The Awakening Orc TF By RagingRino. Size 3500 x 1000px. Orc transformation muscle growth hulk out clothe rip ripping rippage bara hair. Male Orc (6) Include Relationships Human/Orc (142) Original Female Character/Original Male Character (33) Original Male Character/Original Male Character (8) Orc/Orc (8) Original Female Character/Original Female Character (6) Original Female Character(s)/Original Non-Human Character(s) (6) Original Character(s)/Original Character(s) (5).
An Orc's Tale
By Faceted Mind
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Rating: R
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Pairing: Legolas/Elrohir/Elladan
Disclaimer: Tolkien would be turning in his grave. I claim to own nothing save the words on the page in front of you.
Summary: The first chapter follows the transformation of an elf to an orc as Melkor's most vile deed is recreated. (L/E/E in future chapters, torture, elf-harm, angst, slash and twincest warnings)
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'It is held true by the wise of Eressëa, that all those of the Quendi who came into the hands of Melkor, ere Utumno was broken, were put there in prison, and by slow acts of cruelty were corrupted and enslaved; and thus did Melkor breed the hideous race of the Orcs in envy and mockery of the Elves, of whom they were afterwards the bitterest of foes... This it may be was the vilest deed of Melkor, and the most hateful to Ilúvatar.'
- Valaquenta, Quenta Silmarillion: Of the Coming of the Elves -
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The halls were black. Which is not to say that they were without light, but that they were of darkness. The soft glow of elven skin in starlight would have been brilliant within these walls had any of the first race been able to hold the spirit for such illumination in these surroundings.
The will of Sauron, apprentice to Melkor, weighed down upon one poor soul. It threatened to crush his spirit before the dark lord had ever set foot in his presence. No being born beneath the stars could stay with courage in such a place. He hung by chains about his wrists from a cruel mechanism on the ceiling; holding the chains tight and keeping his feet from the floor. The strain in his arms never lessened as his arms reached to the sky and his toes only brushed the floor, not enough to ever take any weight off of his shoulders. He was bare of covering and exposed to the unconcealed eyes of his captors. Abandoned in this light-less place, no starlight would reach him in this shadowed tower, no sound of tree or water. He had not been visited for an unknown time, hours blurring with unerring ease as nothing separated one from the other. At first, when they had captured him and brought him here, the orcs had revelled in the permission granted by their master to treat him as they wished. Their existence was a bane to the elves, to have them in sustained close proximity was hellish for their captive. Beatings, whippings, brandings had occurred daily, sometimes full through the day and night as one shift finished and another took over. He felt he could almost miss it now, for he had healed near all traces and scars from his pale-white skin and boredom and isolation are harsh punishments.
Alone he was left to wonder what the Valar did with those souls whose people had never passed west into Valinor with the first of the Eldar. Was this his judgement? To exist forever here in purgatory, waiting, forgotten. Or would this isolation break him, and make him turn against his friends and kin, to pray that they would kill him first. Feeling his heart tremble at the thought he screamed his fears and anger to any that would listen, not yet knowing if he would rather his people rescue him or stay well away.
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He woke from the half-sleep that was his rest - his shoulders ached too strongly to ever allow him true reverie as the door at his back - a large wooden affair - clanked loudly as one of the several bolts was thrown back. He stirred himself as the rest of the locks were opened and the door thrown open. The opening brought a gust of chill air that made his shudder and consequently brought a spike of pain through both shoulders, hitching his breathing as he fought not to cry out. The door shut again and heavy metallic-sounding footsteps echoed around the stone room. When the new-comer was stood in front of him - invisible in the grimy darkness - he stopped and silence was returned save for their breathing.
'Time has come for your re-education.' The voice was a low hiss, hardly recognisable as words. He wished to retort, but time alone without water had left his mouth dry and his tongue useless. 'I am your master. You are my servant. My wish is your command. You shall bow to me.' As the stranger spoke two torches sparked up on either side of the room and spluttered with a harsh light, revealing him in all his glory. 'I serve my master Sauron, as you will serve me, for he is above me and holds my life in his hands.' He was an orc, the largest the prisoner had ever seen. Great scars made parallel lines across his face, missing his eyes seemingly only by chance and gouging great holes out of his nose and lips. He had undergone no torture to become what he was, for he had not been made in such a way. He had been born of mud and grime and death. A dark offspring, with no pity or compassion.
A kick knocked a lever in the wall aside and, suddenly freed, the captive collapsed to the ground, his knees jarring painfully with his arms still in chains, unable to muffle a cry of pain, wordless through cracked and parched lips. Unable to find his balance he fell the rest of the way to the floor, arms still held over his head with seized muscles as the fire of his release burned trails up and down his body. For a moment he was too dazed to do much but breathe as pain washed over him in waves. As the pain receded to give way to the more sympathetic pins and needles he slowly brought his arms down to his sides and clenched his fists against the numbness, waiting for his hands and forearms to become used to their own blood flow again. Looking down at the chains now suspended between his wrists, the prisoner wondered if he would be able to reach the visitor before he realised what he was doing. The now-loose bindings would make a good weapon and no one would mourn this one's passing.
The stranger didn't move further, watching him it seemed. Taking a moment to gather his strength and thoughts, he took a deep breath and grasped the chain strongly in his quickly recovering hands. Rolling his weight onto the balls of his feet he launched himself forwards.
The length of chain caught the orc around the throat and the impact of the elf's shoulder with his chest took them both to the ground, the elf on top. He pressed down as hard as he was able, trying to crush the monster's windpipe with the tightening chain. He looked on in shock as the orc, not seeming to notice the chain at all, brushed him away as though he were a fly. Standing as the elf slid across the floor away from him, he grasped the end of the chain nearest to him and used it to pull him back. The jolt threw the elf to the floor again and brought him to the orc's feet. The orc looked down on him as he cringed away, hopes crushed.
'I see your re-education will be a challenge.' The orc said with a terrible smile. 'Good. We will have some fun while there is spirit still in you.'
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Fire burned through him as the orcs carried out their master's foul work once more. There was an emptiness to the orc-eyes as they tortured the true-elf, as though remembering their own transformations. As the edge of the room stood the visitor, his would-be master, though he had yet to give his name. He drove the orcs to their task, directing their actions, directing their hate. The elf's hands lay in ruins for he had been an archer once, this poor soul, and they had known this and so he was no longer. His first two fingers lay tattered, never to touch a bowstring again. This had been repeated on both hands for, in the heat of the moment, he had tried to withhold them their pleasure by informing them that he was fully capable of using a bow with either hand. His arms bore line after line of knife-markings. The same continued over his shoulder where they gave ground to lashes of a thick, heated whip, lathing the skin from his back.
Already his skin and hair were darkened with blood and grime and sweat. So the orcs continued under their master's direction, and so the transformation was begun.
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He was running. He wasn't quite sure how, for every inch of his skin screamed in pain at the chill touch of the damp, polluted air. But he was running. Running as fast as he was able down a shadowed corridor, leaping down every staircase he could find, looking desperately for an exit or outlet of some kind. There were no windows, so he could not know for sure that he was not simply heading deeper into the cavernous place, but he held hope still, for he was free and unfettered for the first time in many, many months. He was running. And then he was stopped.
He had hit a barrier. A depth of blackness that even in this dark place was unimaginable. A wall of solid steel sheathed in darkness.
He looked up and found a face.
And eyes of the most terrifying flame.
And then the floor found him and he knew no more.
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Every breath was a sob as his control broke. His legs were shattered beneath him and he hung once more from the chains. His punishment. He had been left a little lower this time so that, had his legs been unbroken, he might have stood to take the weight from his shoulders. As it was every tiny motion in his body made his feet brush along the floor, sending his body into huge spasms of pain as the bones in his legs shifted against one another loosely. For a time he wondered if he would suffocate as great hands of pressure squeezed across his chest and pushed all air from his lungs. Then he would become still again and the pain would soften just a little, just enough for him to take one breath, and then one more. And then he would be back to holding himself as still as he could to avoid a repeat of the process. But always there would be a tiny motion, a twitch of a muscle as another pain made itself known, a yawn or hiccup. Just enough to shift him across the floor just a little. And then he would be in agony again.
He knew what was to come, for he had been told in great detail. Soon they would lay him out and brace his shattered legs. But not from any sense of care would they do this, for they would not take the time to set the bone first. Left shattered as they were, the bones would knit poorly, weakly, and though he might be able once again to walk if needed, he would never again do so without pain. This was not a new technique for those orc-makers who had lived through ages, for an orc would be needed to travel, sometimes great distances on foot. A lame orc would be useless, but a foot-loose elf was a risk.
Hanging there, trying not to move as he contemplated his fate, the elf could never know that there was much worse still to come. Though he had lost control in whimpers and cries of pain, still there was much strength in him, and he was not ready to break. His torture had driven him to the edges of his physical tolerance, but there was still much in him waiting to fall.
All in time. All in good time.
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The master-orc stood before the once-elf who knelt at his feet, no longer the bright strong being he had been. He was orc-kind now, and lost to those who had once been his kin.
'Who are you, least of the worms at my feet.'
'I am a servant of the servant of Sauron. Through him I serve the Dark Lord, and aid him in his vision.' The master said nothing, but triumph was in his eyes as he looked up at his Master, wreathed in his glory of flame. The darkness in him outdid all other. Through him the world would fade to ashes. Soon he would have his victory, and this new-made orc would be the one to seal it for him.
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They were being readied, readied for a final battle. The blood-lust was strong as he grasped at his pike with malformed hands. His shoulders hunched under the weight as the mail was draped across his back and a helmet shoved over his face. These others were crude, he knew. He would show his master skill. They had forgotten what they used to be, but he still remembered. Still remembered the skills, the movements of war. The master approached and he stood as tall as he could on ill-made legs.
'I have a task for you.'
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The orc looked out at the men, hands tightening about his weapon. He hated them, for their beauty, their courage, their spirit. He despised their cleanness, their strength, their wholeness. The brutalised bones in his legs screamed their pain to the rest of his body as he forced them to take his weight and that of his armour a while longer. Just one charge. The men were so few, it was hopeless for them. Just one charge, his target... the King.
He had been given this task though he didn't know why. A pawn to kill the King in some game he half-remembered.
The King.
He could see him now, stood before his men, soothing the fear in their hearts that the orc could taste even from this distance. He was giving a great speech, so typical of men. The orcs needed no speech to rouse them. The might of the Dark One filled their hearts and left no room for doubt or fear. He bound himself to their souls, to the very ground beneath their feet. This land was his own and, before long, he would have the power to take it, own it, possess it. And his servants would feast in their rewards.
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The lines had broken as the men drove outwards and the orcs inwards. There were so few of the men that it seemed hopeless for them. There was no saviour for them here, and the King had troubles of his own. Right and left and right and left that sword flew, singing its battle cry to mingle with those of the men around it. The orc drove towards the King, knowing his target and allowing nothing else to distract him. He deflected all blows as they came at him, but engaged no one. He knew his target. He knew him.
He drove forwards into the fray, letting out a wordless cry of his own as a huge cave troll tried to take his target from him. The King was on the ground, but two more soldiers pulled the troll from him and dispatched it with graceful ease, they were mirrored warriors, identical in appearance, even their actions seeming somehow mirrored.
Mirrored... The mind of the orc wandered for a moment, and he was pulled back to his target, advancing on him. A sword swung into view and he deflected it, driving onwards and past his assailant. But this one was persistent, the sword swung again, from behind this time, and he whirled uncomfortably on damaged legs to confront it. Snarling as he swept the sword aside he found himself looking into one half of the mirror pair. The snarl turned into a grin as he saw clearly the sword-man that faced him now. Elf-kind. The hatred flared in him. How he hated elf-kind. He drew back his pike, ready for the blow. The Elf-kind's word made him hesitate for only a second.
'Legolas?' He swung.
Wc3 Tft Orc Strategy
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(tbc: originally it was to be left there. But I couldn't be that evil and the plotbunny bit me in a painful place so I had to sit down and write some more. Ok, lots more. But hey... there should be some storyline soon, wouldn't that be a stunner!)
Rena shifted her hips in a vain attempt to loosen the ropes that bound her to a great tree trunk. Only a few feet behind her, her three traveling companions, Lem, Rafael, and Cain, were similarly bound to the sides of the tree, spaced a few feet apart. She could hear them groan as they awoke from unconsciousness.
“Gods…no! Help!” Lem screamed, thrashing as much as he could in his bind.
Rena hissed at him.
“Lem, shut up! You’re just going to bring more attention to us!'
Lem didn’t stop wailing. Rena could hear motion from a cluster of tents that sat a few yards away from them, beyond the clearing they were tied in. She struggled to find some memory of who tied them up or how they got here, but all she could recall was loud noises, flashing steel, and deep grunts.
“By the gods, Lem! Silence yourself!'
Rena heard a deep grunt from the nearest tent. Her skin prickled and she felt the metallic taste of fear at the back of her mouth. Scanning the surrounding area, she located where the captors had placed her things. Her short-sword was 30 feet away, buried in a heap. Even if she got free now, her captors would be on her before she could reach it.
She heard canvas move and she knew someone was coming to them now. She couldn’t help but gasp when she saw the figure move around the side of the tent. The figure must have been over seven feet tall, bound in cords of muscle, and had skin that was dark green. Miniature tusks protruded from the captor’s heavy lower jaw, piercings lined her ears, and her hair was braided tightly and greased. Scarified tattoos spread across the captor’s bare breasts.
“Orcs! Gods no! We’re doomed! The gods have forsaken us!
“Shut your trap!” screamed the orc woman, in heavily accented common tongue, “Loud human will be punished!'
Rena stared at the orc as she walked over to the tree and as the creature approached, it growled at her. Rena didn’t flinch. Rena expected a strike, or an insult, but instead, the orc woman just smiled and moved on to Lem.
Rena could just barely see what the orc was doing out of the corner of her eye. Lem continued screaming pathetically until the orc woman grabbed him by the jaw and pulled her face close.
“Shut up,” she growled, “Or I smash your head.”
The orc pulled a dagger from a belt that held up her loincloth. She held the knife up to the corner of Lem’s mouth.
“Don’t make me hurt you, little man.”
The orc started to laugh, but was interrupted by the sound of a horn sounding. It came from the camp.
“You’re lucky, little man,” the orc said, “Chief’s awake.”
Lem whimpered and went limp. Rena was watching the camp. Orcs were rising from the tents and coming towards them. She noticed something strange: every last orc that came into the clearing before them was female. When the chief came in, the sight became even stranger.
The Chief was taller than all the other orc women, easily pushing eight feet. Her hair was gray and her features looked aged, as far as Rena could tell. She wore large, armored shoulder-pads with a sheet of chainmail spread between them that hung down over her breasts. She wore a fur dress that had been dyed red. A black symbol had been charred into a patch of skin on the fur.
“Take down the men,” the Chief said, “put them in chains and get them working on the stones.”
The Chief spoke much better than the first orc woman, and she was staring right at Rena. Shining grey eyes beneath light green lids. Rena noticed a terrible sensation in her gut, some animal instinct told her there would be no escape.
Rafael groaned as he was cut loose and clapped in irons to her left. Cain said nothing, which did not surprise Rena. If anyone would escape, it would be Cain. Cain became cold and calculating in times of danger. Lem was struggling to remain silent as the orc woman from before stripped him of his clothes and cuffed him naked.
“I sure hope ours will be bigger than this one, Chief!” the orc woman said, pointing to Lem’s naked member.
The Chief did not respond, simply waving her hand towards the bundle of tents. The orc woman grumbled and yanked Lem away towards the tents. Rafael looked back at Rena in horror, mouthing the words “I’m sorry.” Cain simply stared forward.
“Out of here, all of you. Go prepare the circle,” the Chief shouted at the remaining orc women.
Orc File Format
Slowly, the orc women filtered out into the camp leaving only Rena and the Chief in the circle of trees behind the camp. Once all the women were gone, the Chief came forward and untied some of the ropes.
“You speak common well,” Rena said, “how did you learn it?”
The Chief looked intrigued that Rena would speak to her frankly but continued with her task. When she was finished untying, Rena looked down at herself to see she was still bound to the tree, but certain parts of her body were exposed. She had not noticed that she was naked beneath the ropes. The Chief stepped back and spoke.
“It is my native tongue. Not all orcs are raised speaking Orcish speech.”
Rena raised an eyebrow; this she had never heard of.
“So your parents spoke common too, then?”
The Chief just smiled and continued with her tasks. She reached into a pouch on her belt and dabbed her fingers inside. There seemed to be some sort of dark green tar within. Rena gasped when she felt the Chief smear the tar onto her thighs.
“What are you doing?!” Rena screamed.
The Chief spread more of the tar onto Rena’s belly, breasts, cheeks, and finally her vulva. Rena was squirming as much as she could, but the ropes still held her tightly. Everywhere the tar touched began to tingle to the point of stinging. It was torture.
Rena heard the Chief begin to hum, then rise into a chant in an unknown tongue. The tingling turned to burning. The Chief drew from her belt what appeared to be a bundle of grass covered in pinkish powder. She brushed it across Rena’s forehead.
Immediately, Rena felt like her forehead was being compressed. The pressure seemed to seep through her skin, through her bone and into her skull. She was dizzy. The Chief walked out of view. The clearing before Rena was spinning and it only got worse when she felt the ropes go slack.
Rena plummeted towards the ground and couldn’t get her hands up fast enough. She hit the ground, then scrambled desperately to sit up. She felt a large, warm hand lift her up. The Chief lifted her back against the tree.
“Read this,” the Chief said, shoving a piece of parchment towards Rena.
The parchment was covered in common. It was a common prayer. Everyone knew how to read it.
“What?” Rena asked.
“Read it now.”
Rena sighed but complied. The dizziness wasn’t gone which was making the words harder to make out.
“Gods guide our path, Gods rest our heads. May the Twelve lead us to…to…sal-salvation,” Rena said, stuttering at the end.
The page was hard to focus on, but it was more than that. The word looked wrong to her. Rena tried to continue.
“May the L-lig-ligt?”
She knew that wasn’t right but she couldn’t make sense of it. She couldn’t even piece together the next word. She tried letter by letter, mouthing the letters and trying to sound them out. She knew she should know this. She stopped trying for a moment. Rena was suddenly aware of a fuzzy sensation on the edges of her consciousness. It made her feel ill.
“Hm. Working faster than I expected. Come now. You’ll be fine,” said the Chief, lifting Rena by her arm to her feet forcefully.
Rena’s breasts bounced hypnotically with the force of the Chief’s lift, and she found herself staring at her chest to stave off the dizziness. They were walking so quickly. It was confusing her. She saw that the tar seemed to be soaking into her skin as she walked, leaving her skin discolored and dark.
They came into the center of the camp. The orcs were circled all around by the tents. In the corner, her three traveling companions were tied with rope leashes, naked. All of them looked dejected and embarrassed except for Cain, who still stood tall. There were whip marks across his abs and pecs. In the very middle, there was a ring of white and black stones, which had been etched with Orcish runes.
“Step into the ring,” The Chief ordered.
Rena was too dizzy to argue. As she stepped over the stones, she tried desperately to remember why she was here, but she was drawing blanks. The fuzziness on her mind was growing. She turned to look back at the Chief.
The Chief was holding her hand above one edge of the circle. A deep chant rose in her throat and the other Orc women joined in. The Chief motioned with her other hand, sweeping it over the crowd. As she did so, the Orc women turned to one another and began touching each other in the lewdest display Rena had ever seen.
Rena could feel heat rising from the stones around her. The runes were glowing red. The tar on her skin burned hotter, causing her to glance down at her thighs. Everywhere the tar had touched was now stained dark green. And it was spreading.
Her lips were green, her breasts, green. Her nipples had turned black and seemed to be shrinking. She began to hear moans from around the camp as the women grew more intense in their pleasure. She scanned the crowd, fear and disgust filling her mind. Her eyes met with the Chief, who had drawn a small, jagged dagger and placed it against her hand. Rena screamed.
The Chief made a slice across her palm, and the blood trickled down upon the stones. A flash of light lit the camp and the chanting stopped at once, though the lovemaking continued. Rena shook.
The fuzziness in her mind seemed to solidify and constrict around her brain. She suddenly understood. Her knowledge was leeching away like sand in an hourglass. She could feel herself forgetting how to write, forgetting how to calculate currency, forgetting all the history of her land. She felt heavy, dull, dumb. A pain below drew her eyes.
Rena saw that all her muscles were clenched and growing in size. Her legs, once lithe, were bulking and becoming corded and large. She saw her abdominal muscles, once only softly visible, protrude and grow in definition. Her breasts almost seemed to shrink as the muscles beneath expanded. Her arms surged in size and strength.
As she watched she saw more change. The shape of her body was changing, not just the strength. Her once curved waist became a chiseled V. Her hips thinned and hardened. Her shoulders were widening.
Rena felt a surge of heat pass through her, tightening all her muscles almost paralyzing her. Her eyes were staring down between her legs. She could see her body reforming before her very eyes. Even in her dull state she could tell what was happening and she wanted to scream.
First there was a pinch between the folds of her womanhood, then a feeling of warmth and pressure as her clitoris expanded in size. She could feel it push out from between her lower lips sending waves of pleasure out to the rest of her body. At the same time, she felt a sensation of folding skin as her new testicles formed and lowered into skin that was once the lips of her cunt.
The word came to her out of character. It was primal, sexual, degrading. She felt the void of other words growing. Absence of vocabulary, absence of knowledge. All that remained was arousal, sex, the knowledge of procreation. As her muscles slowly slackened, she looked out at the writhing crowd around her. The last vestige of her femininity slipped away.
Rena felt himself grow hard. He couldn’t imagine why he’d ever cared for anything other than the surging bodies before him. He stepped forward across the ring of glowing stones.
“Look upon our male!” screamed the Chief, “Hope for the tribe! We have a male!”
The orc women roared in triumph, which only made Rena harder. He strode forward to an orc woman who had spread herself on the ground before the ring. Straddling the woman, he plunged into her already wet cunt and thrusted forcefully. The moans of pleasure sounded greater than anything he could ever remember hearing.
Rena reveled in his hardness, in the wet massage of the orc woman’s interior on his cock. These were new, glorious feelings. Triumph coursed in his veins as the final changes settled in. His jaw hardened and small tusks pushed upwards from his now-strong jaw. There was nothing left of his prior femininity.
He felt orgasm building, a tight ball of arousal deep at the base of his cock. It grew into explosive cumming that shook his body and the body of the orc woman below. As he came, hot cum flowing outwards, the last semblance of his prior intelligence was obliterated. He had become primal, hungry, sexual, capable of only basic language. And he was reveling in the new feelings. Never before had he felt the surging, penetrative power of orgasm like this.
Rena stood, breathing heavily. His cock was slick and still hard. He needed more. And he would get it.