Strong are the halls of Erebor. Yet they seemed to quake at the thunderous roar of the young Princeling's brazen response. "No!" He bellowed, his stern response echoed in the great halls of Erebor. The reverberation was shortly followed by the sound of iron-clad boots, heavy with irritation, striding down the corridor that houses all of the family of Thrór, King under the mountain. The Princeling Thorin stormed out of his Grandfather's dining hall, abandoning the requested company of his father and grandfather, past the throne beholding the Arkenstone all the way to the guards balcony, overlooking the city of Dale.
He stood there, ignoring all else and stared off into the distance, deep in thought still fuming from the conversation and unmoving. The King and his son, Thráin II made no effort to stop him, Thorin's temper was fierce and lingered like a foul stench in the air. There was no use to try and reason with him, or even try to comfort him. Thorin. Only Thorin could calm himself. For his temper and stubbornness would one day be the end of him.
Thorin remained at the balcony, head tilted towards the west watching the sunset. He had been standing there for hours as still and quiet as the mountain he lived in, standing, lost in thought and unable think of an answer to give his father and grandfather worthy of a debate.
