[General POV]
The temperature dropped drastically with every step the group took toward the summit of the mountain's arm. The tiny snowflakes scattered upon touching Aldril's body, like an unyielding flame in motion, and the accumulated snow dissolved into vapor in his wake.
This phenomenon had only ever been witnessed in ancient dragons, whose body temperatures made even the coldest mountain feel like a spring breeze. His imposing presence loomed over those around him, and the sound of labored breaths and strained gasps echoed with each step.
"Aldril," complained Glóin, "can't you tone down that overbearing presence of yours? It's too uncomfortable climbing with it pressing down on my spirit, it makes me restless. It's like walking alongside Smaug. And look at my poor goat, it can barely move forward!"
Aldril paused for a moment, turning slightly toward Glóin, his silhouette striking beside Shadow Star, whose regal gaze scrutinized the combat goats, forcing them to bow their heads in submission.
"Pressure?" Aldril responded in a low voice, tinged with concern. "I have no idea how to control it yet. I'm still not used to whatever this is inside me." He turned to Shadow Star, giving a small tap on the horse's neck. "Am I bothering you, my friend?"
Aldril had barely tilted his head toward his steed when the complaints subsided. The proud animal snorted, almost arrogantly, its eyes gleaming with a spark of condescension. Though unable to speak, its gaze spoke louder than words: Can't they bear this weight? They're pathetically weak.
A wry smile tugged at Aldril's lips. He understood that snort perfectly; he could almost hear his companion's haughty voice in his mind.
Meanwhile, Balin, panting slightly, halted and leaned his weathered hand on the horns of the goat accompanying him. The seasoned dwarf sighed; his tone heavy with experience as he broke the silence:
"Try to calm yourself, Aldril," he advised. "I've noticed how your presence shifts with your mood. I saw it in Erebor... and now here. If you don't manage to temper it, we'll arrive before Azog as brittle as dry sticks. Besides", he glanced at the combat goats, their nervous snorts and trembling limbs evidence of their fear, "we won't make much progress if these poor creatures can't relax."
The group could afford a brief respite; the mountain's arm was cleared of orcs, thanks to the sharp talons of the eagles. Yet the ascent was slow. The unconscious pressure emanating from Aldril weighed heavier than the snow underfoot, making the combat goats quiver and resist moving forward.
"I'll try," Aldril replied, exhaling deeply.
His stance shifted. What had once been a fierce blaze consuming everything in its path began to recede, like a wildfire smothered by a gentle breeze. The air around him ceased to thrum with intensity, and a collective sigh of relief echoed among the group. The snow that had previously evaporated at his touch now fell delicately, settling softly on his hair and face.
The change was palpable. Aldril had allowed his fiery temperament to yield to the tranquil flow of a stream.
"Finally!" Glóin exclaimed in relief, rolling his tense shoulders. His goat, visibly calmed, lifted its head, loosening its taut neck.
Thorin said nothing. With a determined look, he spurred his goat, which responded immediately, galloping faster. His hands clenched tightly on the reins, knuckles white, while his mind burned with thoughts of vengeance.
Thorin's eyes glinted with fire, his hunger for battle unmistakable. Since the fateful clash at the gates of Moria, Azog's name had been a thorn in his heart. But not for much longer.
The weight of his lineage, the honor of his family, and the blood of Durin coursed through his veins. This feud, woven with hatred and bloodshed, would be settled here and now. Even if it meant falling in the process, Thorin knew his nephews, Kili and Fili, would carry on their people's legacy should he perish. Clenching his teeth, Thorin fixed his gaze on the orc banner fluttering above.
"Today..." he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible, "today, Azog will learn that the sons of Durin are not prey for the likes of him."
The group pressed on with renewed vigor, the snow crunching beneath the goats' hooves as they neared the inevitable confrontation. The ruins, now within sight, rose like a monument to a bygone era, a time when dwarves and elves traded in peace.
Now, that place would become the stage for a final duel, one that would decide Thorin's fate and the repercussions of Aldril's growing power.
The swift gallop of the goats increased now that the pressure exerted by Aldril had dissipated. Their agile movements allowed them to easily navigate the winding stones, which rose like giant grains against the snowy landscape. At times, they seemed to compete with the imposing black steed, but despite their speed, they lacked what he had in abundance: the untamed grace of a feather dancing amidst a storm.
Shadow Star was was a moving black spot, an elegant shadow flitting like a specter through the snow. His powerful strides not only propelled him forward but granted him an almost supernatural precision, allowing him to glide over the stones with the lightness of a dream. In just a few majestic leaps, the horse had reached the summit, leaving the diminutive goats far behind.
Aldril dismounted calmly, his cloak billowing in the wind. His eyes rested on the ruins before him, a remnant of bygone times that still whispered through the barrels worn by time, scattered amidst the snow.
The symbols carved into the barrels were unmistakable: Mirkwood. Once, this place must have been a trade post where elven wine and dwarven treasures exchanged hands under a pact of peace that now seemed as fragile as the ice beneath his feet.
The frozen lake that dominated the summit offered another piece of the puzzle. If one paid close attention, a channel could be seen extending from the lake to a river below, now tainted by shadows and corruption. Aldril didn't need to guess; the dark stain snaking through the water was a clear sign of the wicked magic that had infected these lands.
His boots touched the lake's surface softly. The frost bit at his steps, but the ice remained intact. For a moment, Aldril was grateful that his temperament had calmed; otherwise, the scorching heat of his presence would have melted the ice beneath his feet.
As he surveyed the desolate landscape, echoes of growls caught his attention. Stones crumbled, and where his gaze landed, six trolls of imposing stature loomed within the ancient ruins, holding saws and maces in their hands. Their aggressive eyes locked onto Aldril's figure.
It was then that Thorin appeared at the summit, followed closely by Bofur, Balin, and Glóin. The combat goats, exhausted from the climb, were left to the side as the dwarves dismounted hastily. Their boots struck the ice with a dry sound, and their gazes, sharpened by experience, shifted between Aldril and the six towering trolls, Azog's personal guard.
With the dwarves at his back, Aldril unsheathed Anguirel in a fluid motion, as elegant as it was deadly. The blade of fine black steel gleamed upon contact with the light, its dark shimmer whispering its excitement.
"As agreed… these insignificant beasts are mine," Aldril said, his tone laced with icy arrogance as he pointed his sword at the trolls. His disdain for them was palpable, an echo of his calm demeanor that now displayed the ruthless confidence of a predator at the top of the food chain.
Glóin, however, broke the dwarves' tension with a sardonic smile as he adjusted his grip on the handle of his axe.
"Finally…" he said with exaggerated flair, cautiously stepping to Aldril's side. "But you won't mind if I steal a kill or two from these beasts, right?" His playful tone attempted to mask the nervousness evident in the stiffness of his shoulders.
Aldril barely cast him a glance over his shoulder, his expression impassive, though his lips curved into a faint smirk.
"Fine by me," he replied with a hint of mockery. "Just try not to die. You still have a bet to fulfill."
Thorin, trusting Aldril completely, looked at Bofur and Balin beside him. "Let's go. Azog is ours," he said, his gaze shifting to the ruins, his eyes scanning for the orc.
"Catch up when you're done, Aldril," Thorin added before marching off in search of the orc who was hiding like a rat, perhaps preparing an ambush. But that didn't matter to Thorin, today, everything would end, no matter the cost.
***
Filthy orcs! I plan to write my first novel-book, wish me luck.
Advanche chapters in "p@treon.com/Mrnevercry"