The mighty mûmakil, beasts of such towering stature that their legs seemed like the boles of ancient trees; their tusks like the roots of mountains torn from the earth. Upon their broad backs were great howdahs of twisted vine and gnarled bone, bristling with archers and spearmen, vicious war banners snapping in the wind. Like living fortresses, they strode into battle—unstoppable and insurmountable—as the very ground itself trembled in their wake.
No triumph did he pause to savour, nor rest did he take, for the battle still raged. His sharp gaze swept the tumult of the battlefield, seeking yet another foe to strike, another evil to vanquish. The cry of warriors and the clash of steel rang in his ears, but his mind was steady. With bow drawn and heart unwearied, Legolas continued his hunt, unerring and relentless, a shadow of doom upon the servants of darkness.
Upon the snowbound Path of Caradhras™, beneath a sky heavy with storm’s whisper, Boromir beheld the One Ring™. Cold and bright it swayed within his grasp, its silver chain curling like a serpent’s coil. A fire unseen burned within its depths, and though no voice was heard, a call slithered into his heart, sweet with promise and laden with power. His breath wavered; his hand trembled. For a moment, the will of a mighty man waged war against the seduction of shadow.
Upon the blood-soaked Pelennor Fields™, the Witch-king strode, a shadow of death reaping lives with blade and flail. Neither the fall of his fell steed nor the desperate struggles of men could halt his grim purpose. Towering above the insignificant warrior, his unseen gaze cast down upon his prey, despair was all that could remain.
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