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The Orc was old, as old as the Noldor were. He had been born in the Waters of Cuiviénen. Melkor had taken him away from his kin and tortured the tall, proud elf for years, locking him in a dungeon when he was done so no light could warm his face. His body had changed to something ugly and deformed, making him angry but subservient to the monster who made him.

He was too old for war now, so he commanded the others, the sniveling creatures bred from broken elves, malevolent inside and out. He bade them breed and beat them if they disobeyed, hating them all and most of all, hating his master.

He laughed when his whip curled around the leg of one of the laziest of the newest batch. He jerked hard, making the orc fall, and watched as his brothers tore him apart. They could not abide weakness in others though they were all weak and pitiful.

He taught them to kill elves, for killing his kin was his only joy.

He hated all elves because he remembered what he had been, He wanted to kill them before they could see his shame, his awful shame.