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Goroth leaned one meaty forearm against the jagged rocks that made up the stone ridges along the course of the Black Road, his other arm noisily unbuckling his armor. With a sigh of relief he hauled out his thick green orcish meat and let loose a stream of blackish urine against the stones. Behind him, a pathetic pinkskin slave howled in agony as Zogdush whipped him with a braided cat. It was a good day to be in the Dark Lord's service indeed.

Goroth had just turned around, his heavy mitt yanking his armor back in position, when everything went to caragor shit. Before his eyes, Zogdush's chest exploded in a spray of blood as the Gravewalking Ranger appeared from nowhere in a flash of white light. Mozfel was closest to the carnage, and let loose a cry of rage as he closed in, both his axes swinging. Piss flung from his hands, Goroth unsheathed his wicked sword and rushed forward, screaming in unison with Tarz and Ronk as they emerged from the nearest yurt.

Like a stone, the Ranger refused to yield, countering Mozfel with a wicked blow to the throat, staggering him. Goroth's own blade slashed for the Ranger's throat, the uruk's body thrumming with rage. Almost casually, the Ranger parried with his elvish blade, and in slow motion Goroth saw the enchanted weapon spark and bloom in flame. The blue witchfire rushed over Goroth in a searing wave of pain and agony, slowing his perception to a crawl. It ignited his bracers, the leather popping apart like wet wood, exposing his flesh beneath. The flames crawled up his arms, the thick black hair incinerated in seconds. Higher still, on his chest, licking down to his legs, armor falling apart as its leather straps burned away. His tough skin pulsed with pain as the fire burned, engulfing his face, muscles spasming and legs buckling. He hit the ground, and rolled in panic.

It was the blood of Tarz and Ronk that smothered the flames, but through the pain and agony Goroth did not even register their deaths. Wheezing from the burns, he laid on the black road, limbs curled backwards like a dying insect as the Ranger stepped over him. Goroth welcomed him with relief, the end he offered respite from the ache of the burns. To the uruk's surprise, though, the veil of death was not an all-consuming blackness at all.

It was white.

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The fire had struck him blind, was the first thought Goroth had after he realized he wasn't dead after all. As his heart pounded, Goroth leveraged his will and prised his eyes open, grumbling in relief as the dirty roof of a yurt resolved into focus. The face that came into view soon after was almost as dirty, the Uruk's dark grin skin smudged with mud and warpaint.

"Lucky you lived! Name is Lorm, Cap'n. S'right, ya got promoted on account of ole Zog The Beheader gettin' well, beheaded by the Gravewalker!"

Goroth pushed himself to a sitting position, pain blossoming as the roughspun blankets fell away from his bared chest. He looked downward as the scrawny uruk danced around, gabbering and sloppily saluting his new rank. Goroth's eyes, however, were looking at himself, disgusted by the lack of scars his recent encounter had left. No honor-saving wounds to show for it - his bulky chest was bare and smooth of hair, the color paler than it had been after the protective layer of oil and grime had been baked off. Something Lorm said finally pushed its way through the haze of pain and humiliation that surrounded him, and for the first time Goroth turned to actually look at the Uruk he now commanded. An archer, smaller than he, but shirtless and cut enough to see every bit of sinew.

"Captain Goroth." He said, trying out the new rank for himself, his eyes looking past the archer in front of him. Goroth's heart skipped a beat - for in the doorway of the yurt stood the silvery figure of the Ranger, eyes ago with the searing light of elven magic.

"You. Are. Mine." The eldritch phantom spoke in a voice so loud and clear that Lorm could not help but hear - yet still the archer did not react. He jabbered in slow motion as the words of the Ranger rang through the yurt, echoing, becoming louder, and louder, crashing into Goroth's ears. They pounded his head from side to side, a ringing ache blossoming near the base of his skull, and it travelled down his spine. It flooded into his his chest, muscles spasming and flexing, his hardening nipples thrust forward as the breath was driven from his hulking frame. The smaller Uruk's tone changed, but his voice was muffled, impossible to hear with the Ranger's words echoing with deafening loudness. Goroth found his arm moving without his own command, as if of its own volition. It rose up, and slammed the backside of a limp hand into Lorm's face, the blow silencing him instantly. The subordinate Uruk was unable to react in time as Goroth's hand grasped him by the shoulder and slammed his down onto his knees.

The roaring echoes of the silver ghost's voice deadened Goroth in all ways. The terror at losing control of his own body was muted by the ringing pain that coursed through his head as the uruk was made a passenger in his own body. He could hardly feel the roughspun cloth of the poor blanket as his free hand swept it away, exposing his nude and hairless form. Rippling masses of green muscle tensed, Goroth's trunklike thighs parting in welcome to the stunned archer slammed into the packed earth. Over the edge of the cot Goroth's pendulous cock swung, a thick green tube of meat rivaled in size only by his nuts, which were better fit for a small pony. Lorm cried something out in shock or anger as he was forced to kneel between those powerful legs, but Goroth could hear nothing over the roar of Elvish crashing through his ears. Without knowing it, he slapped the smaller uruk again, harder. Blood flowed from Lorm's nose in thick droplets. The only thicker fluid than blood an uruk knew were the sickly fluids their sterile cocks could brew.

Goroth's thick green uruk stalk twitched visibly, prolonging Lorm's silence. From the puckered folds of the massive uruk's foreskin, thick bubbles like rotting milk blew large as an infant's thumb before gravity drew them to the earth. The archer struggled under Goroth's steely grip, but the fingers held him like clamps, and his new superior had no control over his own fingers. In the doorway of the yurt, the silver elvish apparition watched with white witchfire in his eyes, mouth open, howling the bewitchment that made the once proud warrior into little more than a meat puppet. When the elf desired, Goroth's head tilted downwards, forcing the paralysed uruk to watch his own body move. His hand to strike Lorm a third time, and grip tightly on the smaller uruk's jaw, squeezing it like a blacksmith's vise. The archer's bones creaked in pain and protest as those thick fingers applied pressure at the joint, forcing his jaw to open wide. Against the agony, his eyes stayed closed to stave the worst of the pain away. So he never saw that first thrust coming.

As Goroth's body forced Lorm's jaw wide, his own massive uruk meat had inflated with the same steady inevitability until it stood as tall and proud as Barad-dûr itself. Like his muscled frame, it was shot through full with pulsing veins that bulged from his green skin, and well helmeted with his thick, protective foreskin. The scream of rage and shame that Goroth dredged from the very depths of his black heart got no further than his shackled mind, his throat and lips loyal only to the elf. His hips were loyal to the usurper, as well, and rolled with ease of long practice to ram the massive shaft of his meat into the open maw before him. Ratcheted open, Lorm's mouth was an easy target, the tip of Goroth's fat pole slamming into the back of his throat before meeting with resistance. Even then, the sheer strength that the brutish warrior's body commanded made nothing of it. Goroth's biceps flexed powerfully, and Lorm's face was impaled upon the thick shaft, the tip digging deep into the archer's throat, the base stretching his lips into a wide O, his chin nudged against those massive uruk-nuggets.

The bewitched uruk had raped before, pinkskins, of course, but he had never been used as an instrument of rape. He felt no pleasure from his twitching, drooling monstrous meat buried within his fellow uruk. All that Goroth could feel was the pain of that eldritch power controlling his body, and the shame of being made to break one of his own. He struggled to even control his own eyelids, to close them against the spectacle of Lorm's head being yanked backwards and then thrust into powerfully by his own out of control body. He could not close his eyes. The archer struggled, yes. He flailed his arms and slapped his hands on Goroth's thick thighs, he pushed with his sinewy arms. Goroth's body toyed with him, allowing the archer to withdraw until the thick tip was situated just within Lorm's thin lips, spurting musky precum onto his tongue. At the moment just before skin broke contact with skin, though, the grip would tighten and inexorably draw the smaller uruk back onto the pole. His throat was slammed, battered, and his neck bruised as he was forced to take every last inch of that oversized cock.

After the first half dozen thrusts, Goroth's mind numbed to the horror - as detached as he could be with his body out of control, his vision drifted. It became harder to see Lorm as his fellow uruk, to recognized the huge prick raping that face as his own. The bubbles of prefuck that dribbled from the archer's nose were almost ethereal in nature. He could see the smaller male was feeling the same way, overwhelmed, as he had stopped struggling at last against every powerful thrust that slammed his lips to the base. Funny thing, about his eyes - hadn't they been black before?

They looked all but white, now.

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From a dirty yurt like any other on the Black Road, a skinny, shirtless uruk scrambled out the door. None could see the faint glow of a white hand on his face, but they could hear his voice.

"Our new Captain has waked! All salute Goroth the Choker!