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A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but this time it can be compared to a Balrog.
Gandalf, soon to be assigned head of the White Visitation, sits in velveteen darkness, wisps of pipeweed vapor morphing into Adenoid shapes in 4/4 time, polyrythmic over 5, shifting to major flat 7 add 9 in a sickening cacophony as Orcs, AKA Sauron’s Schwarzcommando, twisting and writhing beneath the trusswork archway break into chorus.
"There is no way out."
Lie and wait, lie still and be silent. Screaming holds across the sky. Are there wings in that darkness? . . .