AN:
It was to be a one shot but as Chiara Cadrich and Certh asked about the the sire ...
Springtail closed Thorin's eyes with his front trotter, gave him a slurp of farewell and – with his fell tusk – dragged the blanket over the dwarf's face. He then took out his angst and anguish outside, into the colourless grey of a November dawn.
He heard sounds of further anguish from his right. The sow-elf Tauriel was lamenting the loss of her hog-dwarf Kili. He trotted towards her – two wallowing in angst was better than one. The sow-elf first wanted to throw a rock at him but her Sylvan fea, attuned to the subtle currents of emotions of creatures around her, revealed Springtail to be another soul in need of solace. They embraced and he let her pour out all her tears and snot over him, while he oinked at her comfortingly. He pitied her bleak future – all the sow-elf had to look towards to was a cold, empty box, without the warmth of some swine to keep her warm, to scratch where she could not reach, to give her strong sons and graceful daughters. Unless – Springtail eyed the hog-elf spying on them from the rocks above – she would let herself be covered by him. The skinny blond hog-elf looked eager enough. At long while the sow-elf cried herself out and patted him on his broad, muscular back, the envy of other warhogs of the Iron Hills.
Uncharacteristically not feeling hunger Springtail trotted out into the battlefield. Nevertheless he went to examine the mounds of the fallen in the areas which saw the most vicious fighting. Maybe he would gobble some conveniently sized body part? He was pig enough not to be fussy about the race of donor, although he'd prefer it not to be dwarf. Springtail had his standards.
The mighty warhog of the Iron Hill began to examine his nemesis of the day before, the White Warg of Gundabad. Suddenly he froze – he knew the outline of the missing part of the Evil! Creature's ear like the back of his trotters! The missing part of that ear was nailed to the wall above his basket in the Royal Palace in the Iron Hills from the age he was old enough to understand that this was not a chew-toy! Dain Ironfoot had told him, while still a piglet on his knee, that his mother had come back wounded and gravid, with a warg's ear in her snout.
So this was sire?! He had KILLED his sire?! Woe is me, what angst! And he was a MONGREL!
The Orc Gorer galloped away into the mist to find a secluded spot for introspection. His mongrelness first – his body proportions indeed were a bit off and his omnivouresness had stronger cravings for meat than most. His sense of smell was inferior to that of other hogs, making him the laughing stock among the young sows and gilts when he invariably finished last in "find the truffle" contests. They hid their snouts behind their trotters and giggled, looking at him from the corner of their eyes. The pain! The pain!
Now, the issue of killing his father. Was there some evil streak running in his blood, inherent to his bloodline? As patricide was Evil!, did this make him an Bad!Pig? But as his sire was trying to kill him, it was self defence, right? His orbs dark with the dark broodings within, Springtail found a puddle and wallowed in the mud. He had heard sow-dwarfs speak among themselves that taking a bath helped them "get in touch with their emotions". The distraught and bereaved warhog hoped that this would work for him too, that swine and sow were not that different.