[Himaran]

The bodies lay twisted and contorted on the stone floor, gaping wounds showing from neck and torso. Hatchets and arrows littered the ground, along with the knives and spears dropped as the Rhûnians hastily retreated. They had been soundly defeated, with no loss of life on the dwarven side; although many had been cut and bruised. Bali look around the room again, surveying the carnage spread out before him. It seemed unreal; manufactured, like one of the violent and heroic plays he had watched at a theater in Rohan. The battle-hardened warrior was no stranger to combat and death; it was his life. But something about these foes had disturbed him. They fought well... almost too well; like animals trained from an early age to be savage killers.

Pushing such thoughts to the back of his mind, Bali snapped back into reality. "Well fought, lads! We showed them that the warriors of Free Lands are not so easily defeated. Now come; take these bodies and pile them further down the passage, or the stench will kill us all." The company followed his instruction in silence, some thoughtful, others pale. Most of the young dwarves had never killed a wolf before, let alone another person. War was a new concept to them, and one that seemed to be more depressing than inspiring.

Later, the company sat around a small fire, using the wooden spears of the natives as fuel. They ate half of their remaining warg meat, which was certainly not a nourishing amount, before sitting back against the wall to relax. Bali managed to find a bit of weed in his tunic, and took out his pipe. He looked it over, smiling at the golden inscription: To Bali. It had been wrought by his half-elven friend Burzdol outside the Green Dragon Inn... all those years ago.

Turning his head, Bali noticed Haenir walk over and sit down next to him. "Barak Kahzad, Bali. They stood not a chance."

The dwarf nodded. "Aye. That we did."

They sat in silence for a while, each thinking of past experiences, places and friends. Then Haenir spoke again. "Bali, I have heard that you are an experienced traveler, and saved Erebor at one time. I know that story by heart, but what of your other journeys? I feel that the rifts which occasional split this company are catalyzed by our lack of knowledge regarding one another."

Bali sat for a moment before replying. "Aye, 'tis true. When my company and I made the journey to Erebor, we became fast friends who would die for one another in an istant. There is less of that in this group. Ah, but I am not helping it by reminiscing about past days, and... better times. These dwarves have no reason to be joyful and friendly; they went on a treasurehunt and stumbled into the pits of Morgoth. But about myself!

I was born in Erebor, and lived there until I was twenty or so. My mother died after giving birth to Dwalin, and thus was only there for my earliest years. I grew up around warriors and weapons, and was taught how to fight as soon as I could lift an axe. My father wanted me to be a warrior, I think, and there was great need for it with Sauron's power growing.

I always wanted to travel, but my father thought it a foolish and wayward path, not one fit for the nephew of Erebor's King. "You will not grow up to be a lazy sluggard, traipsing about the meadows while our people fight the great Shadow," he told me once. My aspiration was not aided by my brother, who was already training to join the small dwarven army as an officer. But then the day came when I had my chance to prove that I was born to traispe around meadows - and fight the orcs hiding in them!

My father was going hunting, and decided to take me along. We rode out on ponies with some good dwarves and our bows, but upon arriving at the edge of a clearing were ambushed by orcs. Most of the lads were shot, and the rest turned and retreated back north towards the mountain. They didn't realize it, but I had fallen off the horse as it turned, and had been left behind.

Lying in the tall grass, I watched the orc archers hurry towards me to check the bodies. Then crawling -- slowly, very slowly -- over to side, I lay quietly and waited for them to leave. Instead, they made a camp there! You can imagine how frightened I should have been, but thankfully I did not fully understand my danger and was therefore not unduly scared. I was simply mad.

Then late that night, one of the orcs was patrolling around the edge of the trees when he spotted something. The object was me, of course, and he called his band over. Suddenly, I did a rather stupid thing. I stood up. The charged me, and (although terrified by this time) I managed to run into the forest. One orc closed in quickly, and as I looked back my foot hit a tree branch. He leaped at me, but I rolled to the side and he fell too; landing on his knife. I pulled the weapon from the dead orc and jumped up, facing the others. By now, I was less scared than mad, and I made for the first with a furious bound. He was not expecting it, and the knife ran him through. The others were closing in on me, but I dashed straight at them. One fell to my short weapon, than another. Then two hit at me simultaneously, and (although I blocked one slash) the second tore the flesh on my arm. I moved to the side swiftly, and the orcs (obviously surprised that I was even brave enough to attack them) were felled with two quick thrusts.

The following morning my father was furious, and sent out a large party to search for me and kill the orcs. They returned two days later, ashen-faced. Nothing was there except orc carcasses. What a surprise those dwarves must have had when they saw me eating breakfast in the great hall!

At any rate, after my father saw that I could not only fight but travel and survive on my own, he view of me change. I was soon being forced to make long trips outside of the mountain. I think he suddenly wanted me to be his personal warrior, perhaps a deadly assassin. But I wished to be neither. My dream was to be free, and roam the world in a carefree fashion. Which I did for many years, until the siege of Erebor.

But enough about me, I am sure you are bored by my lengthy story. What of you, Haenir? What paths have you tread outside of this land living death?"