Prologue
A deafening wail echoes across a field littered with the remains of a battle between humans, horses, orcs, and their allies scattered in a gruesome scene of death and misery for all both the warriors of the free people and the slaves of shadow. The source of this wail is a once proud monster the Witch King of Angmar he has been struck down by the valiant Éowyn his final thoughts are a mix of fear doubt and regret as his form collapses in on itself.
His mind races at inhuman speeds, digging through what little is left of him trying to find a way to survive. 'Curse that halfling and his foul blade curse that woman for standing her ground where others would flee...Curse me for my overconfidence. I was the Witch King lord of the Nazgûl, destroyer of Arnor, ender of the line of kings. Now, I feel myself fading away hopefully beyond my master's reach. Perhaps I will find peace in oblivion.'
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Sauron finds himself angered not at the loss of his greatest servant, army, or the energy, and time that he will have to waste to rebuild; he is angered at the resilience of the free peoples.
He walks down the dark halls, calculating how long it will take for his armies to regroup and how much he will have to sacrifice to resurrect his greatest servant. He arrives at his trophy room, looking at the display case holding the rings of men. The very rings he used to dominate the greatest kings of men, he chuckles to himself at one of his most successful schemes but as he counts the rings he feels something he has not felt in a long long time fear "No it can't be" he counts them again and again always reaching the same number "Eight? EIGHT! WHERE IS THE NINTH!" Sauron yelled with such fury that he shook the very foundations of Barad-dûr even causing orcs of weaker wills to die of fright. After this fit of anger, he begins to tear apart the room, searching for what is his for no orc would be foolish enough to steal from him.
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Amongst twisted and blackened trees The Three-Eyed King sits upon his mount Dorghar. confused and angered that every future he once saw, has now changed due to a new darkness as arisen one with eyes of flame and wearing an iron crown. 'Another challenge from the gods, perhaps?' He thinks pondering the many new futures this evil is different from his own; he can feel it is destructive and barely contained like the eruption of a volcano, while this one is cold and longs for dominance over all life like a prison of ice. This shadow that he sees has become entwined in the fate of this world and has become an obstacle for him to crush so he may fulfill his fate and bring an end to this world and the gods. He pulls the reins on his steed and begins to travel through this hellish landscape to once again lead his blades of chaos.
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On a mound of snow and ice lies a figure cloaked in black and wearing an iron crown.