 1

Being an Orc is easy. Either you adapt or die. From the first day as an Orcling, they are given instructions. Orcs live a rigorous life, bred for routine, with little room for error. As Orclings, they gather wood, help the smith, help the kitchen, anything where a few extra hands can pitch in. By their 130th moon cycle, they go on their first patrol. There is no room for error there. Every animal is an agent of Eru, every mountain a landslide, every human patrol a battle. About half the Orcs make it to 200 moon cycles, and most of that is hard lessons learned only through the Withered Heath.

After Sauron fell, the Elves and Men drove out the Orcs and goblins from the Mirkwood, and split them up evenly. Men get the north woods, Elves the south. It is in the Withered Heath, on the south foothills of the Northern Grey Mountains, the Wargheart Clan survive in the unforgiving steppe. Led by Chief Ollok-One Fang, noted among his Orc kin as the finest smith in 6 generations, the clan has 3 outposts and 30 head of Warg. The 400 members of the clan are 50 warriors, 20 warg-riders, 15 hammer hands, 5 Chief Brothers, as well as any normal Orc being able to fight.

Grak-Nine Finger was born in year 10 of the Fourth Age. He heard all his life how Sauron fell, leaving no hope for the future of Orcs. Grak tended to keep his head down, obeying orders. He was a great listener, especially about stories from the dark days, where Melkor led the Orcs and dragons to power. The Shaman Lomak-Rock Lifter told stories of Dragons and Balrogs trampling legions of dwarves and Elves.

Grak listened to elders mostly, knowing how to live off the harsh wastes. Grak knew how to hide from Men and Elves, setting traps and group defensive tactics. But in the back of his mind he kept Lomak's tales. Grak became a respectable warrior, and would most likely live a rather unnoteworthy life.

One day on patrol, Grak looked north. He saw the Grey Mountains. He called his partner.

"Hey Azbul, wanna take the northern path today?" Asked Grak.

Azbul was a typical Orc, not wanting to do anything other than exactly what he needed to do, and gave a response as such. "I ain't gonna move from this road. We'll get food when we get back."

Grak nodded. "Could be Elves or Men in the mountains."

Azbul snorted. "That's why we stay on the road. Nuthin but trouble over in the mountains."

Grak knew that at night, orcs ruled the roads. The tribes had a no exception kill on sight rule for non Orcs, unless specified for a mission. Since Sauron fell, there became less and less missions, and the ones they had were raids on supply carts. Grak sighed. Not two generations before, Sauron led an army of Orcs. Through the most improbable circumstances, Men and hobbits wiped out the last great Orc army.

Grak turned to Azbul. "We should make a report, just a peek over the path."

Azbul spat. "Lookin' to start a war? Maybe fly a Nazgul? Shut yer yap and stay on the road."

Grak shrugged. Orc life was his life, but he always wondered what kind of life it was. Eventually he will get killed, captured, or just fade into The Waste. He didn't have aspirations to be chief, on the contrary, he was absolutely loyal to Ollok. Ollok was fair, and split all rations equally. Unlike other Orc chiefs, claimed only 3 Chief maids, and was devoted to them. Ollok kept them safe, and will go down with the Shamans as a consolidator who kept the tribe alive in the hardest of times. Grak and Ollok had mutual respect, as survivors do with each other. As Grak and Azbul finished their patrol, Grak wondered, "Is survival enough?"

They entered the outpost casually, and they reported the same news as the past week; no Elves, Dwarves, or Men. In fact, there hasn't been any encounter for a harvest, and since it's been mostly fighting mountain lions or bears. Grak and Azbul walked into Ollok's was playing Bones with his son and 2 of his Chief Brothers.

"Nothing encountered, no new activity seen, road clear." said Grak.

Ollok, barely paying attention, nodded.

Grak walked over to the table, grabbed a piece of meat and walked outside to the fire. As he skewered the meat to put over the fire, Lomak was in the middle of telling a tale to the Orclings about the Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame. Grak has heard it many times throughout his life, and it was mainly to entertain the orclings, but he always secretly enjoyed it every time. Elves holding siege to Utumno Angband, Melkor releasing the dragons, and in one fell swoop taking back the lands and making the Elves, Dwarves, and Men suffer complete devastation. If not for the intervention of the Ainur, the whole of Middleearth would be under Melkor and Orc control.

Grak listened to the whole tale quietly once more while he ate. The tale of Dragons storming the fields, Elves underfoot, Men burning, dwarves retreating, brought a smile to Grak's face. He decided then and there that Orcs need to do more than survive. Tomorrow, he was going to sneak off, cross the great waste, and try to find any surviving Dragons.

Chapter 2

When Melkor emerged from the darkness, he called all Orcs to Angband. He appointed a Chief named Murtha as commander of the Orc armies. Although not the biggest nor the strongest, nor is his tribe the largest, he wasn't reputed as a wise Orc or exceptional in any craft. What Murtha did have was the absolute loyalty of his warriors and it was said that no Orc has ever been more focused and insightful in battle.

It was instituted in the legions Murtha's Law, or All for All. Most infractions were handled by the chiefs, but if a law was broken where it endangered the tribe, Murtha's law was instituted. An Orc is brought in front of the tribe, and his crimes are announced. They may explain why they did it. If any in the tribe agree with the offending Orc, they may join them. If they dissent, they may appear in court. The sides that agree and disagree then strip to their underclothes and fight to the death. If the Orc who commited the crime survives, they are exiled from the tribe upon penalty of death. However, if there are no dissenting Orcs, they are still exiled under penalty of death.

Desertion falls under Murtha's law. Not that any Orc in Grak's tribe has attempted to leave, there's simply no place to go. Unlike non-Orcs, there wouldn't be any search parties. It would be assumed that Grak was taken by the patrols. There would be a small ceremony to celebrate my ascension to the void joining Melkor, then everyone would move on. Grak saw no difference if that happens now or in 100 moons.

On the dusk of the patrol, Grak tried to act normal, but he was excited. Azbul noticed, and sneered. "What you all up about?"

Grak snorted. "Nothing, just ready to move."

Azbul didn't even acknowledge the answer. He just grabbed his pike and walked out of camp.

Grak could barely keep it together, but knew he must. The easy part was getting through the mountains and forging the Withered Heath. The hard part was getting away from Azbul. As rough as he is, very few Orcs can claim to be a better tracker. Ollok often sent young Orcs along with them to learn how to identify signs of patrols and wildlife. If Azbul got in the way, Grak had decided not to kill him, but to do everything in his power to convince him. Even talk of desertion was subject to Murtha's law. Grak was ready to accept the consequences of that, knowing that if exiled, he would go North anyway. At least if he convinces Azbul, he will have his pike and armor.

When they got to the mouth of the Northern path, Grak turned to Azbul.

"I'm taking the Northern Trail, and I'm going to try to find Dragons."

Azbul looked at Grak. "You lost your mind? All the Dragons are dead, and so will you."

"Orcs are barely surviving. We're being hunted, and soon we'll be gone. If there's Dragons, I'll try to get them to come back."

Azbul laughed. "So you go across the Heath, you find a Dragon, and you fly them down here to a parade and an Orc army? You're insane. Besides, it's halfway past the non harvest. You'll freeze before you make it past the mountains."

Grak kept a straight face. "Goodbye Azbul. If you want to take me back to Ollok, do it."

Azbul started to ready his pike, but then lowered it. "You were always a nutter. Off with ya. I'll tell them you went to track a bear."

Grak stared at Azbul for what felt like a year, but really it was a few seconds. "Take care, Azbul, be with Melkor." But Azbul ignored him and walked away. Grak noticed that Azbul stopped for a second. But then he kept walking.

Grak turned and headed up the Northern Trail. He knew there was no going back without a dragon, or at least an army.

Chapter 3

Patrolling the mountains can be an arduous task, but Orcs have nearly perfected it. By 100 moons, every mountain Orc knows what plants are edible, how to identify animal and non Orc footprints, different smells to identify, and how to set traps, both fatal and for incarceration. Survival is all mountain Orcs have, and they do it as well as any humanoid race. The Orc joke is "If you're not one step ahead, they'll take your head."

Grak has been through this pass many times. His journey will take him through the mountains, and into the ashy Plains of the Northern Waste. Grak knew he had to hunker in the mountains for a few weeks until the weather and his supplies are satisfactory.

When his tribe used to raid the northern Mirkwood, they would evade the elven squads using the Northern Path. It's a thin trail that sometimes allows only one Orc through at a time. A small squad of Orcs can hold off 100 enemies if needed, but since the fall of Sauron, Grak suspects that nobody really wants to bother with the northern Orcs. Now the path is mostly ignored by the Orcs, being that there is no need to evade.

Grak pushed up the path double time until dawn, gathering Ardara Root for dinner. The Ardara plant's leaves are highly poisonous, but the roots can be smashed into pulp for sustenance. Though very bitter (too bitter for Men, Elves, and the like), Orcs can live off Ardara for as long as needed.

Grak knew what he was looking for, an old cave that Orcs keep emergency supplies, but knew it was probably raided. The sun was almost up, and he knew that it would exhaust him, which he couldn't risk. Grak kept hiking at double speed, and just as the sun was about to break, Grak entered the cave.

He studied the surroundings. An empty shelf, an empty sack on the floor, and a small pile of old firewood. Grak sat against the cave wall. He reflected on the journey so far. If Azbul told the tribe about the bear, that would buy him roughly a 3 day head start if they follow. However, if Azbul told them that he was deserting, he would still be able to outrun them. Azbul returning from patrol would be before dawn, so they wouldn't leave until dusk the next day. The cave he was in is a day and a half hike from the outpost. So he's either a day and a half or four and a half days ahead of them.

A thought came to him. They won't look for him. Orcs are so few in number, they will assume Azbul's fake bear killed him, or something else. Orcs are a lot of things, but sentimental is definitely not one of them. After a week, Lomak-Rock Lifter would read his name to be joined in the void with Melkor, and that would be it for him and the tribe.

Grak imagined the look of Ollok and Azbul's faces if he came back with a dragon. It would be glorious, and his story would be passed down by every Orc Shaman in every tribe. Grak smiled, then laid down to rest.

Chapter 4

The Shaman is not only the history keepers of a tribe, but the primary educator. The main lessons are the earth alchemies and rock cleaving. The tutelage of earth alchemy is about growing and finding food and medicine. Orcs can identify plants from all over Middle-Earth, and know what they are utilized for. They also have a natural resistance to poisons and venoms, mainly through their years of rough living. But Orc lore holds that the resistance stems from them being magically reformed Elves and seizing a bit of their immortality.

Grak has been based in a small cave he found for 3 quarters of a moon cycle ago. He has been foraging Ardara root mainly, waiting for the nights to get warmer. The Northern Path was beyond disrepair, Grak sometimes having to climb along the side of a cliff as the trail eroded and slid down the mountainside. It took Grak two full moon cycles to get through the Withered Heath to the edge of the Northern Waste. No Men or Orcs crossed paths with Grak. This far north, Grak has barely any contact with any wildlife; he's dug up a few burrows of hilldogs, raided a few nests for eggs, and generally storing supplies for his trip across the unforgiving ash desert.

Grak stalked up a cliff, trying to find anything of sustenance. He climbed, and noticed there was a small ledge where he could climbed and heaved himself on the ledge. He laid down, sore from the climb, and shut his eyes for a minute. He caught his breath and sat up and analyzed his surroundings.

Looking down at the ash valley, he sees nothing of note, just the hazy frozen desert for miles around. He figured that he could navigate through the ash storms, all he had to do was head north. The biggest issue wasn't the ash itself, but sometimes the storms get so thick that one loses all sense of direction. Grak also had to fashion a pack/shelter, so he can get rest in the sprawling desert. It resembled almost a turtle's shell, made from thatched branches and extra cloth scavenged from the few ruined Orc checkpoints in the area. If an ash storm whips up, Grak could simply lie down and be mostly covered.

Grak took out an Ardara root, and started crushing it with the hilt of his dagger. A pebble dropped from above him. Grak looked up, and saw a shadow move. As he stared, a fox sized spider snuck from below Grak and bit him on his calf. Grak screamed, and kicked the spider off the ledge. Two spiders dropped from above Grak, landing on his head and back. Grak stabbed the spider on his head with the dagger, and flung that spider off the ledge. The last spider bit Grak in the back, and Grak roared. Grak slammed himself against the cliff, crushing the last one.

Grak swore and checked out his wounds. His back wasn't bad, it was a graze that didn't completely pierce the skin. His calf was in rough shape, with two bleeding holes and burning venom seeping out. Had Grak been human, within an hour he would be frothing at the mouth, paralyzed stiff in agony. With his Orc blood, it would take about a night, and the effects would be more of a fatigue and major indigestion, but that was still something Grak had to make a priority to mend. The Ardara root was still intact, so Grak carefully finished crushing it and mixed it with the water in his flask. He took a swig, grabbed his pike, and slid towards the edge.

Grak carefully climbed down the cliff, returned to his cave. In his supplies, there were hirfinch eggs as a salve for the bite, and dark ivy oil to neutralize the poison. Grak looked outside, it was very nearly dusk. Many times over the last few moons he debated with himself about returning, living the survivalist life again. Then he thought of Melkor. And the glory of Orcs. Grak snorted. He's entering the Waste tomorrow.

Chapter 5

Traditional Orc fighting is much more than hacking and slashing, there's a brutal purpose and technique behind it. Orcs use their entire body as a weapon, as their vast numbers were able to neutralize foes and overrun them. If one Orc can be stabbed with a sword, they are expected to keep the sword impaled within them while clawing and biting their opponent. It's as barbaric as it is effective.

It has been 16 moons, to Grak's estimation, that he has been crossing. The ash storms have been so strong that Grak has been unable to move, just clinging to the pack/shelter that he constructed. When he is able to move, it's been step by step. The ash has been so thick, Grak moves only when he can tell what direction he's traveling.

The ashen winds started to die down, and Grak started moving. He saw something far in the distance, but it could have been his mind playing tricks. Grak started to walk, and it was definitely something. Grak started moving and then he identified it, a large rock. Grak sat next to it, away from the wind, and noticed something on the rock, writing. And he recognized the writing! Grak couldn't read, but the lettering was the same found in Lomak's tools from Mordor!

Grak saw the moon, and started north. He saw more rocks, and realized that there were some hills ahead. He walked at a cautious pace, looking around. From behind a rock he heard a growl. Grak slipped off his shelter pack and readied his pike. A mountain cat, three times the size of any Grak has seen, slinked out.

Grak pointed the pike, and backed away carefully. He glanced behind, and spotted a cave. Grak kept moving, and the cat moved toward him. Grak was almost there, maybe 100 meters. The cat was stalking more curiously than deadly. Grak kept moving towards the cave. The cat looked at Grak, then the cave. Then Grak again, and narrowed its eyes. Grak was about 30 meters away, then ran at a full sprint into the cave. The cat ran and pounced. Grak leaped into the cave and turned to thrust his pike. He hit the cat in the shoulder and the cat backed towards the entrance.

Grak sat in the cave ready, with the cat staring from outside. Then there were more growls outside. There were now 3 sets of eyes staring at Grak. He was waiting, and they were waiting. Grak looked around in the cave. He saw something very surprising; a few pieces of elvish armor, and some weaponry, a knife, sword, bow, and a few arrows.

Evaluating his situation, Grak grabbed the weaponry. He was going to die fighting, on his terms. As he was about to make a charge, There was a loud quake. A roar that shook the ground. The cats outside immediately fled. Grak ran outside and looked up. A dark shadow was above, and dived down. As it landed, Grak was knocked down by the wind of the wings.

"Why is an Orc in my domain?" Asked the dragon.

Chapter 6

Legend has it that when Melkor created the dragons, he reached into his own divinity and removed some of his desire. The Lord of Darkness instilled it into the first dragon, Glaurung. Every dragon that descended has devine desire embedded into it. Some dragons desired power, some riches, or even control over individuals.

Grak stared in disbelief. He had found a dragon!

The dragon huffed. "I will not ask again, why are you here Orc?"

Grak shook his head to gather himself. "You're real! You're here, I found one!"

The dragon snapped his head forward towards Grak, causing him to stumble backwards. "State your business immediately!"

Grak calmed himself out of fear, and started his plea. "I am Grak of the northern Wargheart clan. Orcs are near extinction since Lord Sauron has fallen. I have jou…"

The dragon boomed, "Sauron has fallen?"

Grak was scared. "Yes, his ring of power was destroyed by the forces of men and the wizard. Us Orcs are scattered, but can be led. I came here to find a dragon to lead all the Orc and men who are loyal to Melkor."

The dragon stared at Grak. It thought for a minute, and released all tension in its body. "I am Avaroak. Orc, gather your supplies, and take the path just north of these rocks. You will see my camp in half a day. We have much to discuss, but first, I ask you a favor."

Grak looked stunned. "A favor, of course! Anything for you mighty Avaroak!"

Avaroak chuckled. "Not yet, Orc, I'll ask when you're ready."

Grak gathered his pack and hurried up the path. He knew he had to calm down and speak for the Orcs. He had hope, and a vision of what is to come. Men in chains, being led to the field to work, the mines to dig, or the fire as a sacrifice to Melkor. Avaroak leading legions over the keeps of men that he's been told about all his life. Burning elf forests, throwing them in dungeons to be long forgotten. Dwarf caves cleared, and their smiths making armor for their Orc overlords.

This is the beginning, thought Grak.

Chapter 7

Dragons had a power to influence the darkness in others, which enhanced the base Orc Orc was created to hate, being bred a tool for conquest. In an Orc's being, they want nothing more than to take from others, as their Lord Melkor prophicized from their creation. Dragons have influence over darkness, and any with it in their being will have it exposed. If it's for their benefit or detriment, that is up to the individual.

Grak hurriedly stumbled down the path. Grak kept pushing, even as the wind and ash whipping around him. His encounter drove him like never before, forcing any fatigue from his body. Grak felt like he just woke up from a bad dream. He was ready for anything.

The path was getting rockier, and Grak was able to be sheltered from the ash. Twists and turns through the curves, and Grak saw something strange. A small pyramid in the distance. As he walked closer, he noticed it was a big pile of elven helmets, from ancient wars uncounted moons ago. The helmets were stripped from any paint or detail due to the winds of the Waste, the names of the warriors and the name of the battle long forgotten in Middle-Earth.

Grak looked at a helmet, tossed it aside, then saw many of these pyramids. Grak couldn't wipe the smile off his face as he spotted the camp in the distance. He knew he still had a mission. Reality set in. Grak had to convince a Dragon and his army to unite the Orcs to take over the lands of Men. But that was Grak's key.

Grak approached the camp, and saw the forces. Big trolls, all in black armor, hunkered in dozens of circles. Grak assumed that there were 200 trolls, but noticed that there were only trolls. One troll saw him and made a great yell. The trolls all stood up and readied their arms. Each one had ebony black armor and 2 swords. Grak froze in fear.

Avaroak roared from a distance, and the trolls relaxed. He flew towards the camp. Grak was prepared. He knew what he was going to ask, and couldn't wait. Grak smiled at the trolls, and started to casually walk towards them.A troll roared and threw a rock near Grak, as to show that he missed very accurately. Grak stopped, and waited.

The landing was less impactful this time for Grak. Avaroak looked at Grak.

"You say Sauron, Melkor's favored follower, has fallen. Correct, Orc?" asked Avaroak.

Grak gathered his thoughts for a moment. "Yes, my Dragon Lord, defeated by the gathered armies of Men."

Avaroak looked at Grak. "I see why you come. You want me to lead the sparse forces of the dark. Correct, Orc?"

Grak got excited. "Yes! I come to invite all Dragons to take what is rightfully ours!"

Avaroak sneered. "There is…" he looked for the right words, "Discourse among the remaining Dragons. We have been infighting for eons. Every alliance has been eroded time after time."

Grak dismissed that. "But If you come, the Orcs will unite. We can start with the Men of Mirkwood, then the Elves. We will follow you for conquest!"

Avaroak smiled. "I will need the favor from you immediately, Orc."

Grak was confused. "What can I offer you right now, my Dragon Lord?"

Avaroak laughed. "Dinner."

Avaroak struck and clamped down with his jaws around Grak's waist. The pressure cleaved Grak in half, ending his curiosity.