The skies of Mirkwood were dark as they ever were, and out the windows of Minas Gîl shone the most omniscient of all light: a ghoulish green, flickering as a guide in the vast fog of the woods. The Hymn-chanter had returned to his abode, stricken by the defeat he encountered in the Trollshaws. Fearing for the loss of favour in his Master’s eye, Morsarch asked for contributions to be sent to Bree, in order to secure his operations in Eriador at the hand of Ferngurth. He could not withstand another defeat. This time, all had to go well.
“Conscious,
my thoughts are bleeding.
No path is uncrossed.
Will this be the way leading us to prosperity or our downfall?
Who walked the grounds we will tread? Who is waiting at the end of the road?
Another obstacle may be fatal, our supremacy might not survive.
Perchance it will be even us, stepping under the mantle of Death.
Death is good, but are we willing to die this early a day?
Questions, my friend, of which I demand answers.
It is time we obtain them. Let us defy our nature, and call for some external help.”
Beneath, the creaking sound of the closing tower door pierced the silence, as the messenger, holding one very special letter, was sent forth from Minas Gîl onwards to the lands of Eriador, far to the northern reaches, where only the darkest creatures did dare dwell. Angmar was to be brought into the Hymn-chanter’s play, and it would prove to become an unsettling occasion.
