Nardol bit off a retort to Aislan's defense of the Halfling as Gandalf began to speak. He listened with a scowl but restrained himself from replying to the rubbish which the old fool had spouted. 'Never underestimate the power of being underestimated.' If this were true Mithrandir was ready to do battle with an army of Trolls. He looked about at the motley assortment of Men, Hobbits and Elves which the wizard had gathered and snorted.
His leg had begun to throb. Trying to avoid thinking about the ignominious cause of his wound, he reached into his pack and withdrew a silver flask. Opening it, he took a long draught of miruvor then settled back in the hope of finding sleep. On the morrow he would test his leg and if he were able, he would abandon Gandalf and his ragtag group and return to Imladris...
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Beleriand, Beleriand,
the borders of the Elven-land.
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