Nine
Ents enter
the ring. They’re huge, leafy, and slightly tipsy from Ent-draught. One’s still arguing with a birch about parking.
Nine
Nazgûl glide in—hissing, cloaked, smelling faintly of damp laundry that’s been left in the washer too long.
At first, the Nazgûl think they’ve got it—lots of shrieking, swooping, and pointing dramatically. But Ents aren’t
men; they don’t faint when someone screams at them in
Black Speech. They just roll their eyes (very slowly) and mutter,
“Young people these days…”
Now, the real problem: Ents don’t move fast. They’d spend the first five rounds having a very long meeting about whether the wraiths technically count as “woodcutters.” Meanwhile, the Nazgûl would be circling, probably bored, maybe arguing over whose turn it is to fetch
Sauron’s laundry.
Eventually, though, an Ent gets annoyed enough to swing a branch.
One Nazgûl down, looking suspiciously like a squashed moth.
So the tally? In the end, I suspect the Ents would win—not because they’re stronger, but because the Nazgûl would give up after realizing you can’t terrify a tree that takes three days just to finish saying “good morning.” 🌲
And if all else fails, the Ents could just sit down. No blade, no terror, no
fell beast can budge nine tons of angry, stubborn bark. Victory by
treebutt.
