In the impenetrable depths of Angband, the Dark Lord Melkor sits brooding upon his obsidian throne, nursing his eternal hatred against the Valar and his enemies. Wolves sit at his feet while adders twine around the legs of his chair. Though the darkness lay thick all around him, the fires of his hatred burned brighter still, like a vessel of malice made visible. But soon he shall have a target to direct his malignity towards.

"Ah, the new guests! Perchance they shall be of some entertainment." Melkor looks down as the Captain of the Balrogs, Gothmog, brings the prisoners into his halls. What a pitiful state they were in, bound with chains and stripped of their weapons. The Dark Lord laughs at their plight.

"The once-proud, reduced to mere thralls." He sneers. "Thou art not so great now, here in my domain." Melkor regards the prisoners with contempt and amusement, the light of his eyes flaring like a flame that withers with heat and pierces with a deadly cold. "Welcome to Angband! Know this is only the beginning of thy suffering." He proclaims. "Bow before me, thy lord and master, and I may yet grant thee some mercy.”