Upon the tranquil stone bridge, a single moment hangs suspended, holding the world at bay and slowing time itself. Sweet and sorrowful, the two stand together in quiet solitude; the mortal man and the immortal maiden, bound by a love that would prove stronger than fate.
Dark sorcery left his maw tarnished, for only vile words passed his lips; the Mouth of Sauron's cruelty and cunning were surpassed only by those of his master. Doom does he bring before the Black Gate, despair does he sow amongst Men and surrender does he demand.
To say they were bred for war is no mere exaggeration. Birthed in the pits of Isengard™, the Berserkers were made stouter than their already muscle-wrought kin. Forgoing the heavy armour of their fellow Uruks, they charged into battle with naught but a slab-like iron blade and a blood-filled helm. Their senses steeped in life’s ichor, they see (and will only ever see) the red blood of their enemies.
Amidst the ruin of a dark wizard’s keep, broken and blackened at the ending of a bitter battle, Merry and Pippin found themselves alone. Yet by chance, or perhaps by some gentler fortune, they came upon a storehouse, now masterless and soon to be ruined by flooded waters. There they sat among ruin and shadow, and finding leaf of a kind both rare and pleasing, lit their pipes and let the smoke curl upward into the dim air.
Cloaked in shadow and malice, it arrived unseen, as a breath of night given form. In its hand the blade lay bare, dark and hungry, eager to douse the flames of hope and life. Its gnarled gauntlet stretched forth, grasping for the warmth of living blood, guided by the lingering echo of the One Ring’s call. For such vile servants, fear was a scent upon the air, and sleep but a frail shield.