Orctober Drabbles by Grundy

1. From the watchtower, one can admire the storm from safety. Barad Nimras is strong enough that the winter storm is little more to it than a passing breeze. The cold does not reach the cozy fireside. Finrod finds the sight of the sea soothing, even now with the surf churning wildly, whipped to a froth by the winds. Ossë may be unpredictable, but he is no friend to the great Enemy in the North. Should they try to attack from the ocean, his wrath will put the current gale to shame. Let the wind howl; all will yet be well.

He nearly falls headlong into the river. The fierce burning light in the sky has all but blotted out his sight and given him a throbbing pain in his head. He hadn’t expected that. He’s not sure if he was a fool to believe the elf’s whispered directions or not, but the waters do soothe. If he can get across them safely, maybe he can carry the message to the other elves. They can’t very well call him evil if their bewitched river allows him to pass. And he carries news of their clanmate. That must count for something, surely?

The histories say… except they didn’t, for those who were once known as orc. They did not get to write histories in the First Life. They passed what they could from generation to generation, preserving what they remembered. But much had been lost. Their Master was no kinder to them than he was to the Free Ones. The Burning had been a great triumph for the Master, but they’d had no cause to celebrate. They were sacrificed by the tens of thousands to buy that ‘victory’. In the Second Life, they have a chance to write and build for themselves.