Mordor

The tall, looming steel of the walls stood, strong and unbreaking. They could not, would not, ever break. Imposing, choking, the massive walls towered up to the heavens. Yet, even the heavens were barred. Putrid, heavy clouds of rolling ash choked out any feeling of light from above. She was left, on the ground, cold and enslaved.

The forces marched on. Black Speech was muttered amongst the orc forces as they lumbered through the barren fields beyond the Black Gate. Riding atop a Dire Horn Goat, a mounted warrior was fully clad in dark armor. As the goat ascended a steep, rocky hill, a scout dashed beside her, "General Aglarari, we approach Ithilien."

Walking down the dilapidated, ransacked streets of Millshaw, a couple held hands as they conversed in the night. Both hooded and cloaked, Nimraph and Eira walked through the small town. Passing some sprawled out scrap wood from the orc raids, Eira tried to distract herself from the destruction by asking, "How did a cookbook wind up in your library?"

She spoke in a light, amused tone. Deep down, however, she did not like the idea of going to that library.