Far above the Ephel Dúath in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.
“We cannot get out.
We cannot get out.
They have taken the bridge and Second Hall. Frár and Lóni and Náli fell there bravely while the rest retr […] Mazarbul.
We still ho[…]g … but hope u[…]n[…]
Óin’s party went five days ago but today only four returned. The pool is up to the wall at West-gate. The Watcher in the Water took Óin—we cannot get out.
The end comes soon. We hear drums, drums in the deep.”
They are coming.”
—Ori, the Book of Mazarbul
can you imagine gandalf though
that sweet doofy dwarf who liked crochet and knitting and used a slingshot against trolls
lying in dust and cobwebs at his feet, dead for decades
you can all go fuck yourselves
I CAN’T DEAL WITH THIS
omfg is this post still ruining lives