Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
—Hròundómë is restless this morning, he thinks as ash falls from the clouds–black as night–trickling onto his long silver hair. The volcano that forged Vanimóre rattling the entire isle, growling in agitation.
Mórëedur glances up at the mountainous volcano, taller than even Lëquetil–the castle built into the face of the volcano he's lived within for over three thousand years now. Smoke was arising from its maw, he knew Hróundómë would erupt soon. Soon it would bathe Vanimóre in its anger and bleed the land with lava.
Expelling a breath, not looking forward to that day, Mórëedur returns his gaze to the deep sea ports of his volcanic island. Laying the palms of his hands on the rails of the balcony that protrudes from the side of the castle, his odd colored eyes trace the trio of ships sailing into the port.
Black sails with a white eye. The Orcs of Sauron.
"'Tis your father." Rumbles the voice of Ancalagon the Black. The monstrous dragon perching atop Lëquetil like 'twere just that, a damned perch.
Mórëedur supposes to Ancalagon, it was.
His shoulders rise then fall with a sigh. "I know. I can feel him. Father has gathered a great portion of his strength after all these years."
"And now he will summon you to Middle-Earth to lead his armies." Ancalagon's tail–lined with lethal spikes, able to eviscerate an entire pack of Orcs at once–flicks lazily, chunks of stone crumble, tumbling down the side of the castle in boulders the size of Mórëedur's torso.
"He will."
The ships dock and packs of Moria Orcs pour out of them onto the stone platform jutting out over the water that shines and burns like melted gold. The pale skin of an Orc beams beneath the eclipsed sun, the air choked with ash and dust, and Mórëedur's shoulders straighten with tension as he marches his way up the thousands of steps into the castle, followed by the retinue of Orcs.
When the Orcs pass through the gates, Mórëedur leaves to meet with their leader in the council hall.
'Twere a cavernous hall with pillars that stretch from the black-tiled floor to the high ceiling like stalagmites. Molded into the shapes of gargoyles, dragons, griffins, and many other a beast, they line the walls with high, narrow windows between them. No sunlight spills through them that day–the black-stained panes woven with intricate designs of thorny vines and flying dragons among other foul beings. In the center of the room, is a round table, carved from black obsidian with swirls of silver that shine under the light of the chandelier dangling above it. Opposite the metal doors–that groan and creak when he pushes them open–is a two-story hearth framed by the carving of a dragon. Its wings outstretched and maw opened like the blazing flames were its own. And shouldering either side of the hearth, are two archways that lead to a large balcony that overlooks the eastern side of Vanimóre.
