A/NGroan-inducing humour follows. You have been warned.
The New Black
The Nazgul stood in Barad-dur once more. Naked. This should not have caused them to be quite so selfconscious, but the Men who had become Wraiths had been prudish, and, as the saying goes, old habits die hard.
Besides, there was also the report of a failed mission to make.
'Well, well, had a bath in the elf-river, did you, boys?' The Mouth of Sauron sneered. The Nazgul protested shrilly, although, everyone in Mordor being thoroughly tone-deaf, this had little effect.
'Don't give me your lip,' said the Witch-King, but then there was a hush. Sauron was looking down at them. The Nazgul and the Mouth bowed deeply in reverence and fear... well, mostly in fear. It was a tense moment, and two or three of the Nazgul had unwelcome flashes of drunken, dancing halflings. These shook their wraithly heads in annoyance and awaited their master's wraith, sorry, wrath.
'Ho ho ho!' And then relief, for the Dark Lord was in an excellent mood, indeed He seemed to be positively buoyant. The excess of vitreous humour had probably ceased to trouble him. 'I see you!'
'Ahem. My Lord, O Mighty Ruler of Middle-earth, Magnificent Maia, Visionary Villain of Legendary Doom, the Nazgul are in need of new raiment.' Mouth bowed again.
'So I see! Ho ho ho. And indeed new raiment I have devised for them. Behold!'
In a puff of smoke appeared a heap of robes.
The Nazgul stared at the heap, frozen in horror.
At last their leader gathered the courage to speak. 'My Lord? These are... these are...'
'Yes! They are a little different from what you're used to. I thought you might appreciate the change.'
The Nazgul cleared their throats (which was difficult, because they did not exactly have throats, and also because the Nazgul are not known to... oh, whatever). 'That is most considerate of you, my Lord,' began the Witch-King of Angmar faintly, not, alas, being able to hiss for severe scarcity of sibilant sounds in the sentence he spoke.
Sauron rolled his eye.
'But, er, these robes, they are...'
'Witch, please.' That was Mouth, boorish brat of an ambassador that he was. 'Are you seriously daring to question the Dark Lord's fashion sense? Besides, I'm sure this new outfit will prove to be much more effective as a scare tactic bet you can give that nosy old steward (and what a nose!) a heart attack, too. Ha ha ha!'
The Nazgul left, clad reluctantly in bright, soothing white and green gingham robes, not entirely certain they were not being played a particularly vile prank on, cursing the day they had put on those pretty magic rings.