An update long overdue, I'm aware, but it has taken us a long time to draft and edit the installment that follows. Busy lives and whatnot. So again, thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy.

The air was thick and heavy, as though someone had laid a blanket just meters above our heads. My hands instinctively set to purpose; the axe leant against my shoulder turned outwards with my fingers curled around its shaft. I noticed moments later that the palm of my other hand was resting on the hilt of my sword protruding above my belt and in response adjusted my fingers to secure a better grip.

"I have my doubts that we're alone, Thorin," came a loud, but steady voice from the back of my group.

I remained level headed, replying with an unshaken tone. "And if that is the case my friend, then we will welcome our company with open arms and sharpened axe. It is no surprise that where we stand now has history of conflict, both recent and long since passed. But we are here for a more important purpose: my father, and if I need remind you, our King. What do you expect we encounter? A rogue band of Moria orc with crudely fashioned blades? Or perhaps some savage wild men with pitchforks rather than swords? We have nothing to fear here and so forward we go."

My word was final, and although I heard murmurs of discussion immediately after, the party soon fell silent and our march continued towards the great river known in the elven tongue as Anduin. Though the land up until that point was wide open, there were patches of tree cover, although sparse where we sought moments of respite when endurance failed us. From there, I reflected, we would follow its course towards Mirkwood, or at least that was the intended path, for where else would my father have been hidden in which he could have been rescued?

Though I was certain the elves of Lórien held the usual disdain of my kind, I was still doubtful that they would bring harm to a dwarf who had cast them no ill will. I only hoped he was still sane enough to raise no threat against them. I kept thoughts to myself, but it was no secret my father's mental state had been in decline for some time, as his father's did before him towards the final stage of his life.

Perhaps, if I made it to such an age, I would suffer a similar fate, only for a son to take my place. I knew full well that I made a mighty warrior, and many tempted fate saying they expected greatness of me when it came to my rule. But a father…well, that is a task to behold and one I feared I would be no good at. Such, of course, were private thoughts that busied my mind while we walked.

Over the short period of time that followed, I sensed growing agitation not only amongst my men, but also amongst the elements of nature around us. Within half of an hour, the skies had morphed into a grey sheet, with slivers of black suggesting there was worse yet to come. The winds whipped up as we crossed the dale, and soon the outfit was caught in a torrent of rain and wind howled.

It was in between such howls, that a certain pitch differentiated from the rest. The wind has many sounds, but it is always an empty sound. The howl that captured our attention came from our backs, and it was a fierce, dense call. The sound was distinct, not the least to a Dwarven ear. There was no mistaking the cry of a warg. Rarely seen truly wild (for wargs could never be completely tamed) and without masters, our assumptions were confirmed when small dark figures appeared atop the hulking earthly colours of the beasts.

A shout of urgency erupted simultaneously from every dwarf in the company, as the grind of assorted iron and steel rung out against the wind. I pulled free my sword, dual wielding a choice of death for every vile orc and foul warg that found their way into my path.

"There are many Thorin. Should we run?"

"We cannot run. Not here. If we were closer to the mountains, or forest, or even the river we would have some sort of obstacle. But this is open field. There is only one answer to the threat, and that is to fight."

I expected our numbers to be lowered from that encounter alone. We could have turned and run for our lives, but I doubt we would have made it far. Wargs are as fast as they are brutal, and the addition of crude archers from their backs only lowered our chances.

They could, however, be toppled and their riders dismounted, especially when struck low and driven upwards. There was little which could withstand a heavy strike from a dwarf, and it would be then that the tables would turn.

I stood at the front of our group, like any leader would, and it was there that the first swing of my axe wedged into the throat of a warg and my sword was plunged into its rider.

In a similar fashion, some of our opposition were disposed of. Yet it was not simply Dwarven weaponry that saw an end to the immediate threat for a number of the fatally wounded that lay before us were riddled with arrows. Elvish arrows.

They moved like ghosts from a patch of woodland just a few hundred meters away, a flow of stoic riders, silent to the clash of swords and butchering of warg and oc alike. Their bows were whispers in the wind, each arrow a shrill whistle and a soft thud a moment later was all you could tell of their presence. I believe the saying out of the frying pan, into the fire would have been appropriate at this time, for it is always a tense situation to say the least when elves see it fit to intervene in a much more personal conflict.

A single body approached from the party; riding steadily and purposefully closer before halting. "You looked in need of some assistance, ai' atar."

"If you wish to insult me and those aligned to me, say it in a braver tongue, she-elf."

"The haste of your kind has yet to escape you, Thorin son of Thrain. Yet it is encouraging to know you can distinguish the voice of a female elf. You jump to conclusions almost quicker than I can draw my bow. I meant you no offence, goth en gothamin."

It would be safe to say, I was uncertain as to how to react at that point in time.

"Why is it that you know of me, yet I know nothing of you? Not a name, not a purpose. Did you save us for the sole intention of dealing with us yourselves? For if that is the case, then why waste time she-elf?"

I noticed the venom, only half intentional, in my tone, but I could not afford to break my gaze upon the semi-shrouded face.

In seeming acknowledgement and in some attempt to settle the situation she drew back her hood and by no means gave me a reason to break my gaze, simply a reason to hold it.

"I am Tauriel, captain of the Mirkwood guard in service to the Elvenking Thranduil. Lower your weapon, Master Dwarf, for we seek no conflict. Our interest is solely the rise in orc activity which is threatening our borders. We received word of a small force travelling this side of the great river, and it seems you found it. Or at least, part of it. I believe it safe to say we have a common enemy here, and it is not one another."

It was then I was suspect of a trick or a ploy. The elves were renowned for being sharp and sly when the moment suited them. Surrounded by orcs and suddenly gifted with the presence of dwarves would be a most peculiar situation that they likely would look to take advantage of. Never trust an elf was an all too familiar lesson learnt long ago.

Rolling my sword in my hand I thrust it downwards, planting it firmly into the ground and let the shaft of my axe slip through my hand till the cold steel head rested against my fist. Realising it would be foolish to agitate the situation once again, I paused to contemplate my following words.

"I'm afraid we're preoccupied with more important tasks than eradicating rambling orc forces, and though I have no intention of leaving any alive if they cross our path, I also have no intention of sharing with you my time or energy, not the least the likes of Mirkwood."

Surely that was reasonable, considering past transgressions. Yet Tauriel's attention to my words had wavered, as had her entourage. Their heads turned to the distance once again, towards the ominous grey wall that resembled the MistyMountains.

"I'm afraid you have no choice, Thorin Oakenshield, for our mutual enemy fast approaches in vastly greater force."

She cast her hand to the torsos strewn across the ground. "This was but a scouting party. A warg is a loud beast, especially when being slain. Orc senses might be as blunt as their blades, but a warg can hear its own. So now they come. I would suggest that you and your party go nowhere, but feel free to ignore the warning as I've no doubt you're considering. Your choice, Thorin son of Thrain." With that, she retreated back to her kin and descended into an illegible Elven tongue.

I heard the stampede before I could clearly see it. The rain and winds had subsided somewhat, yet the day was still dark and from the darkness came what you might expect; a broad mass of warg riders, much larger than that which had found us before. Where we dismissed the prior threat with ease, I could tell without attempting to count that we were bordering on outnumbered.

"We shall lead them away from you, to give you a breath of space," I called to Tauriel, who nodded in understanding. It was well known that dwarves were wasted at range, much more attuned to the physicality of the melee, while the elves held their renown with their bow for a reason. It only figured that if I led my force headfirst into the conflict, Tauriel would find the bow in her hand as well as those in her command to be much more efficient. I could only hope it was worth it.

Reclaiming my sword, I rallied all courage and vigour that I could in the short space of time it took for the enemy to meet us. Much the same as before we moved as a solid unit, slowly distancing ourselves from the elves.

Bodies fell from their mounts before they got within a distance that was even mildly appropriate for an attempt at archery. A spare second was spent studying the fluid machine that was the elven guard before my attention snapped back to those who'd made it through the barrage. In a well-practiced motion I crippled the front legs of a berserk warg, with its frantic motions only ceasing when a battle axe swung into the top of its head, painting me with dark, thick blood.

"TOGETHER! Stay together! We will only outlive this through unity," I cried, noticing my kin straying; to be caught alone while still in the open was suicidal. I made with my group towards the small outcrop of woodland. Barely large enough to be called that, but it would break up our fighting on the open ground, and give us the close combat we preferred. The flood of warg riders had split, with the majority heading in my direction, as opposed to that of the elves. The wails and groans of warg and orc alike had long been the only signal of fatality, but the inevitable roar of a fallen dwarf as he took his final blow was a sharp reminder of our mortality.

We reached the tree line within minutes from that point, but it had required determined running as opposed to the slow retreat we had been making, and it was that which cost me so many loyal kin. Our numbers were slowly, but surely dropping and as it stood they were an invaluable resource.

Taking position within the protection of wide trunks, the few that remained fast made use of the environment, sending unacquainted wargs and their riders to the ground as they crashed heavily over tree roots and uneven terrain. By no means were the wargs expectant, or reliant on flat grasslands, but the thick mud was no tough rock, and they became uneven especially within such narrow confines.

Now it was their turn to watch numbers diminish, and though it was exhausting work for my limited numbers, progress was made. The dregs of their forces were pouring into the funnel, and in hindsight the adrenaline of battle combined with an undying rage prompted a most poor decision. I charged forth from what had become a costly barrier of protection into the remaining handful of wargs. A courageous move, yet a tired body and a grieving mind is a recipe for disaster, especially when your opponent is a ravenous beast with a warmongering fiend encouraging it.

I was knocked on my back, my sword inserted at a weak angle to the side of the beast – by no means the felling thrust I intended. I scrambled for my axe, and held it as the only object between vicious jaws and my form, though the weight of a warg was known to be more thick muscle than insulating fat. It pulled and pushed, clamping and wrestling against my axe. Though a Dwarven axe does not fail its maker in its time of need, with my brethren still occupied between their own opponents, I felt there was no chance of saving myself. Above the rabid growl of the creature I heard the mocking cackle of the orc astride its back. I doubted he even knew who it was he was about to kill. Perhaps it was better that way.

Suddenly the laughter fell silent, and a gurgle took its place before the body went limp and dropped off the side of its mount. The warg's attention barely wavered; it was too hungry to consider anything else.

In battle, the most unlikely of events transpire because despite the nature of war, the two essential sides are that of good, and that of evil. An elf had put aside the differences of our races to kill the true scourge.

How unfortunate it was that although an Elven blade is sharper than even that of a Dwarven smith, they lack the power of our arm. I saw the glimmer of the sword arc through the air and cut into the warg on its upper back – a poor choice to an uninitiated swordsman. The warg hide is thick and tough and not easily pierced. So while the action would cause pain, it was unlikely it would kill, and when the warg grunted my fears were confirmed. It reeled its head back and turned to the new aggressor, and when I brought myself to standing it already seemed too late. In the distance I saw the green veil of the elves distancing themselves from us. The attack was over, but surely they would not abandon one of their own when so grievously wounded? It was no time for trivial thoughts, however, for soon the wounded would become the dead.

With the last of my strength I drew my axe to above my head and pulled it down into the neck of the warg, rewarding myself with the dull crack of bone and an almost instant limpness. The elf that rolled from its jaws though was un-hooded, and the only one I knew by name.

Tauriel.