Strange Luminescence:
Garlakh's History
By Grey-Orc
With many thanks to Sevilodorf for the beta
A Note about Burping Troll Adventures
Like many Tolkien fans, we wanted to move to Middle-Earth. 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.
As all things do, the writers of The Burping Troll have changed over time. Some set aside their pens and keyboards to devote themselves to family and profession. Others ventured on to other worlds and genres. But the Inn remained, though at times a bit dusty and neglected. Now a new writer has happened upon the doorstep to offer up a tale of Middle-Earth. So sweep out the hearth, pull up a chair and enjoy another visit to Northern Ithilien.
(Garlakh's History spans from before The Hobbit until after Adamant, adventure 18 in the Burping Troll chronology, though it is not necessary to have read those stories to understand this one.)
Prologue
November 1423 S.R.
Ephel Duath
I look around in satisfaction at the place I have chosen to make my attempt at a life without Dol Guldur and over that, Lugburz. A deep sheltered cleft in the mighty wall comprising the western border of the land once called Mordor conceals the entrance to my dwelling, hiding it behind rock that narrows almost to the point of coming together. Unless one is very well acquainted with these mountains, it will most likely be missed, but even if they do know, I will hear before they arrive and be ready if they are hostile. Enemies would be able to approach only singly, for there are no other useable entrances. I studied every inch of this cave and blocked up the other entrance. Only a scrawny rabbit could fit through it now, but at its widest it, too, would have only allowed passage to one at a time. It can be cleared, but I'll hear anyone who tries that way, too. You won't move a boulder that size from the other side without some kind of report.
Stone columns rise from the floor and ceiling, coming together in a few places to form natural divisions. I am not much of a miner or stone shaper, so clearing them is beyond me even if I wanted to. I find I like the shapes they make and would not remove them even if I could. A stream of fast-flowing, crystal clear water flows through the rear of the cave, and I make regular use of it. In addition to the need to have water nearby for work and drink, I have recently learned that I actually like being clean and living without filth if possible.
It's been a long, hard, rewarding few weeks of work. One of the cave's small fissures that keeps the air fresh is positioned just right to act as a chimney of sorts, so I built myself a makeshift smithy. It's very crude and won't last long as it is, but I'll eventually have enough metal to construct something more permanent. I also have built rough tanning facilities, and I look with pride at a few hides that I've already started preparing.
Everything I own is near tatters by now, and I must make myself new armor and clothes to wear ere the winter bites hard. There's only so many times and so much damage even the best smith or hideworker can fix, and I've about hit the limit on all of this. I also must lay in foodstuff. I'm used to living in mountains that meet forest, so I can handle this. I just might make it here if orc-hunting Tarks and the more violent orcs will leave me be, but I'm done for the day in any event. I've gone with little sleep lately, driving myself as hard as any of my warlords ever did.
I walk past several naturally-formed ledges in the narrow middle portion of the cave where I will put my finished works until I can work up the courage to test the veracity of the rumors that there are some few Tarks who will deal with orcs. There's nothing on them yet. I've only just finished the forge and will have to head to that swamp I saw on my way. Looked like it ought to do nicely for bog-iron. I'll have to be careful, though. Someone's got a farm there and I'm not looking for trouble with the locals. My fingers itch for the feel of hammer and tongs and my eyes long to watch the metal go from black, to red, to white, then sparks fly from it, the metal yielding to me as I hammer it into shape - the protesting hiss as I dunk it in the quenching barrel - another thing I'll have to build… Ah, I can't wait.
I miss the iron of the grey mountains where I was born with an almost physical ache as I gaze at the bare stone shelves and consider the bother of grebbing all that ore. It takes so much bog-iron ore to make a refined ingot. The less pure versions are workable and make iron sufficient for tools and the like, but long experience in Mirkwood tells me the purer the iron, the harder it bites, and the better it protects against what's trying to bite you. That's another day's worry, though. Tomorrow it's more hunting.
The work and storage is done a few yards downstream from the living division of the cave at the other end. There's not much in this part. I don't even have a pallet these days - something else to build. My cloak, a once supple thing of shadowy-black warg fur, is now grime-stiffened and tattered. Nonetheless it serves as my blanket and pillow both as I curl up within its folds, pull the hood up and tie the cloak shut against the oncoming fall night's chill. I do at least have a firepit for cooking, and I have a low-burning fire in it at night. At least the overhang that disguises the entrance to the cave keeps out the wind and likely will do the same for most of the snow, so the cold shouldn't be as bad as it might otherwise be. As the sound of the flowing water lulls me toward sleep, it occurs to me I will be very glad for having my forge close by in a few months; even its residual heat will likely keep me warm enough. This already feels like as close to a home as I've had since the end of the war, but my mind drifts back even further to when I was a youngling and I had my first flirtation with iron. As I fall asleep I remember it, then walk a path of dreams made of my own memories and thoughts, some of which I kept hidden even from myself…