From the northerly Black Gate, the Morannon and the void of Udun to the southerly Sea of Nurn, Mordor was alive again. Her black heart had been stirred and her evil reawoken. No longer would the land be a desolate, dying country but she would rise once again to poison Middle earth.

Low dull rumbles could heard emanating from the core of the Dark Land as the armies of the Dark Lord reasserted their control over their homeland. Too long had they been masterless: too long had they been at the heel of men, elves, dwarves and any other creatures who felt them to have power over the dark minions. They had a master once again and the dominion of the orc would soon come.

However, in the thoughts of their Lord, a different kind of dominion was manifesting itself. His dominion. For if his plans came to fruition he would need no army of orcs, no servants to bring out the destruction of Middle earth. His rule would be everlasting, his position immutable and his dominion undeniable.

The skies crackled menacingly above the plains of Mordor striking fear into the orcs that scurried beneath. The storms hurtled into each other like juggernauts with lightning and thunder exploding from the collision and slamming mercilessly into the dusty expanse below. Since the return of the Dark Lord the Sun had been barred from view, Her revealing glare interrupted by a furious tempest.

Miles below this fluctuating aerial defense, orcs in their thousands scurried around the plateau in Mordor. They traversed the flatland of Mordor in droves, dragging behind them a collection of rocks, iron and wood. Each successful load warranted no reward, only the stay of a punishment from the Overseer, who then sent them back across the desert to find more resources.

All around the Dark Tower, foundations were being laid. Fusions of magic, molten iron and rocks flowed across the surrounding land that encircled Barad Dûr. Stretching several miles in both width and height these amalgams were moulded into the ground and became the basis for an entirely new construction in the Dark Land: Amarth-tal. This was the name the Dark Lord has christened his Black Capital: The City of Malice.

Already buildings had taken shape and towered down upon the land below. Houses and barracks had been erected all around the centre of Mordor with many more in the production line. Those orcs that weren't gathering resources worked day in, day out to carve the rock and smelt the iron into the buildings. Any that failed to do their duties faced the wrath of the Overseer.

Deep rivers ran through the new streets filled to the brim with orc blood. This city not also provided a home for new orcs, it was also the biggest breeding facility that Mordor had ever witnessed. Each day, hundreds of new orcs were reared from these rivers and within days were being sent to gather more resources or join the city production line.

Overseeing this operation was the Head of the Nine, The Witch King of Angmar. The orcs had given him a new name, and that was "The Tormentor" and he did just that. His wrath kept the orcs in line and his bidding was unquestionable. He commanded the army of orcs with an iron fist. Any who chose to disobey him felt his touch and learnt that harsh way why he had earnt his nickname.

The Tormentor watched over the orcs that scurried below, his eyes flicking all across the horizon. He watched orcs move in and out of his site line with supplies for the City of Malice and watched newly born orcs rolled out of the vile rivers the flowed from the heart of the city: Barad Dûr. But he knew, despite all of this, the thoughts of His master were not on the city. They were on something else. Something of far greater importance and power. But something that was lost.

Watching the progress alongside The Tormentor was the master Himself: The Overlord, the Command-in-Chief and The Dark Lord of Mordor - The Ambassador of Sauron. Standing upon a rocky precipice, several hundred feet above the plains they both watched in silence. The Tormentor dressed in his usual attire: A black dull cloak concealing his being and an iron crown upon his head identifying his Lordship over the Nazgûl.

The Dark Lord's physical appearance was not known, not to anyone. No Eye could pierce the many folds of unholy, dark magic that He had wrapped around Himself. Energy rippled away from Him and the many shields He had created for his protection crackled with ferocity.

"My Lord," hissed The Tormentor "We have made progress on the city. Not long now from when she will be complete and we can move our plans into the next stage."

No response came from the Dark Lord and The Tormentor knew why. He cared not for his City. It would not bring about his victory over Middle earth. He needed something far greater than this. And on this respect, The Tormentor brought this subject into the conversation. Not that it was a conversation for the Dark Lord had not uttered a single word since his return to the Land.

"Three of the Nine think they have found it, my Lord. It will only be a matter of time until I hear further news." He whispered. He said this with trepidation for he risked angering The Dark Lord. If it was not as they thought, what would He do?

This brought about a change in the mood of the Dark Lord. A surge of excitement flowed through his thoughts: images of power, control of shimmering gold exploded into the front of his mind. Could it be? Could they have found it?

"Where?" A single word escaped from the veils around AoS.

"Near the Wold, my Lord. Three are approaching. We shall know soon enough.”

The Dark Lord gazed North, his mind stretching out of Mordor like a claw reaching for any traces of his Ring. If it was out there, he would have it back. Nothing could survive his avarice or His Malice.