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Maron
Maron trudged over the cold rocks and closed his eyes. He thought of the sight of true-silver and its gleaming in the rock. He marveled over how it pulsed through the black dark of the stone with a pale glint and what a fine thing it would be to heat and mould it. But the cold snapping of the night and the misery surrounding his head soon brought his eyes back open.
"It all makes me wonder" he mumbled. He kicked absently at a pebble. Balin had been slain, and a great bitter sorrow had swept over, only overpowered by the want for revenge. He still looked at his axe absently, not even bothering to clean it of the orc flesh. He was not alone in his misery, he knew.
It made him feel smaller on this journey than ever. When things became so bleak, he had little idea of what to do. Maron was no strong leader, and commanded no respect. All he could do was lend an axe and an arm to swing it when needed. And he would keep that up as long as he could. Till his arms refused to budge or his whole body.
He pushed himself to keep up with the group, and keep his wits about him and fight with his whole strength. Then he began thinking of those they had lost
"Aye, 'tis all I can give" he thought to himself again, not noticing he was talking aloud.
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