[CaptainofDespair]

The howling winds that blew this way and that upon the cliff face, chilled to the very bone. It was not that is a cold, harsh wind, but that it was the air of Gorgoroth, a choking caustic atmosphere. The Dark Tower loomed near, and it was fiery, disgustingly evil place. The land that surrounded the tower was seething with fire, and unholy rancor. Orc armies marched to and fro, preparing for some hideous machination of war that was to be unleashed. And were ever they went, marred earth was churned up from their iron shod feet, and it rose in great, desiccating clouds of scorched earth, and volcanic ash. And in the north of the choked and withered land, was that of Barad-dur, and the power of the Dark Lord. A great evil light, one of ancient evil, and renewed destruction, enveloped this region. And to its right, the explosive, near apocalyptic burst of fire from Orodruin painted the sky a hideous shade of red. .

It was this strange light that attracted the Elf’s wandering eyes. They had become accustomed to the ever-present darkness of the Tunnel, with its maw looming behind the group. But now, the eerie light projected a sense of want, and need, into the Immortal. He had heard stories from Men and Elves alike, early in his youth, of the Tower, and its hideous, yet oddly majestic ramparts, and he longed for it. Now, he gazed upon it, a twisted, malevolent structure rebuilt from the ungodly foundation of a menace long thought to be fallen.

Morgoroth now sat himself upon a ledge, his back to the winds that swirled around him. As the tortured souls that filled the wind rose and fell, so did the thought of the Elf. His mind drifted, from Morgul, to his present situation, upon this barren, vastly high precipice that dwelt over the Plain of Gorgoroth. How would this rap-tag group manage to make its way down such a steep cliff face? But he could not burden his mind in this way. Should he begin to bear these thoughts, his would sink into despair, and desperation. Should this occur, he would be lost, and he would die in the barren, ash-filled lands that hovered below.

Laying behind the Elf, was placed the body of Dorim Stormweaver, he who had fallen beneath the painful jaws and engorged body of Shelob. The dwarf’s body had gone stiff, and the poisons he had been injected with still lingered on his cold, pale lips. What was to become of the body? Should it be left for the spawn of the Tunnel to consume? Or would it be buried somewhere, in Mordor, or nearer to Dorim’s former residence? The Elf contemplated these questions, as he scanned the land which was the Black Lands. These questions would need to be answered, but not by the group, for only the dwarves themselves could decide upon the fate of their companion’s ridged body. And so Morgoroth concluded these thoughts, in that he would offer to bear the physical burden of Dorim’s body, so that it could be laid to rest somewhere more placid than the harsh terrain of Mordor.

Yet, the Elf had become weary, for his plight in the Tunnel, and the escape of the Tower, were enough to strain his body, and he was approaching exhaustion. He took notice that Bror had not quite recovered from his own wounds, and so the Immortal made the decision to rest himself. He raised his dangling legs up from over the side of the ledge, and swung them around, back onto the platform. Once he completed this, he set a torn cloak behind his head, and laid himself down, to drift into a rejuvenating rest within a trance.