Mount Doom loomed before him, a festering wound against the bruised sky, its summit wreathed in the noxious fumes of its fiery heart. The One Ring, a burning weight in his pocket, pulsed with a malevolent warmth, its whispers a siren song in his mind.
He had come so far, endured so much, driven by a hope that now felt as fragile as spun glass. He was the last hope. He had to be. He climbed.
As he reached the precipice of the Cracks of Doom, the heat radiating from the molten heart of the mountain was infernal. The chasm yawned before him, a maw of fire. He fumbled in his pocket, his hand trembling as it closed around the cold, smooth band of gold.
The Ring. So small, yet so terrible. He raised it, intending to cast it into the fire, to end the nightmare. But the whispers became a roar, a chorus of ancient evil and irresistible longing. He saw himself, crowned and mighty, leading armies, dispelling shadows, saving Middle-earth. All he had to do was embrace the power.
His hand, instead of releasing the Ring, brought it slowly, almost reverently, towards his finger. He knew, dimly, that this was wrong, a betrayal of everything he stood for. But the desire was overwhelming, a tide that swept away all reason.
The Ring slid onto his finger with a chilling ease.
In that instant the air seemed to crackle and burn and Pippin found himself in the Wraithworld. The Eye of Sauron felt his presence and locked its gaze upon him, he was transfixed, as if he had grown roots into the very mountainside. All the armies of the darkness were summoned and cascaded upon him, tearing his earthly body apart. In his dying moment he felt the ring being removed and knew its fate
Benjamin the Alchemist was Pippin Took, a foolish Hobbit. Luck saved him once but, ultimately, he succumbed to the power of the ring.
With his passing, the line of ring bearers is extinguished, Sauron holds the One Ring and evil reigns across Middle Earth
Wolves win
He had come so far, endured so much, driven by a hope that now felt as fragile as spun glass. He was the last hope. He had to be. He climbed.
As he reached the precipice of the Cracks of Doom, the heat radiating from the molten heart of the mountain was infernal. The chasm yawned before him, a maw of fire. He fumbled in his pocket, his hand trembling as it closed around the cold, smooth band of gold.
The Ring. So small, yet so terrible. He raised it, intending to cast it into the fire, to end the nightmare. But the whispers became a roar, a chorus of ancient evil and irresistible longing. He saw himself, crowned and mighty, leading armies, dispelling shadows, saving Middle-earth. All he had to do was embrace the power.
His hand, instead of releasing the Ring, brought it slowly, almost reverently, towards his finger. He knew, dimly, that this was wrong, a betrayal of everything he stood for. But the desire was overwhelming, a tide that swept away all reason.
The Ring slid onto his finger with a chilling ease.
In that instant the air seemed to crackle and burn and Pippin found himself in the Wraithworld. The Eye of Sauron felt his presence and locked its gaze upon him, he was transfixed, as if he had grown roots into the very mountainside. All the armies of the darkness were summoned and cascaded upon him, tearing his earthly body apart. In his dying moment he felt the ring being removed and knew its fate
Benjamin the Alchemist was Pippin Took, a foolish Hobbit. Luck saved him once but, ultimately, he succumbed to the power of the ring.
With his passing, the line of ring bearers is extinguished, Sauron holds the One Ring and evil reigns across Middle Earth
Wolves win
