Out of interest, one day you go and visit Goog in his office. He is sitting at his desk in a light blue and freshly pressed and starcheched button down. An absolutely tiny pair of glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose and he is carefully pondering some UML diagrams for a new feature to be implemented sometime in the next quarter.

You see he has an IDE open on a monitor with what looks like gibberish sprawled across the screen, though the Syntax seems correct enough from what you understand.

He notices you standing there a little longer than most people so in a moment of panic, you attempt to lean on the wall of his cubicle, but you accidentally knock over a small framed photo of him with a very young girl on his shoulders. She is holding an ice cream cone which is dripping onto his head, but he doesn't seem to notice. You carefully right the photo, and look back to see a look of confusion on his face, "Can I.... help you with something?" He asks with a concerned tone.

"Oh, uh... no, sorry. I was just curious as to how you were settling in?" You ask, trying to deflect the tension into some small talk.

"Quite well, actually. Everyone has been very accommodating." He says, grinning with a much more toothy smile than you are accustomed to.

"Very good, well, I hope you have a good day" you say, excusing yourself from the awkward situation.

Later on, you log into your terminal, and take a look at some of the code he has written, it is all just a mash of characters, nothing makes sense, but when you run the code, it does exactly what it is supposed to. You are baffled, but like everything in programming, if it works don't fuck it up right?

You make a note to ask him for some details later, but for now, that isn't necessary.... you think...

MORE!!!!!

I stand there, staring at my reflection. Strange, almost alien patterns and writing in a language I've never seen before is all over my body, from my ankles to my fingers, various patterns streak across my usually blank skin. I'm not sure, but they seem to be labels, or instructions, for something. It's a weekend, and I was up late last night, perhaps I am dreaming. Changing from just underwear to some pajama pants, I walk out of my room. For a dream, this is incredibly lucid. Every detail is laid out, and as far as I can tell, nothing besides the tattoos are new, not even changed. I go to punch the sandbag on my way past it, as I usually do, but as I pull my hand back, I stop. The tattoos on the raised hand glow faintly, but their color changed entirely. It... burns, a little, almost, but somehow not the same. The light quickly fades after a moment, and I'm left confused. Alright, well, whatever. I refocus on the bag, the light returns, and loose a relatively light punch. As soon as my hand made contact and met resistance, it felt like a sledgehammer was being swung, within my arm. The light gets far brighter at the moment of impact. For such a light punch, the impact it made was far too great. The sandbag lurches, a small burn being etched into the surface, as it continues shaking and swinging.

I dont feel like writing more, it's the middle of the night, I'm tired.

He will create the most comfortable socks known to mortals in Middle Earth and from his throne of comfy throw pillows he will cast it all into darkness... except for those who ally themselves with Gryffindor. They get 50 points.

This is great. 74 seems like such an idiot and the handler absolutely losing his shit is hilarious. Definitely a unique take on this prompt.

It was silent in the autumn breeze with only the wind blowing golden leaves across the empty park. Not even the crows who often belted their croaking melancholia from the oak shifted. They puffed up their feathers like black coats and pulled them tight as they sat in their nests. Winter's chill sat in potential on the weathered clouds, darkening a pale yellow fluff to dark grey with a promise of frigid rains. It never snowed here, but the chill of winter bit deeper every year. Well, it wasn't quite correct to day it never snowed, for almost every year since that fateful day, if snowed. Technically.

No children played in the park, as the stones that crunched beneath their feet had been long since bleached too white in unabating sun, and no more green sprouted to break their fall. I could remember their laughter, though. Even after all these years, I don't think I'll ever forget the sound of a child's laughter.

"You think the weather tomorrow will be good?" He asked beside me in a creaking voice.

I began to tell him. I told him how the double headed crows told me of now coming soon. The hogs in my garden got bolder. The bats and all four little wings fluttered in my attic, seeking warmth. I told him about every struggle and strife I knew.

"You think the weather tomorrow will be good?" He asked, for that was all I knew how to make the creaking skeleton say, and I never was creative enough to come up with something. He'd said that to me the day the bombs dropped. Im bad at making things up... but I know how to remember.

I don't think I can forget.

This is great! . You quickly built up his character. I want to hear more about Goog.

This one is exactly what I had in mind when I wrote the prompt. Well done!!

If any creature were to have a name like "Goog", it'd definitely be an orc.

[removed]

The prince took the stage to the cacophony of trumpets. The crowd murmured.

"My fellow countrymen, the rumors are true. The King is dead.

The murmuring grew louder.

"Under normal circumstances, this news might have been delivered to you by the Ministers or Cardinals," he motioned to the row of robed figures looming on the stage behind him. "My beloved father would have been interred after a month of national morning. And only then, with the blessings of the Cardinals, would I stand in front of you and claim my rights as heir."

"But we do not have that luxury now. Even as I speak, the army of Salynim surrounds our city. Our spies tell us that their reinforcements are only two days away. When they arrive, the combined army will tear down our gates and pillage our city."

Silence fell.

"With his last breath, my father urged me to move forward with his plan to attack the waiting forces. Right now, we outnumber the hordes waiting outside. A swift and decisive strike now will cripple their present forces, making the reinforcements inadequate against our city defenses. But to do that, we have to take up arms, every last one of us. For the men and women, we have arranged sticks and repurposed some farming equipment. The children will be supplied with rocks. Together, we will crush the enemy and let the world know what happens to infidels who disrespect our Queen. They could have left with the bodies of the ministers and their families, and apologized formally, but they threatened us and kept spreading the lies about our beloved Queen. We tried to warn them again by burning all their farms from Zunim to Goyari, and what did they do? They besieged our city! The bastards! We will not let them get away with this! We will fight to the last man, woman, and child! We will bathe in their blood and tears!! And then, we..."

The crossbow bolt in his throat prevented him from finishing his speech. The ministers rushed half-heartedly to their rapidly expiring new liege who clutched at this throat, trying to keep the blood in. "Guards?" someone inquired, reluctantly.

Unari had already ducked into an alleyway as the commotion broke out in the square. Five minutes later, he slipped through the back entrance of a dingy bar and found the others at the corner table.

The elderly gentleman at the table cocked his ear. The shouts were spreading. "Sounds like you did the job."

"Do you think it'll work?" Unari slumped down onto a chair and rested his mini crossbow against a table leg.

"The contacts I have in the ministry all suggest that the Ministers will all support a truce," said the man, studying his glass carefully, "And we're back-channeling terms of a cease-fire with the Salnym. But none of it would be possible if our own monarch craved war. We were lucky enough to have the King succumb to consumption, but the Prince was healthy and no one would dare touch him because..."

"Yeah, the four generation curse." Unari looked out the window as a crowd rushed by.

"You did a great service to your country, son." Everyone at the table nodded in agreement.

"What'll happen to me now?"

"Well, once things settle down, you'll definitely get a pardon. The tumors shouldn't start forming for at least a year, and they'll only be limited to you since your have no next of kin."

"In that case, gentlemen," Unari rose from his seat, "I better finish my paintings."

A lot of my coworkers assume that I would be worse at my job than my human counterparts. Apparently, a Blacktusk can't do this sort of 'advanced thinking.' No, even after the end of the Orcish-Loraenian war in '89, I still feel their eyes on me like venom in my veins. I still hear their whispered words in hushed elvish, assuming I don't know their tongue. I still notice them speak in softer, simpler words as if soothing a great, toothed beast in fear it would lash out and not understand.

No one has complained though. Not even I.

"Evanduiael, how was your weekend?" Rasper Gildsprocket glanced over their shoulder at the elf, who twitched his ear dismissively at the gnome. Their high voice had a tendency to grate on those of us with more sensitive hearing. My own ears pinned back a moment before I reminded myself of 'polite society'. The Loraenian immigration society has taught me plenty about polite ears when I moved here, but sometimes instinct still got the better. Sometimes if was easier to give in to that comfort of being able to show my emotions openly.

"Im fine, Gildsprocket." Evanduiael spoke curtly, striding confidently into his office without sparing either of us a look. I snorted, grinding my teeth against my tusks.

"Rude." I growled, focusing on filling up my work water bottle fully at the cooler. Rasper sputtered a bit, looking up at me.

"We-well, you know how elves are." They let out a humorless laugh, glancing around as if wondering if anyone else was coming to keep them company. Were they scared of me? "And I mean, they're quirky, but coming to Loraen gives a lot of us so much opportunity. We should be grateful. Especially orcs like you."

I hated it when they said things like that. Made it seem like I survived off their charity. It wasn't charity.

"Know what I mean, Gog?"

"Goog." I corrected with a close lipped smile.

"Such a silly name." They chuckled, turning to leave. "You should go by something else now that you're in Loraen."

I snorted through my nose. I did my work. And I did it well. And I never complained about my coworkers either. Because even HR laughed when they read my name.

Never seen it, but having looked it up I'm glad to merit the comparison!

We could totally purple prose this, lovecraftian style.

Should I?

Rosencrantz and guildenstern vibes

Gandalf's magic (and all the other magic users) is different in LotR than other worlds. They actually create new laws of reality/reshape reality with their statements, because they tap into a tiny portion of Eru Iluvatar's power of creation. They can't create whole worlds/continents like Eru could, but they can shape reality still.

When Gandalf tells the Balrog 'You shall not pass', he's making it a fundamental truth that the Balrog will not pass that spot on the bridge. Now, the Balrog has a similar level of power and could find workarounds, but it would not involve just passing where Gandalf stood.

In this context, this is what he says to Sarumen in the books:
'Behold, I am not Gandalf the Grey, whom you betrayed. I am Gandalf the White, who has returned from death. You have no color now, and I cast you from your order and from the Council.'
He raised his hand, and spoke in a clear cold voice. 'Saruman, your staff is broken.'

He doesn't cast a spell, he speaks and it becomes true. He just says his staff is broken, and it breaks. He says Saruman has no color (power) and he no longer does, because, yes.. he totally outranks Saruman now because he just cast Saruman out of the Wizards completely.
And this is the LIMITED amount of their power they are allowed to use on Middle-Earth.

Maybe!

Ah yes the Orcish version of Pebcac. Me like.

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But will the office splurge for the proper ergonomic chair for her desk?

Forrest Gump except it's not a bus stop

So after a few months of gaming together when are they planning the marriage? ;)

Hilarious, I love it! But are you purposefully misspelling both Gandalf and Dumbledore?

Thanks man ^^

I've had this idea for a while, so seeing someone appreciate it is very satisfying

I love all references you sprinkled in, like, “there and back again”