Atop Weathertop

Melsulvon stands atop Weathertop, the stone-ruins of Amon Sul about him, home to many past memories and battles. He looks toward the lake of Nen Harn, now equipped in the gold-black armor of Angmar, as he awaits the arrival of his fellow servants. They soon come, bearing a small box, the one Cherawyn had kept. The one holding the other half of the power that is needed to reclaim the essence of the Black Stone.

Just as the Black Stone was forged in days long past, so too was a way to command the essence made if it was to ever be taken and consumed. 

Melsulvon opens his fist, a grey-white object resting on the palm of his hand. He then takes the locked box, breaking it open after a time and tossing it to the side after snatching what was inside— a small crystal-like ball with a fiery light within. He holds up both devices now in his fist as they became one, a bright light shining forth, the Angmarim struggling to tame it.  “Eraaahhhh!”

The light soon darkens as a thunderous crack sounds forth. “

“...We go to Nen Harn.”