A/N: Again, the cockney/broken English thing for Orcs is a failed experiment that I'll be discontinuing in future chapters. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Oruchack- An Orcish drug used to improve performance in battle, usually made by crushing up various mushrooms native to Mordor in a bowl, then pouring Ghûl saliva into the mixture. The tip of a dagger is dipped into the mixture, and the user makes a incision on their arm with the blade so the drug enters their bloodstream, being careful not to cut into an artery. It makes the user enter a trancelike state which renders them virtually immune to pain, but, as a side effect, makes them jittery and jumpy, much like a caffeine or sugar rush. I literally just pulled it out of my ass, like I'll be doing with most things in orc culture.

Translations: "Ka'aal ekh shabaaz-ri burga, tark-palayi" - "I'll not be taken prisoner, filthy tark!"

Tolkien still owns LOTR, and Bioware still owns Mass Effect.

Chapter One: To The Center of the Galaxy

A chill ran down Dâgalûr's spine as he opened his eyes. He looked around to study his newfound surroundings, but he was enveloped in nothingness. He stood upon the cold, dismal shore of an endless sea of darkness. He didn't know if he could still consider himself among the living. Was this Ilúvatar punishing Dâgalûr for his wickedness in life? Had Morgoth called him to the shadow beyond the Gates of Night? He didn't feel dead, but he couldn't think of another plausible scenario. Time did not pass here as it had in Arda. Seconds felt like hours in this void.

Dâgalûr floated about in this stretch of shade, as if submerged under the waves of Nurnen. One of the beaten, battered cloth sacks he kept his personal possessions in loosened from his belt, attempting to escape the confines of Dâgalûr's grasp. He quickly snatched it, and tightened his belt to ensure it couldn't leave him again. His worn Dwarvish eyeglasses, coated with filth and dust, also tried to loosen themselves from his face, but he pushed them back to the top of the bridge of his flat nose. He closed his eyes and pondered about his situation, shortly realising that there was no chance of him escaping, but he wouldn't go quietly into the night.

Dâgalûr parted his dry lips and let out a deep, threatening bellow in a futile attempt to intimidate whoever had trapped him in this realm, turning his head back and forth to ensure the sound traveled far and wide. He was only met with an echo, which quickly faded into silence. Each repeat of the bellow disheartened him, as he finally realized he was helpless in this place, and that his fate was out of his control now.

Dâgalûr removed the knotted rope from one of his sacks, and grabbed a small, brass locket from within, quickly retying the cloth. He gently caressed the necklace, and unlocked and opened it slowly. Inside the left half of the locket was a portrait of a woman, no more than 35 years of age. She wore a fine crimson dress with gold trimming around the shoulders, which complemented her caramel skin quite well. Her raven hair curled and fell past her shoulders, and her light brown eyes shimmered in the lighting of the painting. Her nose was fairly small, and she had a half-smile plastered on her face. The portrait only showed the upper torso and shoulders of the woman, but one could tell that her frame was fairly small and petite.

Inside of the other half of the locket, there was another portrait, but this one was of three children. The two boys in the back were roughly 16 years old, and the young girl standing up front couldn't have been older than nine or ten. The boy on the left was distinctly Orcish in both face and build, while the boy on the right was much more man-like in appearance.

The boy on the left had whitish skin and an almost flattened nose, the bridge of which almost merged with his face, while the alae stretched upwards to a slant. He bore dark stubble across his face and neck, and bright, blue eyes. His smile bared his yellow, pointed teeth, a trait he got from his Orcish blood, no doubt. The jawless head of a warg adorned his helmet, and he was dressed in various animal skins that covered bronze greaves and gauntlets. Two thick, leather bandoilers we're draped around his furry chest, crossing in an X shape. Each bandoiler had a small pocket situated near the shoulder region, and both were visibly filled with various bits and souvenirs taken from kills.

He stood about one head taller than the boy next to him, who had a lighter shade of the caramel complexion of the woman in the adjacent portrait. His eyes had the same vibrant blue irises of his brother, but had a fairly standard, mannish nose. His face was clean shaven, and his black hair was short and neat. He was dressed in a red and black garb underneath a lamellar breastplate, fingerless gloves, and boots made from tanned leather. Upon his back, he had a large, woven backpack, containing many scrolls and letters, and in his hands, he held a papyrus scroll in his right, and a feathered quill in his left.

In front of the two boys stood a young girl, who seemed to be a smaller replica of the woman in the other portrait. She also had the caramel skin, brown eyes and raven hair of her mother, but her nose was flatter and her build was slightly more thick. She wore a forest-green tunic, several golden bracelets on her wrists, and a pair of basic Haradric sandals.

As Dâgalûr looked at the portraits, he understood that his quest to avenge his family's death had been cut short. They had been taken far too early by the Gondorian rats, fit only for a stew-pot. Every tark that still drew breath was an affront to Dâgalûr. Bitter, angry tears began to well up in his eyes, a mix of frustration, rage, and sorrow.

"Nusaybah, my beloved," he said, putting his finger on the portrait of the woman, "I've failed ya'. Fotkûrz, Hannad," He said, gently tracing the outline of the two boys in the second portrait, "your father has failed ya'. Firyal, my sweet little girl, papa can't make the bad men pay for wha' they did to ya'." Dâgalûr choked out, barely able to keep his composure.

He quickly shut the locket, and stuffed it back into the bag. He proceeded to cup his hands, and buried his face in his thick gloves, weeping softly. He was on the verge of completely breaking down, something that happened frequently when alone. He was forced to remember the sight of his daughter's corpse laying in a pool of blood on the stone floor of his home, its embers slowly dying and fading. Dâgalûr's children had their whole lives ahead of them. Hannad was one of the apprentice scribes of Sibroc, religious leader of Harad, said to be the very avatar of Ru'Hal, before the Gondorians gutted him like a fish. Fotkûrz had completed his bloodrite and earned the title 'The Slasher' just days before he was beheaded. Firyal was carefree and loved everything and everyone in life before her throat was slit.

Dâgalûr was sobbing at this point. All the years he spent training, all the time he spent planning, all the blood he spilled in their names, all of it was wasted. His crusade would never be fulfilled.

He yelled at the top of his lungs to the heavens above, "DAMN YOU, FALSE GODS! DAMN YOU ALL TO THE VOID!", and proceeded to recover his face with his hands.

As his tears began to dry, he began to come to terms with the fact that he was most likely never escaping this prison. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and tried to accept his newfound torture to the best of his abilities.

Just as Dâgalûr began to do this, his eyes began to burn, as if they had been gouged out with red hot pokers. He let out and inhuman screech, and violently began rubbing them with his palms to attempt to alleviate the pain, but to no avail. All he could see was bright, piercing light as a loud, shrill, mechanical shriek assaulted his eardrums. He tried using his hands to block it out, but it only ever so slightly helped. The area around him had shifted from a cold, dark void to a bright expanse of pure, unsullied white. Dâgalûr was suddenly and violently thrust forward by an unknown force, and crashed down onto solid ground, knocking him unconscious.

Upon his awakening, Dâgalûr could barely see anything, and his ears were ringing. He didn't have the strength nor the willpower to look up, but he could hear collective, muffled gasps and people talking to each other. What they were saying sounded like gibberish to him, which would've normally been grounds for suspicion for Dâgalûr, but he no longer seemed to care. His face was pressed against the cold, hard tiling of the ground, but the air around him was warm and slightly humid, a radical difference from the freezing, arid winds of Gorgoroth. The insulation in his armor was meant to explicitly keep the cold out, and became uncomfortable.

He looked to his side and saw that the walls were made of a sleek, chrome metal, sheets of which were layered on top of each other to give the impression of a shutter-like pattern. They reflected a dim, bluish-white light cast from two oval devices attached to the wall to his right. He finally mustered the strength to look up, but what he saw in front of him confused and, to an extent, even frightened him.

There were people... no, not people. Monsters was a better word to describe them. They wore confusing garb, shimmering, flexible, and covered with vibrant shades of color, the likes of which were not found in Middle-Earth. Armor, perhaps? No, it looked far too soft and fabric-like. Nevertheless, most of them looked at him with an expression of horror, as if he were some void-spawned abomination. Some of them looked like the pinkskins his blade was well acquainted with. Some like blue-skinned women with a head of tentacles. Others like lizard-people from some deep, unexplored part of the jungles of Far Harad, with massive, dark eyes and slim builds. There was a crowd of them standing behind a few strips of yellow tape blocking off the alley Dâgalûr was lying down in.

Behind the, neon red lights illuminated various stalls, and flourescent, flickering lights were situated at the back of the room. Three of them were bird-demons of some sort, who looked like their faces had been sculpted from the rocks and obsidian of Mount Doom, with broad chests and knees bent in the opposite direction. They were pointing... things at him, small and compact. Weapons, possibly? He knew that they would use them if he provoked them.

Dâgalûr could see the creatures moving their mouths (which was quite a horrific sight to him, as their "cheeks" appeared to detach and move freely about as they spoke, revealing rows of needle like teeth), but he couldn't understand what they said. It was nothing but clicks and whistles with distorted, unintelligible words mixed in. He knew they were peacekeepers of some sort, but he didn't particularly care for authority.

He slowly pressed himself up with his arms and got to his knees, pushing backwards in order to get to his feet. This seemingly provoked the demons and the crowd, who stared at him, wide-eyed. A fourth "officer" confronted the other three. She was human, unlike the others, and was clad in a suit of shining black plate armor, a small logo of sorts attached to her breastplate. She had a look of determination about her, and her scarlet hair seemed as if it were a manifestation of that fire. "Heh, looks like sumfin' I'd choose as first pick from a raid." Dâgalûr thought to himself.

The second she caught sight of Dâgalûr, she instinctively drew her weapon, which was longer and larger than that of the demons. Dâgalûr was starting to fear them less and less and was getting increasingly rage filled as time went on. This little "welcoming party" of sorts was about to get a hell of a lot more violent if Dâgalûr didn't get answers.

The fourth officer finally spoke up, her voice rather deep for a woman, but yet still womanly. "Hands up, NOW!"

Dâgalûr could understand her words and complied, raising his hands above his head. She spoke an offshoot of Westron, the Common Tongue. For this dialect was used rarely among Men, and was almost exclusively used as a sort of "code language" among the Hobbits residing outside of the Shire. Dâgalûr had studied the language extensively for reconnaissance missions, and for his ultimate dreams of living in the countryside, but it was a harsh language to his tongue and throat, as it gnawed and stabbed at his vocal chords. He would only use it as a last resort.

"Ka'aal ekh shabaaz-ri burga, tark-palayi!" Dâgalûr exclaimed, his tongue deep, guttural, and foul to the ears.

The officers grabbed at their ears, covering them frantically, as to not have to listen to such a dark and perverse language. Dâgalûr took notice that none had understood what he had uttered, which was somewhat relieving, as he had just hurled an insult at the woman. Nevertheless, he began to clear his throat and braced himself for the incoming pain he would be putting himself through.

"Your tongue... it bites... gnaws... at me..." He stopped himself abruptly, and slowly reached for his throat, a grimace plastered on his face. "I want... answerssss..."

"So do we. Listen, any deviation from what I say will be taken as hostile. Understood?" the officer replied.

Dâgalûr nodded. "Tell your men to... stand down, or I'll... give you naught."

The officer gestured for the other three to lower their weapons. They hesitated, but ended up lowering them.

Dâgalûr crossed his arms. "Their tongue is... garbled, and filled with clickssss... how do you speakkkk... to them?"

The officer looked somewhat confused. The creature to her left put his head up to her ear and whispered in his language, after which the officer seemed to understand what Dâgalûr had meant.

"Come here." She said, beckoning Dâgalûr over.

He slowly walked forward, keeping wary in case she tried anything.

"Turn around, and put your hands behind your back."

Dâgalûr reluctantly complied. If she attempted to pickpocket or trick him, he'd tear her arms off and beat her head into a bloodied pulp with them. She reached for her partner's belt, and retrieved a set of handcuffs, quickly putting them around Dâgalûr's wrists. The second he felt the tightness of the cuffs, he turned around and lunged at the officers. Dâgalûr let out a ferocious shriek to express his anger at them, baring his crooked, knifelike teeth. All four of the officers drew their weapons in response, and the crowd panicked, backpedaling to a safe distance. He dared not go anywhere near them, or the officers would surely attack him, something he normally would've delighted in.

The officers were all confused. Dâgalûr resembled a human more than anything else even with his orcish deformities, but no human could have produced a sound like that. A beast, maybe, but not a human. Perhaps the creature was a shapeshifter? Since this was first contact, they had to assume that any action was perceived as hostile.

"Get back!" the woman yelled.

Dâgalûr was still growling, but relented. "No use tryin' ta break deez. Wha'ever weapons dey got, I dun want to find out what they'll do ta me.".

"Follow us."

Two of the bird-demons grabbed Dâgalûr by the arms, and the third continued to aim its weapon directly at Dâgalûr's head. They cut the yellow tape, and Dâgalûr saw what he believed to be some sort of market, but he did not at all understand what he saw: the entire area was lit up with lights of every color imaginable, with life forms Dâgalûr could never have imagined. He wondered why Ilúvatar had used the Flame Imperishable to create such nightmarish beings. Was it to punish Dâgalûr yet again?

There were the average humans, which he already knew plenty about, but that was not what confused Dâgalûr. The plethora of abominations that roamed about was. There were the blue-skinned women with tentacles for hair, the lizard-men (who moved and spoke like they had been taken one too many hits from a bowl of Oruchack, Dâgalûr thought), crocodile-like humpbacks, great grey beasts with squid-like faces, tall, pink jellyfish, small and chubby creatures with some sort of suit on, and the fringed bird-monsters, who, now that Dâgalûr had put some thought into it, were even uglier than the hell-hawks patrolling Mordor's skies.

Dâgalûr thought he was in some form of Hell, and that these were demons meant to frighten him. As much as he wanted to, Dâgalûr thought it best to refrain from killing someone in this world; for now, at least. He was a stranger to these creatures, and he knew not the firepower they possessed here.

The officers had brought Dâgalûr to a shop of some sort, run by one of the lizard men. After some trade off involving an orange, glowing device attached to the human officer's hand, the merchant gave the officer a small earpiece. The officer began attaching the earpiece to the outside of Dâgalûr's right ear. Once the earpiece was secured, the officer switched on the device's microphone.

The officer that held Dâgalûr's left arm spoke to him. "Can you understand us now?"

Why did the blasted thing only translate into this bizarre offshoot? Dâgalûr considered the language to be useless and foul, and greatly preferred Black Speech, or even Haradric, or true Westron. It was still better than nothing, though.

"Yes..."

"Good, because you've got some questions to answer, buddy."

"So do you... demon."

Dâgalûr turned back to actually get a good look at the officer. He had white streaks of paint all around his face. Was it used to intimidate people? Was it a cultural aspect? Dâgalûr didn't really give a shit.

"Sir, it'll be best if you come along with us. We'll answer your questions in due time, but since this is technically first contact, we'll have to get a delegation to study you."

Dâgalûr didn't like the of being studied much, as if he were some oddity. He thought they were going to deceive him, flog him, and pocket his belongings. If they so much as touched his weapons, he'd tear their windpipes out so he could squeeze their screams from them.

"I'm warning ya... touch my weapons... I'll skip rope with your guts."
"You wanna see what happens if you make another threat?"

Dâgalûr let out a throaty chortle in response.

"We can take it from here, Shepard."
"Understood."

The woman took her leave, off to Eru knows where, as the demons carried Dâgalûr off to be interrogated.

After a few minutes and staircases later, Dâgalûr was seated in a small office, awaiting this "delegation" of theirs.

Within a minute and a half, Dâgalûr was greeted by one of the blue women and one of the lizards. Behind them, a sight Dâgalûr would never have expected.

Laga. He had followed Dâgalûr beyond the void somehow.

"Hello there! I'd like to be the first to officially welcome you into the Galactic Community. We've already chatted with your companion, and we're very excited to work with your race to pave a better future in the millennia to come!" said the Blue woman.

"Bah. Save your pity and mercy for someone who will listen and just kill me already." Dâgalûr responded in Black Speech.

"Huh? We're not taking you prisoner, and we don't want to kill you, we want to learn from you!" She responded, also in Black Speech. The language was difficult to pronounce and harsh on her throat and mouth, as was the case for most non-orcs.

Dâgalûr was in awe. She had understood his words? And responded? What spellcraft did they possess that would allow them to learn the Dark Tongue so easily?

"How do you understand me?"

"My species has an innate control over our nervous system, and we can 'mind meld' with other individuals to learn from them, if we've been trained, of course. We did that with your companion over here to decipher your language."

"Sorry, boss" Laga interjected.

"Almost all of our first contact delegations have an Asari with the ability to-"

"Asari? What in the name of Morgoth is that?

"Oh, that's just the name of my race. My name's Sulelsha, by the way."

Asari... it didn't flow of the tongue to Dâgalûr like Uruk did, but it'd do.

"I am Dâgalûr. He is-."

"Laga, yes, we already obtained a wealth of information from him, such as how you worship a diety known as 'Sauron'."

Dâgalûr chuckled at the notion that Sauron was a god. He was a deciever, naught but a weakling manipulator that commanded hordes through fear.

"We'd like to get you two situated with omni-tools, as well. If you plan on staying on the Citadel, we can also transfer some credits to your names to get you started, but I'd also like to ask you a few questions first."

"Very well. But I hold the right not to answer."

Sulelsha asked him a myriad of questions, ranging from "What planet do you come from, and what is it like?" to "What color is your blood?", all of which annoyed Dâgalûr and Laga, but it was in their best interest to co-operate. Sulelsha typed each response into a datapad in front of her, and recorded their vocal responses with her omni-tool, which spooked the uruks whenever it flashed into view.

"Alright, that seems to be it! Now, to suit you up with your omni-tools and translators. Your language will take time to record, but it shouldn't be too long before we work all the kinks out."

Laga and Dâgalûr were promptly given omni-tools, hooked directly to the armor of their right forearms and hands. Each was equipped with a basic and advanced tutorial to teach the two of them how to use the tools. Each was also given a visual translator, which wouldn't come in handy until written Black Speech had been translated to an extent. Luckily, the translators also came with a text-to-speech option.

"I know this may sound a bit overwhelming, but one of you will also need to accompany us to meet the Council. This is too exciting of a proposition for them to pass up meeting a new species!"

Dâgalûr had no time for more formalities.

"Laga, as your commander, I order you to go."

"But why, boss? You's the commander, you's the one they's gonna want to see."

"That's not a request. It's an ORDER." Dâgalûr commanded, his voice booming. He had no idea what came over him in that moment, but it felt good to hold that power over someone else.

Laga reluctantly agreed out of fear, and was carried off to meet this "Council" of theirs.

Dâgalûrs handcuffs were removed, and he was left to his own devices in this strange new world.

Dâgalûr wandered the area until he found a shitty little bar, known as "Chora's Den". He entered to see a scene of asari in skimpy latex outfits dancing on tables, something that greatly pleased his loins. He walked up to the bar counter to be greeted by a turian bartender.

"What'll it be for you?" the bartender asked.

"Got any grog?"

"The only grog you'll find in this galaxy is the stuff on Earth."

This dissatisfied Dâgalûr, so he just asked for some of the strongest stuff he had. The bartender pulled out a large vial of bluish liquid.

"Got some uncut Batarian ale. Don't ask how I got it."

Dâgalûr chugged it like it was nothing more than water.

"Not strong enough. What else you got?"

"How bout this?"

He pulled out another vial, this one containing a green, viscous liquid.

"Called Ryncol, krogan liquor, volatile stuff really, only krogan can really handle this".

Dâgalûr knew he had to have it. "C'mon, pour it."

"I've never seen a human stomach this. Your funeral, pal."

The bartender didn't know that Dâgalûr was no mere human, however He was an Uruk, through and through, despite his father's lineage.

"You don't know who you're talking to." he said as he chugged it.

It burned just like grog did and he loved it, and smelled just as foul, although it tasted like stomach acid.

"That'll be 75 creds, bud." The bartender gestured his hand forward as to say "pay up".

Dâgalûr put a small cloth sack on the bar, untied the small rope holding it shut, and dumped its contents out onto the counter, which were several gold coins bearing an eye with a slit in it. He had credits to spare, but he figured physical currency was worth more.

"What's this supposed to be?" the bartender said, inspecting one of the coins. "I'm not accepting these. Seriously, gimme 75 credits now. Or else."

He didn't intimidate Dâgalûr. "Or else what?", he said, reaching for his coins.

The bartender gestured for two krogan bouncers to come to him. "Kick his ass."

The krogans pounced him. Dâgalûr grabbed the one on the left and made a swift, powerful headbutt that staggered the bouncer. The bouncer on the right grabbed Dâgalûr from behind, which wasn't as smart as the krogan thought it would be, as the grapple was broken with a swift elbow to the gut, which, with the bladed elbow tip of Dâgalûr's gauntlet, tore a hole in both the krogan's clothing and skin, causing him to bleed an orange, viscous ichor.

Before the fight got any worse, two Turian officers from C-Sec barged in.

"What's going on in here?"

"This guy tried to get away without paying for his drinks!"

Dâgalûr was furious now."I OFFERED TO PAY, BUT YOU WOULDN'T ACCEPT MY FARE!" he insisted, his voice booming and as loud as a roaring fire.

"Look, until this is sorted out, you're ALL under arrest." The officers handcuffed Dâgalûr, the two bouncers and the bartender, and transported the four of them to the C-Sec Academy for questioning.

At the Academy a few hours later, the four were released. One of the officers confronted Dâgalûr on his way out. "Listen, whoever you are, you're among a new species here, so this is your first and only warning. Next time, you're rotting in a cell. Understand?"

Dâgalûr only responded with a hearty laugh. He was back off to the Wards, ready to completely disregard what the officer said and hopefully spread a little mayhem.

A/N: It's been a long time coming, but Chapter 1's editing is finally done as of August 3rd, 2018. I'll see you all in the next update.