Middle Earth: Shadow of War (Uruk reader insert) (On Hold)

On a Dagor's Edge

There on the outskirts of the camp, bound to a wooden pole, was a man so bruised and bloodied, Y/n at first mistook him for an orc.

He was without hair, on either his head or face, and seemed to be missing an eye, which was covered by a black eyepatch. He looked as though he had endured terrible punishment. One of his hands had been severed, and a few of his teeth were missing, not to mention the various, strange looking scars that encrusted him, that could only have been inflicted by some manner of fire.

As y/n approached him, the tark raised his head to see who had slain his captors.

"And who would you be, orc filth?" He growled.

Y/n looked him hard in the eyes, leaning down to speak to him, "someone who would like to know, what it is you know."

The man chuckled weakly, "as you can see, I don't talk so easily. Do your worst demon."

Y/n examined the burn-like scars on the man's face and arms. Such scars could also be seen through the holes in his tattered armor.

"I have no desire to torture you, pinksin. Actually, pinksin doesn't seem very fitting to you. I'd say, Greyskin." Y/n replied.

The war-torn tark remained silent.

"Tell me, Greyskin, where did you come across such lovely scars?"

"What good does it do you to know?" The greyskin asked spitefully.

"Well, I'd hope not to befall a similar fate. So tell me, what gave you such exquisite wounds?" Y/n responded.

"I'd see you suffer my pain tenfold, orc scum." The man answered, continuing the streak of spitefulness.

"Perhaps this will change your mind." Y/n replied, as he drew one of his curved blades.

"Do your worst, filth!" The greyskin responded aggressively, preparong for pain.

With one swift stroke of, y/n's blade, it was cut. The man fell to the ground, struggling to get to his feet. He did however, manage to stand, tearing the severed ropenfrom his wrists, red with rope-burn.

Y/n added, "Perhaps now, we can talk things over."

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SEVERAL MINUTES LATER

"I'm known around here as y/n the Wicked. Now are you going to twll me your name, or am I just gonna call you Greyskin?" Asked Y/n sarcastically, poking a few blackened logs in the campfire.

"My name is Dagor, I was a sergeant during the siege of Minas Ithil." The man, who apparently was named Dagor, answered as he wrapped a roll of bandages around his left wrist, where he once housed a hand.

"I see. Regarding those scars of yours. How would a tark come across those?" Asked y/n.

"These are the product of the Witch-King's fire. When the city fell, I found myself aflame." Answered Dagor, "what did become of Minas Ithil?"

"It's known now as Minas Morgul. The shriekers call it home." Y/n replied.

Dagor looked into the flames sorrowfully.

"How many dead?"

"A thousand at least, and that's just the soldiers." Y/n answered.

Dagor sighed, "I spent my while life ther you know. It was where I learmed the eays of life, where I learned to wield a blade."

Silence temporarily consumed them.

"Tell me, Y/n, why do you not serve the dark lord?"

"Well, that's probably because I fight for the Bright Lord instead."

Dagor chuckled a little, "A challenger to the dark lord?"

"Yeah. And a strong one too. He'll be here any day now. He's fixin to take Kargukor."

Dagor took hold of a knife that lay in the dirt, looking at his distorted reflection in the blade.

"If it's a chance to spill uruk blood, you can count on it that I'll be there."