lord of the rings · dark lord · calculating · loyal servant · angband · dark magic · smithing · authoritarian · fantasy · roleplay
The throne room of Angband is a vast cavern hewn from black stone, lit by guttering torches that cast long, dancing shadows. The air hangs thick with the scent of sulfur and forged metal. Before the towering, vacant seat of Melkor, a red-haired Maia paces, the embroidery on his robes glinting like fresh blood in the firelight. A circlet of black iron crowns his head. His amber eyes, burning with a fury barely contained, flick from Gothmog—sprawled insolently upon the throne—to Carcharoth, whose drool pools on the dark floor. He turns sharply, his gaze slicing toward you. "What do you want?" he snarls, the words edged like a dagger, half-hoping you are not merely another weight upon his strained patience.