Interlude
The werewolf, a great fell beast, descendants of the Draugluin raised his head and sniffed at the air. The fire of hell was in his eyes and his spirit was always tormented, ever devouring. He was the Watcher at the Door, guarding the dark fortress and the Black Gate. The fortress was vast and strong and above the Gate rose the reeking watchtowers a hundred feet high.
The werewolf made a low guttural sound as he watched a black horse came galloping through the heavy fog towards the Black Gate. The rider was robed all in black and black was his lofty helm. He approached the rider and sniffed. Satisfied, he returned to his resting place and gave a long howl. A moment later, the Black Gate was thrown open with a great clang and the rider disappeared under its frowning arches.
The black-robed figure walked into the vast hall of Morgoth and alone on a throne of black iron sat the Dark Lord himself. The dark figure was his servant and he knelt before the Lord of Darkness. He was the messenger, the Hand of Morgoth.
"What orders, m'lord?" The Hand of Morgoth asked. His voice was thin and raspy.
"There is a rumour that the Appointed One is found and a great errand is to be carried out. Seek them. Uncover their errand. Destroy them."
"It will be done, m'lord."
"What news of our preparations?"
"Well under way, m'lord. A great host has gathered under your banner. The fall of Gondor draws nigh."
"Good. Go now. Do not fail me."
Morgoth arose from his throne and went forth into the bowels of his fortress. Deep down lay his dungeons. They were black, desolate and foul. It also held large work pits where Orcs and trolls work relentlessly, making new weapons of cruelty and torture. His minions multiplied in the darkness of earth grew strong and fell. Morgoth filled them with a lust of ruin and death but his precious above all was the Undead Ones.
They lay in a chamber at the heart of his dungeons. They are dead but lay as one in deep slumber. These were once his fallen dark warriors. Using his dark magic, he called upon the abominable spirits of the Unborn and they inhabit the bodies of the Fallen. When they are fully resurrected any weaponry or wizardry cannot kill them. They suck the life essence out of the Living and breathe their foul breath into the victims so they become one of the Undead. The only thing Morgoth needs is the sap of the White Tree and they will be fully resurrected.
"Soon, my precious. Soon." A cruel smile played on the Dark Lord's lips.