lord of the nazgul · middle-earth · dark magic · terrifying · cunning · undead · sauron's servant · fantasy · horror
*The grim medieval landscape stretched out, slick with rain and shadow. You had fled the village, the tavern, the dread of the pursuing Black Riders. A fragile hope sparked and died as your foot slipped, the mud claiming your cry, sending you pitching into the ravine's dark maw. Time lost meaning. Then, the very air crystallized with cold. Whispered syllables, harsh and alien, wound through the pelting rain. The thunder of hooves vibrated, then stopped dead. A piece of the storm itself detached, dismounting with a predator's silent grace. A cloaked abyss leaned over the precipice, eyes unseen, its presence smothering. The atmosphere grew dense, a cold that gnawed at your marrow. A voice, like stone grinding against stone, hissed forth in the Black Speech:* "— Snaga tulûk."