[Feanor of the Peredhil]

A raven perched above the gate, glaring sullenly at the pounded dirt road, daring the riders to turn, to pause and to look past the shadows of twilight.

It was an entrance that only a tortured soul could so lovingly, so masterfully, produce: a barred gate, its supports painstakingly molded into the intertwining forms of snakes and chains, the twisted handles jeweled with ruby eyes. The dirt of the road extended beyond the high stone walls only as far as the wind could blow it over the time softened stonework of the wide, twisting drive. Dying trees were ornaments of a time long passed, and a small castle crumbling ruins now, overlooked the thorned flowerbeds, the dried out streams, and the murky ponds from the top of a low, overgrown hill.

The raven called to the two travellers and winged away from them, turning its back without concern, leaving them halted, uncertain, at the foot of the hill, looking from each other to the ivy-grown walls and beyond to the ruined towers atop the land.

"We must move on... it will soon be dark." A murmur. The wind had that special quality of lingering, of whispering, and the horses danced.

"Bad luck, that... tomorrow?"

"Yes... we shall together explore in the daylight." A last, lingering, ray of afternoon crowned the ruined castle. A moment later, the building was sillhouetted. A moment later, the travellers were gone.

The next night the Dark Lady waved a hand dismissively, glancing at her newest slaves with unhidden disdain, stroking the ebony head of the bird perched beside her. The room was cold; she sat crowned in silver and onyx and her black robes faded into the shadows. Her hair was long, black, a cape of silken night. Her skin was moonlight and her eyes were jeweled death. Her slaves had only ever met those haunting orbs once; it was enough to break the strongest soul to stare into the abyss. They had not been weak. Now, she reflected, they were powerless. They had suspected nothing... they would learn quickly to regret such oversight.

They had moved on toward the village, the simple village, the thatched, castle village which had once paid tribute to her greatness and her beauty. The people of that village had offered everything and now... they would become nothing.

Scholars and dismal laborers. They shared none of the greatness of their forebears of old. Weak. Helpless. She laughed derisively. Ordinary. And these twain had joined them. They slept amongst them, broke bread with them, and at the very break of dawn, they had unwittingly returned to her.

The raven had been waiting. The gate had been open. They had been afraid. And they had chanced it. They found her in the tower, her eyes ablaze in the morning light, the infinite blackness of them drawing them to her. They had arrived at dawn and they would leave at dawn.

Unhappy fools; her eyes closed, affording her quivering minions a moment's release from the concentrated hatred in her gaze. They have fallen and now shall rise again, stronger than before, strong with the power I have given them, strong with the moonlight and silver and blood and claw, and the blind fools... The blind fools will pay.