[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Wind was blowing through the pass, coming down from the heights of the Misty Mountains, rushing down the Dimrill Stair, hurrying around the streams of Silverlode and following it, down, to where the young river gathered water from other streams, as they rushed down into the dale. The wind turned around the few scattered rocks, spread through all the length of the valley, as if some giant's child left them here after play. It flew then further, as far as the sharp edge of a waterfall, which suddenly stood in the river's way, as another stream joined her flow. The wind rushed into the crooked fir-trees about it, made them shiver, and it flapped the old and dirty travel-cloak of the Dwarf who stood by them, looking far into the valley below him. He was old, his short beard and long hair being already white, though his blue eyes watching carefully from under the brown hood were bright and vivid. In his left hand, he was holding a short bow, though all his arrows remained peacefully in the quiver he carried on his back.

The mountains were casting long shadows and the sun and the moon over the Dwarf's head were performing a heavenly theatre, but he did not pay any attention to them. He was observing carefully the dale, surrounded by steep cliffs, with only a few bushes and small trees vegetating in there. He stood motionless amidst the fir trees; for a casual watcher, it would have been easy to overlook him in his worn-out brown cloak. The nearby waterfall was bubbling loudly, making it impossible for the Dwarf to hear any other sounds, but the watcher himself was protected by it from being overheard. When he at last moved and stepped forward to climb down the path of slippery green rocks beside Silverlode's channel, his steps were deafened by the voice of the running water.

As he went down, two times he almost slipped on the wet surface. For the third time, he managed to catch his balance only in the last moment. "By Durin's beard," he said, being grateful that both his voice and the sound of his stumbling before were drowned out by the loud stream. "You should take more care, Óin, good lad. Otherwise you may end up breaking some of your bones and who's going to pick you up?"

As the Dwarf continued down the dale, more carefully, as now the rocky gorge was narrowing a little, and also the noise of the waterfall was getting softer, he continued to mutter to himself under his breath, just so not to be louder than the river's bubbling voice.

"Of course I have to take care," he mumbled, as he went on, "but who is going to take a look around the place, if not me? They are all - mining, baking, wining, dining, but nobody thinks about taking a routine survey of the mountains. Of course, of course. It's Durin's Day," now he at last lifted his eyes to take a look at the skis. As if realising with shock what panorama is hanging above him, the Dwarf stood silent for a while. Only then he shook his head, but still being unable to move his eyes away from the heavenly theatre, he stood still.

"It's Durin's Day," he repeated slowly, "but they do not think about some good routine check. At least the main road down here, around the streams of Kibil-nâla... even old Balin got careless, as he became the Lord of Moria." Óin shook his head and made a snarling noise, perhaps a laugh, perhaps not. He finally managed to get his eyes away from the scenery of the skies and looked down at the dale below him. "Of course I am not complaining," he said. "It is good to have a breath of some fresh air once in a while, and now-"

He stopped in the middle of the sentence. His eyes opened wide, as he was gazing into the widening valley below him. The green walls, washed by the running stream gave way and then, the icy cold water continued its way between scarred slopes and following down in foaming curves and leaps amidst the rocks. And there, amidst the rocks, something was moving! The Dwarf now saw it clearly.

"Óin, good lad," he said softly, with his mouth open wide, "you are out on a survey and remain gazing at the Moon and the Sun like some kind of an Elf, and here you have somebody walking all happy right under your nose! Hide somewhere, quick!"

He immediately obeyed his own order. Jumping to the side, he crouched behind the nearest boulder, just as possible it was in the narrow gorge. The icy water was washing his boots and once in a while, a cold shower sprinkled on him.

"Durin's beard, Óin," he mumbled. "You should have picked a better place to hide. But what! You won't climb back there to the fir-trees unnoticed, so do your best and stay put!"

The incomer took a little while before he managed to climb into the place where Óin was hiding, but he did not seem to notice him, until he was just a short distance, not longer than a bowshot, from him. Óin jumped to his feet, preparing his bow, but when he saw who the incomer was, he let his hand reaching for an arrow to lower again.

"By Durin's beard!" he cried in surprise. "It's a Dwarf!" Then he realised that he is no longer alone, and fell silent in a bit of embarassement. But only for a moment.

"Oh, hail to you, fellow kinsman," he said, lifting his empty hand in greeting. "I hope I did not startle you." He observed the incomer curiously. It was a very young Dwarf, lot shorter than Óin, but of a strong build, and his face under the long brown beard seemed pleasant on first sight.

"My name is Óin, of the tribe of Durin, from Khazad-dûm the realm of Balin, my cousin and our lord. And who might you be," he finally looked the newcomer into eyes, with a firm expression as if he had finally evaluated the Dwarf and decided to form a basic opinion on him, "and what brings you to the gates of Moria? Is it that you are bringing any news from our cousins from the North?"