"Archer, I think you can retire!" Dwalin said to Kili, the original archer of the group.
Kili: "..."
The dwarves stood on the wasteland where the corpses of a few Orcs and Worgs lay, each leaning on their weapons and looking up into the distance from where they had come, only to see a vast expanse of withered yellow scenery, the wind seeming to have taken tangible form as it swept across the wasteland, whipping up wave after wave upon the ground.
At a single glance, not a trace of Orcs or Worgs seemed visible, but they all knew that their escape along this way had been fraught with danger, and it was An Yang's exquisite close-quarters combat with the Orcs that had bought them this reversal of fortune.
Yet nature was so broad-minded; no matter how evil the Orcs were or how ferocious the Worgs, lying quietly on this wasteland they could not stir the slightest commotion, and were destined to leave nothing behind at all.
Just like Thorin, the heir of Durin's bloodline, and Gandalf, the Wizard descended from the Maia, they were so insignificant as they walked across this wasteland, looking from afar much like a single ant.
"Oh, where on earth have we run to..." Balin voiced the true purpose of his gazing into the distance.
They had been running along with Gandalf all this time, having long since lost their original direction and caring only about shaking off the pursuing Orcs, so that now they had no idea where they had arrived. Looking back, the rear was also a vast and desolate blank, and when they raised their heads, thick cloud cover happened to obscure the sun, making it hard to tell east from west, north from south.
Gandalf glanced at An Yang, who was