A world torn by war and
crisis,
Plains stained bloody
and cold.
Barren depths of old
crumbled keeps,
Immortalized in bardic
song,
Thought to be
impenetrable.
Forests once green,
garden of Yavanna.
Now black in the
chokehold of sickness,
A snaring trap to
unwary travelers.
Darkness has spread
across the lands, never lifting
All that was green is
lost.
Demons buried beneath
strongholds of Durin,
Embodiments of flame.
Engulfing foes with
axes, whips
And gaping maws,
Lieutenant to Morgoth.
Snow glowing white over
jagged peaks,
Callous mountains,
echoing battles of giants
And the cries of a
sorcerer,
Bitter as the icy
winds, reverberating,
And beneath the
mountain, a frostbitten tomb.
In the grasslands,
warriors ride;
Equestrian heroes,
defenders of the free.
To the east, the simple
folk dwell,
Blind to the corrupt,
comfortably ignorant
And blissful they
dwell, in holes under hill.
Ivory towers, elegantly
fortified,
They lay hidden in the
trees.
A king plagued with
pride,
A witch of psychic
prowess,
Beautifully immortal
and ever the wise.
A world war-torn,
bloody and cold,
Darkness has its hold.
But beauty, comfort and
freedom
Still remain to fight
And defend all that is
good.
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