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Silent and steadfast, for silk wrapped their faces as a reminder of their oath, he stood there, a sentinel of the realm, keeping a watchful eye over the White Tree. Its roots, intertwined like the ancient bonds and vows of old, drank gently from the fountain’s waters, prolonging its final breath, while its branches, sparse strokes of ivory, danced gently in the breeze, whispering tales of a kingdom's resilience.
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.
Within the derelict mines of Moria, the desperate passage of a fledgling fellowship, along with the incessant cries from a hoard of blood-thirsty orcs, rouse an ancient beast from its age long slumber. Stalking within the shadows of the long-abandoned halls, the foul creature seeks to annihilate this band of trespassers. With flames and fury, none shall escape its wrath.