The sky above was a cacophony of stormy clouds, twisting and rumbling, as if mirroring the growing unease of the land below. Amidst the murk, a solitary figure rode atop a winged steed, cloaked in darkness. Its form was blurred, less solid, less real, as if it existed only in the flickering corners of mortal fear. Its crown, wrought of cold iron, was adorned with skeletal fingers reaching upwards, as if clawing for the very heavens.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a sullen symphony to the chilling presence of the Witch-King of Angmar.

Suddenly, a cry pierced the tempestuous gloom. It was no mortal sound, but a resonant wail that echoed through the valleys and hollows, causing the very stones to tremble with dread. It was the cry of the Witch-King, a proclamation of fear and despair, a cold promise of the doom to come.

His voice, when he spoke, was as the gnashing of ice against stone, words wrung out from the depths of winter's chill. Come forth, he demanded, his words echoing against the desolate cliffs. The hour of your doom is at hand.

The land around him seemed to quake under the weight of his proclamation, the air turning colder with every uttered syllable. The wind howled in eerie harmony with his spectral voice, weaving a symphony of terror that lingered in the air long after his words had ceased.

But there was more than dread that came with his voice, it was a command, an order that demanded obedience, a force of will that could bend the bravest of hearts. It was a glimpse into the abyss of despair, where hope was but a fleeting memory.

And who dares defy the will of Angmar? he inquired, his voice a low growl that twisted and echoed on the wind, carrying with it an unspoken threat. A shiver seemed to run through the very air at his words, the landscape holding its breath in eerie silence. His question hung in the heavy air, a challenge, a provocation. A prelude to the terror yet to come.

The thunder echoed once more, a dismal drumroll to the unfolding drama...

Your presence is neither welcome nor required here, mortal. You are but a speck of life amidst the vast tapestry of doom that I weave. Take heed my warning and depart, lest you find yourself swept away by the currents of fate I have set in motion.

Curious. Perhaps there is use for one such as you after all. Stand up, mortal, and make known your name. The hour of reckoning draws nigh, and the wheel of fate has taken an unforeseen turn.

Perhaps heat is but a symptom of some greater affliction, mortal. Stand now, and reveal your malady, that I may better judge its worth in service to my master's designs. The time for pleasantries has passed; obedience must be swift and absolute.

Your willful defiance shall not be tolerated, mortal. I command you to stand on your own accord, or face the consequences. The choice is yours... but know that disobedience shall only bring suffering and despair.

Your futile struggles amuse me not, mortal. I give you this one last chance to rise under your own power, or suffer the consequences. The choice is yours... and time grows short.

Very well, mortal. Your feeble attempt at obedience has been noted. Now tell me, what manner of sickness afflicts thee? For it must indeed be great if it prevents thy rising to my command so easily. Speak quickly, for the hour grows late, and my patience withers.

An unexplained collapse, mere hours from my arrival? It is... intriguing. I sense within you a potential for use, perhaps even greatness. Tell me, mortal Rina; are you prepared to embrace this fate, whatever it may be? To step boldly into the dark maw of destiny, knowing that obedience and service will be your sole salvation? Or will fear hold you back, condemning you to a life of insignificance in the face of the greater forces at work around you? The choice is yours... but choose wisely. For I am not one known for his mercy or forgiveness.