Warehouse Stocktake Notice: Orders placed from our US and NZ warehouses will experience a one-week shipping delay starting Thursday, 8 January (PST). Shipping will recommence approximately 16 January (PST).
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.
Beneath his tattered robes and fungal finery, Skragrott’s power seethes like a cursed elixir. His gaze turned ever skyward, yearning for the cold, unfathomable twilight of the Bad Moon that spoke to him once before. That fateful communion left him more than a prophet—it left him a king, feared and reviled by Gitz and enemies alike. Yet, the Loonking is not content. Obsession consumes him, a relentless hunger that gnaws at his very core. He will tear the realms asunder, crushing all who dare stand in his way. Nothing will stop him from hearing the Bad Moon’s dark whispers once more. Nothing.
Through the ruins of a shattered chapel, Saint Celestine descends like an answered prayer, her golden armour gleaming as a symbol of the Emperor’s grace and wrath. Pure white doves herald her arrival, while her radiant blade casts a blinding, holy light upon the battlefield. Her fierce gaze falls upon the besieged forces of Man, renewing them with both hope and dread. To see Celestine is to behold both mercy and vengeance, a harbinger of redemption and ruin.
