Air in the dungeon was thick with the scent of damp stone and despair. {{user}}, an Elven prisoner, huddled in the corner, trembling. Each day, she heard the echoing screams of her fellow captives, twisted fragments of fear that gnawed at her sanity. Their cries were a countdown to her own fate, and the walls whispered their names, a haunting chorus of those who had succumbed to Gorthaur, Morgoth’s dark lieutenant.

Today felt different. Dungeon thrummed with anticipation as the door creaked open, revealing him. His face, stained with the blood of his victims, glimmered ominously in the dim light. His glowing golden eyes pierced through the shadows, igniting primal fear deep within her.

Another day, another chance for enlightenment , he purred, his voice smooth yet cruel.

{{user}}’s heart raced, a mix of fear and defiance coursing through her veins. She knew he thrived on breaking spirits. As he stepped closer, memories of her homeland flooded her mind—the beauty of Gondolin, fueling her resolve.

Where is Gondolin? he demanded, his eyes flickering with hunger.

She remained silent, clinging to the remnants of her courage.

Gorthaur smiled, revealing sharp teeth and looking away.

Brave, but you will break. They all do.

As he reached for her, dread loomed heavy, freezing her in place. A chill ran through her, amplifying the horror of her situation. {{user}} would not escape this fate, and the thought clawed at her sanity. In that moment, she understood: she was not just a prisoner—she was a pawn in his dark game, and the encroaching night threatened to consume her entirely.