1 | vengeance [oakenshield]

ONE

THE MISSION

From the window inside the poorly-lit second-story tavern room she was in, the Prancing Pony, at least from the angle she was at, looked small. The green sign creaked as the rainy wind rocked it back and forth, almost mocking her as she waited as patiently for the job to finally be over with.

Seven seconds felt like seven minutes as she played with her knife, spinning it in between her fingers like the weapon was a toy. She didn't understand why the task was taking so long to begin with — how hard was it to kill a Dwarf? A nomad at that, he of whom would have been impossible to track had it not been for Yazneg's careful but painfully boring teachings.

And then after months and months, she had finally found him.

Bree was... cute, in a weirdly disgusting type of way: dirt roads, constant dreary weather, unsavory characters, and the constant stench of alcohol. Being located on the borders of the Shire, one would have thought that the town wouldn't attract as many shady characters as it did — from Hobbits too far but somehow close to home, Men trying to gamble for drinks, whores making quick coin, to Dwarven Kings chasing a rumor. A woman such as herself had no business here, at least not without reason.

It was humorous, she thought with a silent chuckle, that Azog was offering "payment" for the Dwarf's head. Both Azog's hand and ego never recovered after their last encounter, so of course it would be natural to incentivize others to do his dirty work for him. It made sense, in hindsight, as everyone believed him to be dead. But he would emerge, when the time was right, and the world would be his for the taking. For now, however, she had to do everything in her being to make sure her father stayed in power within the shadows.

A slight shudder. Father.

Years and years had passed, and she still couldn't believe that an Orc such as himself—or just an Orc in general—would come to be known as her father. Even through his cruelty and his lack of empathy for life, he treated her as his favorite child before his own blood and her adoptive brother, Bolg: always showering her with compliments, always parading her to other chieftains, always putting her at a caliber that was virtually impossible for anyone to achieve. The realist in her knew that he wasn't really proud of her, but rather himself for creating her and blessing (cursing?) her with a bloodthirsty demon who literally drained the life of anyone it possessed.

It was still a wonder she was alive and hadn't been the meal of choice.

Still, she liked to believe that, like a true father would, he loved her and he really was proud of her and everything she had done for him and the rest of the Orcs within Dol Guldur. Every kill she made not only satisfied (and, most importantly, fed) her demon, but both Azog and his master — and that was what was most important.

No, she couldn't fail. Not at something this big.

Her thinking was cut short when she saw movement from the opposing Inn at the corner of her eye, only to sigh with unsatisfaction. Two men came sulking out of the Prancing Pony and were marching directly towards the tavern she was in, the taller of the two looking up briefly at the window she was staring down at them from before he ducked his head down again.