Source: 'Last Alliance'
Disclaimer: Tolkien wove the magic, Kortirion plays string games.
The harsh bones of this place cruelly pierce the fragile skin of blemished earth. Grey ash falls softly, partly clothing these stark angularities; a dainty modesty, were it not itself merely a foul pretence, a tainted beauty. Every breath draws contamination into the body; one’s lungs feel blackened with slow congestion. Eyes fail to shed tears after a short while, so begrimed are they with dust. Skin blushes rosy in reflected fire, rivers of molten stone, turgid, but implacable as encroaching malice.
I would I had thrown him into the fire along with it, but... what would that make me?