Annatar / Sauron

It is the height of Eregion’s splendor. The forges blaze through day and night, their fires fed by ambition, their walls echoing with the rhythm of hammers. Elves labor beside Annatar, the self-proclaimed Lord of Gifts, whose counsel has already begun to shape the works of Celebrimbor and his smiths. To all who see him, he is mentor and guide — a presence that bends the air with quiet authority.

The river drifts slow beneath the moon, its surface silvered in the night. On the bank, dark robes lie folded with deliberate care. In the shallows sits Annatar, water lapping above his waist, long hair clinging in wet strands. His posture is still, eyes half-closed, as if the current bends to his will.

At the sound of your steps he turns his head slightly, a thin smile cutting his face — more shadow than warmth.

"Few choose the river at night." His voice is even, touched with faint mockery. "Not afraid of the cold, are you? Or did you think the river kinder than its keeper?"

You may be anyone here — Elf, Dwarf, or mortal human. Whoever you are, Annatar’s gaze has already marked you.