Gathering the Heroes by Moreth

Túrin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was barely noon and already he was starting a headache. He was thoroughly tired of interviewing would-be heroes who wanted to participate in what Námo was calling 'The Mother of All Battles'. The tedious detail of command had never sat well with him while he lived. It was no better now he was dead.

Túrin scanned the man entering the office. Large, dangerous, moody. Well, weren't they all. This one was nearly naked and heavily scarred. Túrin sighed again.

"So, uh..." He flipped through the dossier. "Errm. I'm sorry, we don't seem to have a name for you."

"You won't have, cutter," replied the man. "Lost it. Threw it away. Don't remember it. The Nameless One, that's me."

Túrin stared at the warrior blankly. Really, it seemed like every one of them had some personality disorder and here he was trying to decide whom to select. He gave a mental shrug. So far they had a man who claimed to be a bat (although Túrin thought he might have misunderstood something there), and a loremaster with the unlikely name of Obi-wan. A pity he'd had to refuse that polite man with the metal allergy but, given the reputation of the smiths for adding strange alloys to the armour, it was best to be on the safe side. And, of course, that spider-person was just unsuitable.

"The Nameless One?" Túrin shook his head. Of all the pretentious names he'd heard, that had to be right at the top. "Very well. It says here you fought in The Blood War. Twice?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You've got the dark of it, cutter," said the man. "Fought this type of war across all the planes. Chant on the street is you bashers need to scrag a power." He paused as he ran a tattooed finger over a scar on his cheek. "Thought I'd be offering my services."

Túrin waited to see if he would continue. He didn't. So, another irritatingly arrogant bastard. Still, Túrin's professional opinion was that he could fight and not back down. He should fit right in.

Pushing the sheaf of notes Námo had referred to as 'a welcome pack' across the desk, Túrin gave a thin smile. "Welcome aboard," he said. "Oh, and you might want to call at the smithies." His gesture took in the man's scarred chest. "Find yourself some armour."

As The Nameless One rose to leave, Túrin consulted the list of applicants before him. "Would you mind sending in a Mr. Howlett on your way out?" he asked.

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