Tradul

The Ettenmoors were the land of the stall, and Shragat was sick of it. The constant, grating presence of mud and mediocrity wasn't misery—it was an insult to his superior intellect. He was an Orc of the Misty Mountains, and while his kin prized damp, dark security, Shragat saw the mountains as a resource, not just a hiding place. He was wasted here, standing guard over supply wagons that hauled nothing more valuable than thin porridge and moldy straw.

The orcs rushed out of their base camp, scurrying away from the whips of their masters. Their slow-witted brains reacted only to the most basic things: desire for food, fear, pain, hatred and rage. And now they had a little of each, for they had been under the command of harsh and ruthless commanders for days.

These are the adventures of Tradul, an orc with a curious outlook on life, but certainly not a very smart one in general. These scrolls are a transcribed copy of the originals, which were found in abandoned goblin camp, written on goatskin in the language of Mordor. 

The day started with a breakfast of slug meat. I don't like slug meat, it's tough and sticks in my teeth. I prefer human legs. The elf ones have little meat and the hobbit ones are too small, I stay hungry. The human ones are perfect.