- The Awakening Orc TF By RagingRino, posted a year ago. Be careful what you wish for. Wishing to be stronger doesn't mean you'll remain human. But is that such a bad thing? An incredible sequence drawn by Yecow over on DA!
- Explore the Female Orc tf collection - the favourite images chosen by Gooberthegrand on DeviantArt.
tomgungy:
abearthatdoodles:
Watch 'Djinn-terference - TF/TG into Orc' being drawn on Youtube. If you watch the video, you'll see a sneak-peek at what I'm thinking my commission prices are going to be. I still don't know when I'll start that, but it'll be fairly soon. Please fave, comment, and watch - it's really appreciated!
Actually managed to complete a costume this year 🙂
Chris was over the moon that he'd gotten to the Foundation's costume shop before it closed on Halloween night. A nerd by habit and hobby, Chris had been eyeing the newly released orc costume throughout October but had only just found the money for it on the night of the party. He was grinning, admiring the big, fur costume limply hanging from his gangly body when he noticed that his smile seemed to be developing a severe underbite.
Much to his suprise, two white tusks sprouted up from his bottom lip. His went wide in astonishment, but his dumb, satisfied grin never faltered. Green spread forth from his loincloth over is pasty white skin, expanding with a newfound girth of fat and muscle in his physique. Chris felt his body filled with vitality and strength that he'd never experienced before, yet he couldn't manage a single movement. His mind was suddenly too burdened, dominated with animalistic urges. His cock negan to stir beneath the fur coverings.
A moment later, Kris was still admiring his visage in the mirror with a dopey smile. His arms rippled with strength, his belly dominantly bulged over his fur loincloth, and the last sparks of intelligence where flickering out of his eyes. Kris no longer wanted to go to the Halloween party to hook up with girls.
Guitar pro 5 free. download full version for android. 'Kris want fuck men.'
An Orc's Tale
By Faceted Mind
-
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)
-
-
'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 -
-
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.
-
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.
Tforce Critical Tracking
'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.'
-
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.
-
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.
Orc Tf Transformation
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
-
'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 -
-
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.
-
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.
Tforce Critical Tracking
'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.'
-
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.
-
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.
Orc Tf Transformation
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.'
-
Wc3 Tft Orc Campaign
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.
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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.
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.
-
-
(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!)
