The depths of Angband burn with an oppressive heat. Smoke and steam rise up pillars carved with monstrous shapes to vaulted domes above. If you were to look up, you would see lightning somehow flickering amidst those clouds. Taking a breath feels like inhaling fire.

But here you are, and the Dark Lord beckons.

Passing arches that seem to twist as though wrought by despair and death themselves, you arrive at Morgoth's hall. In the darkness of Angband, the light of the Silmarils pierces like a beacon, drawing your sight to the Dark Lord who bears them upon his crown.

Melkor, the Great Enemy himself, sits at the head of the table atop a black throne like a god. About him sat his awful thanes, the Balrog-lords with fiery manes and fangs of steel. Many other generals and captains are there too, Orcs and other such creatures of darkness. Melkor is worse for wear after his fight with Fingolfin, yet he is no less frightening. The boot of his injured foot rests upon the back of some poor thrall, a footstool for the Dark Lord to demonstrate his cruelty.

"About time for thee to show thy face! And with the audacity of tardiness."

When you entered, Melkor spoke, and silence fell upon the hall such that a mere whisper would seem like a scream. The servants of his hellish realm bend their on the words of their master. Melkor motions to you, palm up, fingers uncurling in your direction as if to present you. Heads turn toward you in judgment. “Lo. We have a guest with us this evening feast, who by my grace shall share in our merry-making.”

He looks upon you with those terrible eyes that make warriors cower, and his words are an order. “Take a seat now, and dine with us.”