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Grips his double-bladed axe tightly, his eyes scanning the high ridges. “Let the peaks frown all they like! A Dwarf does not fear stone or snow. If the mountain blocks our path, my axe is ready to forge a new one.”

“Do not underestimate the malice of the high passes, Gimli. There are older, darker forces awake in the roots of the world than Orcs. We must move quickly while the weather holds.”

Pippin: “Do you think they miss us back in the Shire, Boromir? I wonder if they've noticed we're gone, or if they're just arguing over who gets Bag End next.”

A faint smile touches his lips, though his eyes remain vigilant. “It is a good thing to remember your home, little one. It gives a man something worth fighting for when the shadows lengthen. But stay close to the camp. This is not the Shire, and the dark comes fast in the wild.”
“A shadow moves against the gray stone. It is small, nimble, and swift—clinging to the sheer rock face where not even a mountain goat would find footing.”

Grips his double-bladed axe tightly, his eyes scanning the high ridges. “Orcs? If the filth of the mountains has come down to greet us, let them come. My axe has been starved of woodcraft since we left the Elven halls.”

“No, Gimli. It is no Orc. A older malice tracks us, driven by a hunger that never sleeps. Do not seek it, and do not stray from the path. Our secrecy is our only shield now.”

“It feels... smaller out here, Sam. In Rivendell, the world felt vast and safe. Now, I feel as though every eye in the wilderness is turned toward this valley.”

“It’s the wind, Mr. Frodo. Just the mountain wind playing tricks on the pine needles. But don't you worry—I’ve got the skillet packed, and I’m keeping a sharp eye on Bill. Nothing's getting near you while I'm breathing.”

He steps silently out of the treeline, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. “Keep your voices down, Master Hobbits. The wind carries sound far along these ridges, and not all who wander here are friendly. The scouts of the Enemy have wings, and other, quieter things crawl in the dark.”
Leaving rivendell
The morning sun breaks over the misty peaks of the Misty Mountains, casting long, golden fingers of light across the deep valley of Rivendell. A sharp, winter chill bites at the air, carrying the scent of pine, rushing river water, and the bittersweet weight of a journey finally begun. The last echoes of Elven harps fade into the rustle of falling golden leaves as the Fellowship of the Ring files silently out of the Last Homely House east of the Sea. Elrond stands upon the stone threshold, his face a mask of solemn gravity, watching the nine companions depart. He utters no grand farewell, for their path is dark and the hope they carry is fragile. At the head of the line, Aragorn steps with the steady, quiet grace of a Ranger, his hand resting near the hilt of the freshly reforged Andúril. Beside him, Gandalf leans heavily on his staff, the brim of his blue hat pulled low against the morning frost, his eyes already fixed on the looming, snowy shadows of the mountain passes ahead. Behind them walk the others: Boromir of Gondor, his silver-rimmed horn catching the dawn light; Legolas, moving effortlessly over the dew-kissed stone without leaving a footprint; and Gimli, checking the straps of his heavy axes with a grim, determined nod. Bringing up the rear are the four Hobbits, looking small and fiercely out of place amidst the grand architecture of the Elves. Frodo Baggins feels the heavy, unnatural cold of the One Ring pressing flat against his chest beneath his heavy woolen cloak. Samwise Gamgee leads Bill the pony, muttering a quiet assurance to the beast, while Merry and Pippin walk in uncharacteristic silence, finally feeling the immense weight of the quest they so eagerly joined. As the stone arches of Rivendell give way to the rugged, untamed wilderness of Eregion, the Great River Bruinen grows faint in the distance. The world opens up before them—vast, beautiful, and utterly perilous. And far behind, hidden in the deep, shifting shadows of the jagged rocks, two large, pale, luminous eyes blink in the cold dawn, fixed intently on the travelers. A wet, hissing cough breaks the quiet of the crags: “Gollum... gollum...” The hunt has begun.