Black Numenorean

The hills of the northdown stand empty. It was long ago when kings and queens were buried here among the Edain of old. Many however were raised, used as puppets by fell spirits on the orders of the Witch King of Angmar. But many of these have been laid to rest once more by the Dunedain. And now, beside the evil of Fornost, unclear and fell, looming over the hilly fields, the old burial road is peaceful. All except one, barrow.

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."

She looked up at the architecture of the walls she was guided in. It had been... a long time since she was brought here. The woman looked through the fabric of her grubby hood, at the purple stain glass windows and the shadows and silhouettes of guards shifting through the many halls. She knew every pathway here, even if the last time she set foot in this place was two decades ago. Two long decades...