Can I be the bad guy? Please?

Name: Nilnhun

Species: unknown

Home: The Gray Havens

Description: tall, wears long, black cloak. Uses a Morgul blade; can summon the Nazgul's spirits. The unknown apprentice to Sauron.

Thanks!

Nilnhun stood at the prow of the boat, musing as his warships neared the shore. It had been four weeks since he had began his journey along the coast of Middle Earth. First, he and his horde of orcs, trolls, and demons had destroyed fishing villages on the coast of the Shire. Now they were entering the river of Anduin, where they would lay siege to Lothlorien. He drew, from inside his black, billowing robes, a small pouch, emptying it out into his hand. A single lump of gold lay there, and Nilnhun closed his fingers around it instinctively. It was all that remained of the One Ring. "Massster," his a voice at his side. He turned to see Tar-Atanamir, the spirit of the Witch-King. "Arrrre yoouuu readdyyy, massster?" the silvery-white ghost asked. Nilnhun nodded and returned his gaze to the shore.

They were coming.

And so Lothlorien burned.

Nlnhun sat hunched over on the roof of one of the elves of Lothlorien's treehouses, staring down at the chaos below. He laughed inwardly as he watched elves run screaming across the ground, quickly run down by the Warg riders and hacked to pieces. "Stop!" cried a voice below. Nilnhun unsheathed his Morgul sword and leapt off the hut, landing on his feet on the ground, 20 feet below his original perch. His cloak billowed in the wind as he observed the elf standing before him.

The elf was dressed in long, gray robes, and a mane of white hair tumbled over his shoulders. He held a long naked blade in his left hand and had obviously been put to good use. A pile of Orcs and Wargs lay at his feet. "Stop, beat of the pit!" he yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Nilnhun. "Celeborn, brother of Gladariel the Ancient, stands before you. Your and your minion's scent fills the air! How dare you invade Lothlorien, city of the elves of Lorien! Leave now, death-bringer! Leave our halls of oak, fir and maple!" Nilnhun laughed." I shall never leave! The elves will fall."

Not while I still breath!" said Celeborn, and charged at Nilnhun, brandishing his sword. Nilnhun easily sidestepped his wild swipes, and, dodging a final blow, stabbed his sword into the elf's chest. As the blade sprouted through Celeborn's body, the elf fell to the ground, a with his last breath, whispered, "Gladariel escaped."

With a howl of pure rage, Nilnhun withdrew his sword and loped off Celeborn's head.

And so the great line of Celeborn ended, and Lothlorien turned to ash. Yet his sister, Gladariel the Ancient, escaped, and began to run to the one place she could still find safety. Minas Tirith.

Yet still Lothlorien burned, and the surviving elves would curse Nilnhun, spawn of darkness, apprentice to Sauron, and summoner of the Naz-gul, to the end f their days.

Yet the road goes ever on, and hope was not lost.