—Gandalf's Point of View—
Nothing has gone smoothly since the day we set out. This journey was meant to remain secret; I had told only a few of my most trusted friends, thinking they might aid the group. Yet somehow, it felt as though all of Middle-earth had learned of our mission. The first surprise to arrive was Igris — the infamous, reckless Black Knight. I had thought his joining us might prove useful, and indeed it did. The two rangers he brought along, Halt and Gilan, filled the gaps in our company perfectly. Their skills impressed me greatly; had elves not been stronger and more agile than ordinary men, I might have mistaken them for an elite elven ranger squad. But, as always, blessings come with their own curses — and so did Igris.
Not in all my years would I have guessed that the Crimson Lady herself was pursuing him. There is something about Igris that even I cannot fully comprehend. He feels… familiar. Yet, with that hybrid blood of his, what I suspect seems impossible — no, unthinkable. I tried to sense the deeper essence of his body, but that other side of him has yet to awaken fully, and my sight could not pierce the veil. That mystery, I suppose, must wait for another time — I already have my hands full.
Igris was exactly as the rumors described him — stubborn, fearless, brilliant, and utterly mad. There are times even I cannot predict what he will do next. Truth be told, my instincts whisper that he is not to be made an enemy. I watched him during the Crimson Lady's ambush; though not particularly skilled at manipulating his aura, he compensated for the lack with his fighting style. For a fleeting moment, I felt something familiar about him — but only for an instant. When he slew the hammer-wielding man, his aura, his very presence, shifted entirely. At that same time, I was negotiating with nature spirits and could not focus enough to discern the truth.
His relationship with the werewolves surprised me as well. Wolves rarely communicate with other races, and yet Igris managed to become blood-brother to the future Grand Alpha — a bond even the current Alpha acknowledged! Even I struggle to hold proper conversation with those creatures.
And now, I sense a new problem looming. Radagast rarely leaves his forest; in fact, he's missed the last five meetings of the Order of Wizards — a fact that greatly angered Saruman. So much so that he personally went into the forest to scold him. I accompanied him, worried as I was. I still remember Radagast's reaction.
"WHAT!? FIVE MEETINGS!? WHY DIDN'T YOU SEND ME A MESSAGE!?"
The dark fury on Saruman's face was truly something to behold. Fortunately, Radagast's wits had not entirely deserted him. He had discovered a rare plant — the Twilight Blossom, or Lómenlassë in Elvish — and succeeded in cultivating it, even building a small garden around it. Both Saruman and I were astonished. The plant is among the rarest mana-based flora, capable of rapidly regenerating energy; it is the core ingredient of pure mana elixirs, and its appearance is as mesmerizing as its power.
As an apology for missing the last five meetings, Radagast harvested the flowers and offered them to Saruman, explaining that his garden had kept him so occupied he had forgotten time entirely. The stern, prideful, unbending Saruman softened in an instant. He praised Radagast, even granting him the right to skip future meetings if needed. What can I even call that? A bribe to the White Wizard? Ah, well — whatever it was, it worked.
When I stepped outside the cave, I saw Radagast — frightened. That alone was alarming. He is often frantic, yes, but true fear? I hadn't seen that in him for years. Upon seeing me, he rushed over, speaking quickly and with panic trembling in his voice.
"Gandalf! There's a necromancer in Dol Guldur!"
I turned, surprised. A necromancer?
"What do you mean, Radagast? Since when does a mere necromancer frighten you? You're one of the Five Wizards — such things should be no challenge."
Why would he come to me over something so trivial? Necromancers, though dangerous, were child's play for us. Two and a half millennia ago, during the Great War, all necromancers were defeated. Their tomes and records were gathered and delivered to Lady Galadriel herself. They remain sealed under heavy elven guard — not destroyed, just in case. Without proper guidance, new necromancers cannot grow strong; their summoned dead are nothing but sluggish zombies or fragile skeleton soldiers. It had been centuries since any formidable necromancer appeared.
As these thoughts passed through my mind, Radagast shook his head.
"No, Gandalf! This one is… different!"
He grabbed my arm and led me a little away from the group. Never had I seen him so cautious. I turned my head toward Gilan, Halt, and Thorin.
"I must see what's happening. Stay alert."
They nodded and began making preparations. After walking a little farther, we stopped near Radagast's sleigh. I waited for him to speak.
"I'm sorry, Gandalf, but before I explain everything, I didn't want to cause unnecessary panic."
"I'm listening."
Radagast drew a deep breath.
"It began a few months ago… I was tending to the forest as usual. Then I noticed a few trees falling ill. At first, only a dozen or so, but now a quarter of the entire forest is sick! Animals are dying, plants no longer bear fruit — and those that do are poisoned. I tried everything: mixtures, potions, enchantments… nothing worked — until I used magic."
His voice was desperate but not hopeless. Though the weakest among us five in terms of raw power, Radagast still possessed ample strength — and the spirits of nature adored him. They would not abandon him easily. But hearing him speak, I furrowed my brow.
"So, you suspect dark magic or a curse is at work?"
If nothing but magic could affect the forest, that was indeed the most likely cause. Radagast nodded gravely.
"Every poisoned creature I found had been devoured by spiders. According to the animals, spiders are everywhere — nesting throughout the forest. King Thranduil only clears them from his own domain and refuses to venture beyond. Because of that, the spiders are spreading uncontrollably! Elves are as stubborn as dwarves — why can't they ever cooperate? In truth, they're quite alike in many ways."
He paused to puff from my pipe before continuing. I asked patiently,
"And what does that have to do with a necromancer?"
Radagast exhaled a small cloud of smoke — it shaped itself into a hawk before flying off.
"The birds showed me where the spiders come from."
I frowned.
"Dol Guldur…"
Radagast nodded grimly.
"Yes, Gandalf. Something has happened to that fortress. It was utterly silent — lifeless. All I could feel was despair… darkness. The spirits of nature refused to enter, or perhaps could not."
My frown deepened. Nature spirits are incredibly powerful — they exist everywhere unless overwhelmed by death energy, dark sorcery, or a demonic presence. This was worse than I had imagined. We might be facing a ritual…
"Go on, Radagast."
He took another long draw from his pipe.
"When I entered Dol Guldur, the spirits could not follow. They only warned me to be cautious — that an ancient evil was stirring within. The spirits never exaggerate, Gandalf. I crossed the bridge leading to the fortress…"
—Flashback—
—Third-Person Perspective—
Through a forest of withered trees — their bark blotched with black fungus, leaves dry and crumbling, and shrubs dying where they stood — Radagast raced on his rabbit-drawn sleigh. The wind stirred the brittle leaves as he sped onward, eyes sharp, following a small sparrow.
'My little friend was right… The closer I get, the sicker the land becomes — not only the trees, but the soil itself.'
Before him stood what was once Amon Lanc, the glorious ancient home of the Silvan Elves. Now, it was but a ruin — the shadowed fortress of Dol Guldur. The wind tugged at Radagast's brown hair and beard. With each step closer, the oppressive feeling grew stronger.
'Something is terribly wrong here… but I can't discern what.'
By the time Radagast neared the fortress, a subtle spell of confusion had already taken hold of him, clouding his senses and dulling his perception of mana. He did not yet realize he was being watched. At the gates of Dol Guldur, he halted his rabbits and lifted his hat. The sparrow perched atop it, where its nest — holding its mate and chicks — rested safely beneath. He gently replaced the hat and knelt, pressing his hand into the soil.
'…Impossible… The land isn't merely sick — it's dying. What kind of evil could cause this?'
His heart broke. To Radagast, nature was more than life — it was his confidant, his family, his joy, even his love. Seeing it defiled so deeply filled him with both sorrow and anger. He turned to his rabbits.
"Lancelot! Stay here and be alert. We may have to flee quickly."
The rabbit saluted with its paw. Radagast inhaled deeply, gripped his staff with both hands, and advanced. As he was about to enter, a faintly shimmering figure began to form — a forest spirit. Its voice was faint, feminine, ancient.
"Stop… Radagast… That… place… is dangerous…"
He froze, astonished. Forest spirits were immensely powerful; for one to hesitate before this place was no good sign.
"What do you mean?"
The figure continued to materialize, speaking weakly, haltingly.
"In the fortress… there lies… an ancient… darkness…"
Radagast frowned. The spirit's speech was broken, slow. At first, he thought it was incomplete in form — but no, something else was wrong.
'This place is affecting it… This isn't good.'
He took a deep breath.
"Is there a high-level lich inside?"
It was the only plausible explanation. The presence of death energy pointed toward such a creature.
The spirit answered slowly,
"No… Something far worse…"
Radagast pondered briefly, then made his choice. As one of the Five Wizards, a member of the White Council, and the guardian of his beloved forest, his decision was clear.
"Thank you for the warning, Taurion. But that's precisely why I must go in. The forest is dying — even you are powerless. I must see what's happening."
Taurion fell silent. It had taken immense effort for the spirit to take form — something it hadn't struggled with in ages. Its mind had been clouded for months; the disease spreading through the forest weakened even its thoughts. Once known as the protector of the woodland, Taurion now found itself helpless. It had considered seeking help from the Woodland Elves, but ever since the death — and mysterious disappearance — of his queen, Thranduil had withdrawn into isolation. His heart had closed, and his kingdom's borders with it. He ignored nearly everything that happened beyond his realm. Even when orc patrols passed within a few meters of his borders, he did not act. Unless they invaded his lands, he chose to look away.
Taurion sighed, anxiety clouding his ancient eyes.
"Be careful, Radagast. Whatever lies inside, it distorts perception. The energy emanating from within feels… familiar, but I can't recall why. It's interfering with my memory."
Taurion stepped toward the fortress gate and extended a hand. His fingers met an invisible barrier that rippled faintly upon contact.
"No nature or elemental spirit — not even I — can enter. A powerful dark barrier surrounds the fortress. You'll be on your own inside."
Radagast was stunned.
'If it can restrain Taurion, one of the greatest forest spirits in existence, then the being inside could rival even Saruman himself…'
"I understand. I'll be cautious."
He gripped his staff firmly with both hands and stepped onto the stone bridge leading to Dol Guldur. Just before entering, he turned back toward the spirit.
"Taurion… I ask you one favor. If I don't return within four hours, tell Gandalf everything."
Taurion hesitated before answering.
"…Very well. I'll wait. If you don't come back, I'll send word to the Grey Wizard. And… take this — it may aid you a little."
The air stirred around Radagast, encircling him in a soft breeze that faded a second later. Though invisible, he could feel a thin protective ward now surrounding him.
"Thank you, my dear friend."
Radagas advanced forward, passing beneath an ancient, crumbling stone arch veiled in moss and ivy, its surface a dull gray swallowed by age. Yet the moment he stepped beyond it, he could no longer sense Taurion—and at the same time, Taurion could no longer sense him.
The wizard drew in a deep breath and raised the tip of his staff before him, readying his mana at any instant to cast. He moved cautiously across a broken stone bridge, every footstep echoing the weight of centuries. Before entering the ruined fortress, he stopped and carefully surveyed his surroundings, then stepped inside.
The corridors were smothered in vines and green decay, life and death fused together in one suffocating silence. The floor was littered with skeletal remains, shattered armor, and rusted weapons. The sight made Radagas tighten his grip on the staff.
"No insects. No sounds. Not even a whisper of wind. Only the stench of doom, despair, and death…"
He pressed on. The place filled him with both tension and fear—emotions he had not tasted in many years. It had been ages since he last walked into such a cursed ruin, and unlike before, this time… he was alone.
Soon, three corridors appeared before him. He muttered to himself, lost in thought.
"Hmm… Which way should I go? Right, left… or the middle?"
From behind him, a short shadow darted across the corridor, running on four clawed limbs that scraped sharply against the stone. Startled, Radagas spun around, staff raised—but saw nothing. Then, a similar sound came from the left corridor… then the right… and finally, the middle. The noise surrounded him from all sides.
He stood tense, staff glowing faintly as he drew a deep breath.
"WHOEVER YOU ARE—SHOW YOURSELF AND FACE ME!"
His voice thundered through the halls—Face meeee… mee… mee…
He waited. A minute passed. Then two. Nothing. Not even the faintest sound.
The old wizard sighed and muttered to himself,
"Calm down, old badger… You're so wound up you're hearing things. Maybe Saruman was right—I should probably lay off the mushroom stew for a while, hahaha…"
But despite his joke, the staff continued to glow. He wasn't calm. The spirits had warned him—he was not alone in this castle.
"Now… where was I?"
he whispered, scanning the surroundings again before smacking his forehead.
"Ah! The corridors… the strongest energy's coming from the middle."
He took the central path. The only sounds were his own footsteps and the rhythmic drip of water from above. After some time, he saw a faint glimmer of moonlight.
Emerging from the tunnel, he reached the fortress's inner courtyard. Around him loomed damaged yet grand towers entwined with moss and ivy, ancient bridges of cracked stone linking streets and turrets. The architecture still bore the marks of Sindar Elves—but the glory of this citadel had long since rotted away.
"Hmm… Dark energy seeps from every direction… Which way do I go? Right? Left? Or straight ahead?"
He decided to move right. Passing by a statue, he failed to notice the ghostly figure rising silently from within it. The specter glided toward him, dagger in hand.
Radagas's instincts flared—he spun, raising his staff to conjure a barrier just as the blade struck. Metal met magic with a sharp clang.
The sight of the phantom froze him momentarily, but training took over; he chanted swiftly, channeling light through his staff. A flash erupted—the ghost shrieked, resisting for only a few seconds before bursting into mist.
"KIIIIYAAAAAA—!"
The dagger clattered to the ground. Radagas panted, sweat running down his forehead, fear carved deep into his features.
Haa… haa…
'A ghost… with a soul? Impossible! No one has summoned a true spirit in over two thousand years!'
Necromancers and liches came in ranks. Those below the master level couldn't call real souls—only animate corpses like puppets. That was why this was terrifying. There shouldn't be any new necromancers left in Middle-earth. The White Council had hunted them down long ago, gathering every scrap of their lore.
Liches capable of this existed—but they were exiled deep in the southern deserts of Far Hazard. The White Council constantly monitored those borders. Wizards were stationed there. Even the Emperor of the Desert had turned himself into a lich out of sheer terror of death, transforming not only himself but also his wife and servants. Without the Council's knowledge, an Empire of the Dead had risen in the far south. The deserts were no longer safe.
Yet no lich had ever crossed the border. Patrols sent reports to the Council weekly. Which meant—there shouldn't be any high-level liches here. Even if there were, they couldn't summon a pure soul without a ritual. Skeleton dragons, dullahans, death knights—those could be called, yes, but they needed bodies.
What Radagas had faced was a free spirit, moving without a vessel. Weak perhaps—but that didn't matter. What mattered was that something in this place could summon and control a soul without ritual.
He hurriedly drew out a piece of tanned leather, wrapped the fallen dagger in it, and tucked it inside his robes. Turning back toward the corridor, a chill crawled up his spine.
He spun, raising his staff—just in time to see a blast of force rushing toward him. He conjured a barrier, but the shockwave shattered it like paper. Radagas was hurled backward, slamming into a wall.
BAM!UGH!
The wall cracked. He hung there for a heartbeat, then fell to the floor.
"Urgh… ugh…"
He groaned, coughing blood from the corner of his mouth. One thing was certain—the power he faced was far beyond his own.
He raised his eyes. A shadow stood cloaked in swirling darkness, two crimson eyes glowing from within. The oppressive aura crushed the air—it dwarfed even Saruman's presence.
Without hesitation, Radagas turned and fled the way he had come.
As he vanished from sight, the smoke dispersed, revealing a towering figure clad in spiked black armor. The Dark Lord Sauron watched the fleeing wizard with faint amusement. To him, Radagas was but an insect—but one worth toying with.
He lifted his spectral fingers and snapped. A wave of black mana rippled outward.
"Gûrz-ob, krimpat snaga — globûrz kulûkûrz!"
(Run, little insect—bring me the Grey Wizard!)
Radagas, sprinting through the corridors, felt the surge of dark magic. The skeletons around him began to move. He muttered spells under his breath, weaving as he ran.
An undead soldier swung at him from above—he dodged right, smashing another's spine with his staff, splintering bones. Two more lunged; he slid beneath them, narrowly evading their swords, then rolled to his feet, never slowing down.
More skeletons appeared ahead. Radagas kept chanting, his voice growing louder. A blade slashed from the left—he ducked, slid on his knees beneath a horizontal strike, sprang up again. Two spear-wielders thrust from both sides; he leapt, stepping on one spear tip, then the skull of the other, channeling all his strength.
His staff glowed. Both hands gripped tight as he slammed it into the ground—BOOM!A brilliant flash exploded outward. Mana rippled through the corridor; the skeletons froze, the red flames in their eye sockets extinguishing before their bodies crumbled to dust.
Radagas kept running.
Sauron chuckled darkly as he watched the nimble wizard flee.
"Bûrz-ghâsh, agh narûk-ob."
(Not bad… but not enough.)
Since losing his body, the Dark Lord had hidden in the shadows, regaining power like a patient viper. He was tired of waiting. Now was the time to return. Saruman teetered on the edge of corruption; the Blue Wizards were about to fall into his traps. Galadriel and the Elves were weakening. Vampires had pledged their allegiance. The Dark Elves were sending envoys. In Erebor lay the most crucial pieces of his grand design—Smaug was already his ally, and several feral dragons had bowed to him.
His nine Ringwraiths had been resurrected. In the south of Far Hazard, negotiations with the Lich Emperor were underway. His orc armies were prepared, the dark orcs awaited his word, and the Circle of Shadow Mages stood ready to move.
Sauron looked down at his spectral hand and clenched it.
"Lûg-ob… ghâz dûmpat. Globûrz goth-ob krimpat-ishi ûzg burzum-ghâsh agh thrâkûrz-ob. Râghulûk durub, azgarûk ghâsh-ob. Nûrz bûrzum-ob shakh. Krimp snaga — Bûrzûm kulûkûrz! Hahaha…"
(Soon… within sixty years, my power will be whole again. But I must find my One Ring—half my soul lies within it. I cannot allow the dwarves to reclaim Erebor. Pride destroyed me once… This time, I will be careful. Middle-earth shall welcome its true master! Hahaha…)
Meanwhile, the frantic Radagas burst from the castle gates.
"LANCELOT! GET THE BOYS READY—WE'RE LEAVING!"
Lancelot stomped the ground as a signal. The rabbits sprang into motion, charging forward—but they forgot to pick up Radagas!
"WAIT FOR ME! TAURION, PLEASE PROTECT ME!"
He ran after his sled as fast as he could. Taurion, utterly confused, followed—until the sound of hooves cut through the air.
NEIGH!
Three riders emerged from the ruins—one dullahan leading, two death knights flanking in a triangular formation. Taurion froze, then dove after Radagas, who had finally leapt onto his sled.
"FASTER, MY CHILDREN! DARKNESS IS BEHIND US!"
The rabbits ran faster than they ever had before, paws blurring against the dirt. Radagas chanted desperately, glancing back to see the riders gaining. Sweat beaded his brow. He prayed to finish his spell in time.
Just as the riders closed in, Taurion intervened—commanding the trees themselves to entangle the horses' legs. The mounts crashed, throwing their undead riders to the ground.
Radagas sighed in relief.
From the fortress walls, Sauron watched and laughed softly. He had never intended to catch Radagas. This had been a game—a way to lure his real prey: Gandalf the Grey.
He needed bait to draw him away from the Erebor expedition.And there was only one person capable of capturing Gandalf alive—himself.
—Return to the Present—
—Gandalf's Point of View—
"…and then I followed your trail, and here I am."
The more I listened to Radagas, the deeper my frown grew. This was more serious than I had imagined. If what he said was true, then this necromancer was a grave threat to all of Middle-earth.
"Do you have proof, Radagas?"
He paused, patting his robe before drawing out a small leather bundle. Handing it to me, he said,
"This thing is not of our world. You can feel its energy yourself."
I hesitated briefly before taking it, unwrapping the leather—and the moment I saw the dagger's hilt, I knew. Radagas was right. The weapon reeked of death—it belonged to the realm of the dead.
My thoughts raced. Dol Guldur lay south of Erebor, close enough to be no coincidence. A bounty had just been placed on Thorin and his nephews—right when their journey began. The one who placed it was Azog the Defiler. And now this? Could it really be coincidence?
If this necromancer was as powerful as Radagas described, he had let him live on purpose. But why? Radagas was a member of the White Council. Was this a trap for the Council itself? What gave such a being the courage to challenge Middle-earth's greatest assembly of wizards and lords? Were the Circle of Shadow Mages involved? Could another invasion of the dead be approaching—just like the one two thousand three hundred years ago? Was this connected to Erebor? Or perhaps—
"WHO ARE YOU!?"
Dwalin's shout snapped me from my thoughts. Turning, I saw a tall, slender figure with green skin and horns standing near the sleeping Igris. The others had drawn their weapons. Both I and Radagas were stunned. Taurion rarely revealed himself to mortals—especially not before a crowd.
I raised a hand, signaling the others to lower their blades.
"Your Excellency Taurion—is there a problem?"
As I approached, I noticed his expression—shock. The mighty spirit of nature was trembling. Radagas, too, was staring at him in disbelief.
When Radagas finally met my eyes, I arched a brow.
'What's going on?'
Radagas shrugged and stepped forward.
"Taurion, what is it? Is there something wrong with this young man?"
But Taurion didn't answer. His gaze was fixed upon Igris, and I could feel his mana trembling with anger. When he finally spoke, his voice was ancient and thunderous.
"What are you playing at, Grey Wizard?"
I froze. What was he talking about? Why was he angry at me? Clearly there was some misunderstanding.
"I don't understand what you mean, Your Excellency. This man was poisoned by a young Imoogi's venom. He's our companion—the leader of this human company."
I gestured to Halt, Gilan, and the others. Even as I spoke, I felt a wave of mana wash over me—Taurion was testing whether I spoke truth.
Even unconscious, you're causing me trouble, Igris! I thought bitterly.
At last Taurion's fury eased, his tone calmer now.
"Do you have any idea what this man truly is?"
I frowned.
"I only know he's a half-blood, though even he doesn't know what kind. He believes he's part Dúnedain—but beyond that, I can't tell."
Taurion's eyes glowed faintly as he confirmed I wasn't lying. His rage subsided into silence.
"You know what he is, don't you?" I asked quietly.
Taurion said nothing.
Radagas spoke instead, baffled.
"What's wrong, Taurion? Why such a strong reaction?"
The spirit sighed deeply.
"…This is not something I can interfere with. It's far beyond my reach. I'll tell you later, Radagas—but only you."
I blinked. He's afraid? But of what—or whom? Could it be Igris?
Taurion's gaze swept over Halt and Gilan.
"Are you companions of this man?"
Both were taken aback. Halt answered,
"Yes."
Taurion examined them closely.
"I have never seen humans so in tune with nature. If you serve this one, then I grant you my mark."
To our astonishment, he raised his hand. A green light enveloped Gilan and Halt. They barely had time to gasp before it was done.
"This mark will let spirits allied with me aid you—but only when you are truly desperate. It is all I can offer. I must go; urgent matters await."
With that, Taurion's form faded, vanishing into light.
It had been a long time since I'd felt such bewilderment. Gilan and Halt stared at each other, then at me. Gilan spoke first.
"What the hell was that?!"
I sighed. Radagas, still staring at Igris, muttered,
"Don't worry, young man. He didn't harm you—just left a trace. I have no idea why Taurion suddenly chose to help you…"
Halt crossed his arms.
"Are you two going to tell us what just happened?"
I exhaled again. Truthfully, I didn't know myself. At least I could explain the nature of spirit marks to calm them down.
"Alright, listen—"
BARK! BARK!
Fwoosh!
THUD!
"GANDALF!"
The shout broke my words. Turning, I saw a dead Warg lying on the ground, an arrow through its skull.
My brows knit tightly. Somehow, I wasn't surprised. Trouble… had found us again.
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Dear readers, don't worry — we'll be returning to Igris in the next chapter.These recent parts were an actual part of the story, not filler chapters. I just don't want to use the side characters as simple background figures. Everything I've written here will matter later on, so you can be sure I'm not writing random scenes just to pass the time. I just didn't expect to write this many chapters, haha...
Anyway, let's focus on the main stuff now. Originally, I planned to dive into Igris's memories for a few chapters, but I can feel some of you getting a bit tired of that. So, I'll leave the choice to you!Should we explore Igris's past and look into his memories?Or do you want to skip straight ahead and wake him up, saying "Forget the past, let's move on"?
The choice is yours — please let me know in the comments!
Also, I've been wondering something. I usually write the dialogues in bold to make them easier to distinguish from the rest of the text. I feel like it helps your eyes rest while reading. Do you want me to stop doing that, or should I keep it? Tell me in the comments!
Oh, and one more thing — some time ago, I used to show you a few AI-generated pictures of the characters, but since they didn't seem to get much attention (and honestly took a bit too much of my time because of AI's little mistakes), I stopped doing it.But if you'd like to see more of those images again, please let me know!