His kingdom broken, his people slain, all for the jewel within his keeping. Dior anticipated war after he denied the sons of Fëanor, but somehow, their speed and brutality were still able to catch him by surprise. Now, the Sindar are able to witness first-hand the horrors that befell their kin at Alqualondë as the Fëanorians stormed through their realm.

The doors to the throne room are flung open with a mighty clang, and inside is the king himself. Surrounding him is a ring of soldiers who would lay down their lives for their king. By Dior's side is his wife, who would not leave him to perish alone.

"Alas, so it has come to this." Dior says, with no level of love for the intruders.

The king is dressed in mail and grips a slender sword. Willowy Nimloth is equipped likewise. With dark hair falling past his shoulders, he emanates an aura of regality befitting the child of Lúthien. Yet there is a small issue with this image. His neck is bare; no Nauglamír, no Silmaril. The din of battle still echoes outside the throne room. Shouting, screaming, swords clashing.

"Thou wilt not find that which thou seeketh here. Leave, lest thy doom deepens."