Piece two: Orc gone good!
The band of Dwarves walk single file along the skinny path; their feet skim close to the edge, tipping rocks that fall to the bristly trees below. Gordon walks ahead, ever watchful, peering out from under his bushy eyebrows. The Dwarves now descend from the Mountain; their weapons and tools (in Kiewicks instance, bow and arrows) swing on their backs. The day is clearing from the rain of the morning before, clouds still linger in the sky, but the rain has ceased. A cold wind blows in from the north, and sends chills up their spines. The band has been walking all day without rest, so Gordon calls back for all to halt, and rest. The Dwarves murmur under their breath, thinking to themselves “I need no rest, it’s pointless to sit on this mountain, lets continue to walk.” But Gordon knows rest is needed to continue along the rocky path. He stands looking out over the trees below, watching the clouds float by.
‘I am hungry, I am already sick of these beef cakes that we have our packs stuffed with, I want a leg of venison, that would please my stomach.’ Cries Kiewick.
‘But how is it that you would get this venison? I surely have not any in my pack.’ Says Gordon.
‘I shall shoot it with my bow, that’s how!’
‘A dwarf who prefers a bow over an axe, most unusual, it almost seems you wish to be an Elf.’ Says Gordon.
Kiewick huffs. ‘An Elf I do not want to be! I prefer the bow, yes I do! I like shooting Orcs throats before their blades can reach me. And you cannot have deer for dinner if all you carry is an axe!’
‘Eah, that’s true enough. But my cousin Tork killed a bird in flight with one toss of his axe. An axe can be a very useful weapon, not many trees can be cut with a bow.’ Says Gordon. Kiewick rumbles under his breath, frustrated at not having the last word, and not having any thing to say in return.
The break was soon over, and the band was on their way again. Like a worm going down a mound of dirt, the band walks down the mountain in a long line, the ground growing closer with each passing corner.
York-ie departed the dales, and now walks up the tall slopes of the Misty Mountains. Swift and sure he climbs, rising higher above the floor of the earth. His strong legs take him up the cliffs faster then any Elf, or horse of Gondor. He pauses often to hide from the sun’s heat; he looks up at it and curses it, with his fist in the air, he then travels on again.
‘Once that cursed sun fallsss, the nights will cool my skins, and I shall move swifttess over these rockss!’ says York-ie aloud to himself. ‘Maybes I’ll find a unsettled cavesss, there I couldsss make a fine homes.’
The clouds begin to break, and patches of blue sky appear. After all day of climbing, the sun begins to fall slowly into the West, and York-ie moves easier with every darkening minute. A lonely star twinkles in the sky, and the pale white light of the moon glows dimly, waiting for the sun to drop. York-ie runs ever swifter now; the rocky, crumbling path is no obstacle now that the sun does not boil his cold loving skin. His sword bumps at his side, and his bow and arrows swing on his shoulder blades as he makes great pace up the mountain.