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In the city of the Jewelsmiths
‘Too exposed here. Don’t you think?’ Skald stood with the others in the great square while the leaders of the city welcomed their kin from Lorien. The Dwarves had fallen back, as the Mirdain crowded about the company sent by the Lady. Riv’s eyes, he noted, moved here and there taking in the sights of the city. So engrossed was his older brother in his own thoughts that he did not hear Skald’s whispered observation.
Skald stepped a few paces away to where his younger brother stood. Bror, too, was looking about. Skald could not tell if his thoughts about the Elven city were positive or negative. ‘Well, what do you think, little brother?’ Skald asked, jutting his chin toward the great, light structures that thrust up from the earth like tall crystals. ‘It’s too . . . well . . . open . . . for my taste. No place here to make a stand, if you ask me. Which no one did, of course. But seems to me if you’re going up against . . . that black-hearted bootlicker . . . you’d best have some good thick rock between you and his filthy Orcs and such.’ He shifted from foot to foot, anxious for the meet-and-greet to be over. They’d seen the Elves safely to the city; their task was done in his mind. The sooner they were safe within the halls of Khazad-dum, the better he would feel.
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