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In the trenches, the Vanyar foot-soldiers called it the foul wind. It was a cruel spirit that punched through all their defenses, barreling through the fortification lines in a gust of un-light, a screaming gale of hate and despair. Light and song were consumed in its path. The foul wind blinded eyes and shoved into lungs, causing convulsions and suffocation to those trapped in its attention before rushing on to more victims. It raced always upon the earth, rarely leaping high, but was bold and unmindful of light, song, or ward raised in futile effort to thwart it. Water nor wall could hinder it. A dark wind swift enough for the deaths it dealt to almost be merciful, if not for the mocking intent as it slew its victims. Worst of all was the mind behind the torrent, an envious intelligence that hated them personally and delighted in their pain. Eönwë’s lieutenants only confirmed what the elves who faced the attentions of that black gale knew, that the spirit was not a Maiar like the balrogs or Sauron the Cruel, but one of the Houseless long corrupted by Morgoth, twisted in hate and made unbelievably powerful. Disembodied elven souls could be dangerous to the unaware- yet remained pitiable. The borders of Taur-nu-Fuin had been home to many of those phantoms eager to stalk and strangle any lost wanderers, and during the campaigns to free and purify that forest of darkness, the Vanyar and their Ainur allies had worked tirelessly to overpower the Houseless phantoms and send them to Mandos for healing. Fighting phantoms depended on a bright strong will. Ingwion had never attempted it, but those that had said it needed naught but a clear voice and patience, and a familiarity with using ósanwe. Yet this spirit could be neither caught nor given the luxury of pity. Eönwë himself had tried to capture the dark gale, shooting after the rushing wind that swifter than his king’s eagles, and could not touch it.  Among both his soldiers and generals that Ingwion commanded as supreme leader of the Vanyar, not even Sauron himself was more hated and feared – nor inspired the same great feeling of helplessness. “The foul wind cannot be bested” was whispered in the trenches.

Ingwion doubted that the black gale was aught but an elven soul, that surely such a powerful and hated thing had to come from something greater, even as he beheld the shadowy force barreling towards their central headquarters deep in the rear trenches. As this dart of hate hurled right towards him and General Imin, one of their bleak-faced captains whispered, “It has finally come for us.”

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