One lone tower stood high above the ruins of Grundor’s capital city. Built of stone in ancient times, it had not been destroyed by the fire. Had anyone looked hither, they could have seen a pale light that gleamed and flickered from the narrow windows near the summit. An eerie sound, akin to music and yet unpleasant to the ears, wafted down over the charred remains of the once proud metropolis.
The Steward Denimthor (widowed since his Stewardess had died some years ago) sat alone in his high chamber in the tower and bent his bow this way and that, attempting to play a violin. Maniacal laughing accompanied the strains (more of a strain to hear than to produce) whenever a burst of flames caught his eye. Finally he could build a city according to his wishes – none of these historic narrow streets with too little parking space and old-fashioned buildings; he would cause a new city to be erected, with a magnificent capitol and a Wight House for his own residence! With his son safely out of the way, who could defy him?!
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'Mercy!' cried Gandalf. 'If the giving of information is to be the cure of your inquisitiveness, I shall spend all the rest of my days in answering you. What more do you want to know?' 'The whole history of Middle-earth.. .'
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