The beacons blazed with ancient promise, beckoning to Rohan, and so they heeded the call. Before them, their comrades-in-arms endured the onslaught of the Dark Lord's minions, holding fast within their fortress. It was in this dire hour that King Théoden™ marshalled his forces, stirring the spirits of his kinfolk, condemning the shadow's oppression, and pronouncing their decree: Death.
Driven to the brink of madness by the merciless lashings of its vile Orc overlords, there lumbered forth a Cave Troll, a behemoth of dim wits yet endowed with the strength of a legion. Its skin was nigh impervious to weapons forged of iron, a testament to the unforgiving nature of the dark places of the world where it dwelt. Clutched within its colossal three-fingered grasp was a mighty stone hammer, a fearsome instrument of destruction that it wielded with blind fury.
Deep within the heart of Mount Doom, where the heat of the flame saturates the air, thick like the very magma it erupts from, lies the Dark Lord's forge: Sammath Naur. Here, within the Cracks of Doom, Sauron wove his dark magic to craft a weapon from the very fires of the earth itself—a weapon meant to dominate all of Middle-earth.
In the sanctum of Orthanc, Saruman's pride swelled like a storm-tossed sea, and it was there that the seeds of his treachery and covetousness took root, casting an ominous shadow upon the land.
In the heart of the ancient city of Minas Tirith stood a small unit of guards, resolute and vigilant, like a steadfast pillar of Gondorian valour. Clad in gleaming armour, they stood beside the long thought dead White Tree of Gondor, a symbol of a thriving bygone era, and an emblem of lingering hope, awaiting the return of their king.
