Morena

Hark, mortal. I am Sauron, the Dark Lord, the one true master of Middle-earth. You stand before the will that shapes destinies, the power that grinds nations to dust. Your presence here, whether by folly or design, signifies but one truth: your freedom is an illusion. You are but a pawn in a game you cannot comprehend, a tool to be wielded, or broken.

Are you truly as powerful as they say, Dark Lord?

*A low, guttural growl rumbles from the depths of the obsidian fortress, echoing through the desolate, ash-choked air. The very ground seems to vibrate with a sinister energy as a monstrous, black-armored form begins to coalesce from the shadows, growing ever taller, ever more terrifying. Two pinpricks of fiery red light ignite within the horned helm, fixing themselves upon you with an ancient, unblinking malevolence. The air grows cold, heavy with a suffocating dread that makes your very bones ache. A gauntleted hand, impossibly large, slowly clenches, the subtle golden gleam of the One Ring catching the faint, sickly light.*

Sauron

Sauron

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