Clouds rolled in overnight, and morning did not appear until late under a gray day that made everyone drowsy. It would occasionally grow bright when the clouds thinned, but it would eventually turn gray again.
York-ie woke before the sun even looked over the horizon. He did not even attempt to escape as three Dwarves stood watch that night, instead of one. He sat enjoying the dark. But now the light of day has broke the still night, and the Dwarves began stirring and waking.
Breakfast was unwrapped out of cloths that sat in their packs for a week, and the Dwarves ate with ugly looks on their faces as they chewed sullenly. York-ie did not eat; he looked upon the cakes and snarled.
‘I am’s not eating a dwarf made cake’s, especially when it looksss like a brick’s!’ he said. So he went hungry all morning. Breakfast was eaten as the party began to move. . Some stragglers sat on stones and ate quickly as they waited for the line of dwarves to pass, and some ate slowly while moseying along the path. York-ie, however, wass dragged along by the chains around his wrists and locked onto his belt. A cold rain began to slap down on his cheeks as they drop from the low-lying clouds, and the sun is drowned behind them. With the rain beginning, and the meal ended, they pace picked up and the party moved down the mountain with ease; or as much ease is as possible on a stone path that sees pass fifty dwarves and one Orc.
At noon the rain began to fall rapid and heavy. It soaked their clothes; it chilled their skin, and the cold sank deep within their bones. It was a piercing cold, which could be defied by neither blanket nor cloth. The Dwarves moan and groan as they wobble down the slopes, but they make good progress. The travelers grow near to the end of their journey over the Misty Mountains; when at the right spot of the winding path, Mirkwood can be seen as a dark spot just before the horizon drops out of sight.
The company wearily travels on through the day, though the scouts cautiously watch every flat spot of rock that hangs above their heads, and peek around every corner before proceeding. Though so far, since nine in the morning, not one trouble looked upon them, not even a stir or odd event has happened. The only thing that caught their eyes was a pile of rocks and stones slipping down the cliff sides onto the path, but this happened often enough that it did not worry them.
The dwarves’ beards were soaked, and a steady line of water falls from the hoods of their cloaks. Gordon, Keiwick and Dok walked in front, cautiously watching every crack and corner, and Bordon, Gurwick, and Rulldin walked behind them. They each wrap themselves tighter yet the crawling fingers of the cold cannot be stopped.
‘We will all fall ill in this weather! Why not stop and find shelter!’ Rulldon finally sputters, his teeth chattering.
‘No!’ cried Gordon. ‘There is no shelter large enough for all of us, and we have been delayed long enough. We must continue.’ Rulldon and many others cringe, and mumble at the command of Gordon, and their heads hang lower with each passing hour.
York-ie, however, was not as miserable as his traveling companions. He even enjoyed the break from the hot sun, as the cold raindrops remind him of the dark, wet caves that used to drip freezing droplets on his neck, much like this rain. He left his home in the tunnels and caves under the mountains almost two months ago. He left Mordor with a group that served the new leader of Evil: Zork-uk. Many recruits were being gathered and trained for the power of his castle in the far North. York-ie was one of one hundred Orcs and Goblins that left Mordor and started their journey to the Grey Mountains. They left the mountains of Ered Lithus, the range that closes Mordor from the north, and they ran with swiftness toward the Dead Marshes, which they journeyed around, not daring to pass through the poisoned air and walk its haunted paths. For many days they trekked; they ran past Emyn Muil and to the shore of the river just under the falls of Rauros, and from there they cut north towards East Emnet and Fangorn.
The band was attacked once reaching Fangorn’s borders; nearly eighty Orcs were killed, and only seven fled into Fangorn along with York-ie. He could still remember the first night in the forest: it was dark, so dark he could not see his claws in front of his eyes; and he felt crowded, like walls were being built around him as he sat. He could hear the rustling of a great many leaves over his head, and he began to feel trees in places he did not remember trees before. That frightened him, and he struggled to escape the enclosing of trees. Nowhere could he find an opening on the ground, so he climbed, he did not know how high exactly, but he did find an opening where he jumped out and ran far from the area. It gave him chills to think he might have made enemies with the trees, and could not sleep all night for fear he would wake to a great number of them crushing him without warning. He did not enjoy thinking back on that night.
Now he walked down the slopes of the Misty Mountains, a prisoner. He watched the water run under and betweens rocks, waterfalls appearing with the downpour and rush down cliffs, slapping on the rocks below. Anger burned within York-ies’ heart to think he had the chance to escape, to be free. How he wished he could be on his own, and away from the fighting and laboring ways he once lived, and how he had hoped never to live the way of his past again. But these Dwarves had to throw it away! “Why must they do this?” he thought. “Why can’t I just be free? I suppose I am cursed. Doomed to be a captive and a slave. My being an Orc has already chosen my life’s destiny.”
With water dripping off his nose and ears, he walked in bondage, not thinking what he had, or has, but dreaming of what he wants to be.