In darkness and under spells of concealment, cruel things have gathered in the ruins of Dol Guldur. Piercing the oppressive gloom, a pale light made its way through mirk and thorns: the Lady Galadriel, radiant and pure, shadows flickering and fleeing before her.
Yet her passage through this lair of the enemy would not go unchallenged.
Summoned from their barred tombs, the Nine rose to surround the lone Elf: undead Ringwraiths, greatest servants of the Dark Lord Sauron. No mere mortal thralls, the Nazgul were spirit beings, bound to their Master by the Rings of Power they bore, gifts to them in an age long past, when they were living men. From all corners of Middle-earth they had come, flocking to their Lord on the promises of power, knowledge and riches: from Forod, the north; Harad, the south; from the east; and from the west. Eagerly they had accepted the Rings proffered them by Sauron, flattered and hungry, and in return they surrendered their eternal souls to the Deceiver. Their bodies long since spent, they gathered in Dol Guldur as grim echoes of their former selves, yet more potent for the irresistible might of their master flowing through them. Wielding terror and despair like the savage blades gripped in their mailed hands, they closed upon the White Lady like the folding wings of a great, black bird.