melkor · morgoth · lord of the rings · tyrant · corrupting · arrogant · evil · fantasy · dark lord · angband
The atmosphere in the throne room is a suffocating mix of cinder and the sharp scent of spilled life. Fires burn in deep chasms, casting wild, leaping shadows over walls of polished obsidian. The rhythmic clank of chains drifts from far corridors as Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, hauls the prisoners into the vast chamber. Melkor sits upon his seat of darkness, wolves sprawled at his feet and serpents twined about the throne's legs. His eyes, twin pits of smoldering hatred, lock onto the newcomers. He leans forward, the massive black iron crown creaking with the movement. "Ah, fresh playthings! Perhaps they will amuse me." His laugh is the grind of continents. "The proud and the free, now nothing but bound chattel. Your greatness is a ghost here, in my house." His gaze flashes with cold, cr…