Balin
Balin poured stale water over the glowing embers of the previous night’s fire, regretting the fact that they couldn’t save it for a nice steaming pot of coffee -- alas for the trials of tromping through a forest’s dark halls draped with the spider’s web. Peering under his shaggy brows at the overcast sky, he muttered that it was an ill omen, especially on the day they would enter Mirkwood.
As so many years before, there was a menacing silence permeating the air of Mirkwood. He couldn’t help but wonder with a smile of satisfaction if the elven king, bedecked with jewels and crowned with laurels, would be hunting for a silver deer shimmering in the shadows.
As swiftly as sleep laden dwarves can move, everything was packed, the ashes of the fire scattered, and resolutely they marched into the depths of the Forests. Like so long ago, all was silent, and Balin almost missed seeing the sunlight gradually disappear like it had when Thorin and Co. had passed through the trees. Now it became darker, more crowded with clutching shadows that spilled onto the path.
There was a sharp whistle and a soft thump. Balin ducked sharply and felt a rush of cool air play with his hoary head. Frowning, he glanced up and saw an elvish arrow pinning his scarlet cap to the rough bark of a tree; an elvish voice rippled mockingly from the shadows and cried, “Do not think that our aim was so bad we failed to miss twelve dwarves crashing through the underbrush. ‘Twas a warning, for we recognized two of your number!”
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