Amid the howling cold wind, Allen walked along a long, winding mountain trail in an Elven cloak. A column stretching hundreds of meters followed close behind him, each person protected by a thick gray hooded cloak. On their backs, they carried packs that were enormous by human standards, filled with easily transportable supplies.
As they moved, however, their open cloaks occasionally revealed armor glinting in the sunlight before it was covered again.
Now and then, figures of Noldor Rangers flashed through the distant pine woods or bushes. They kept watch around the column to prevent any foolish band of Half-orcs from ambushing the main force.
The guide leading the entire column was an exceptionally tall Dwarf, for they were in the central Grey Mountains, which had been Dwarven territory thousands of years ago.
The bitter northern weather had created sharply defined and vastly different climates along the south-facing Hillside.
At the foot of the mountains, the four seasons were distinct. A lush, dense forest bordered an endless expanse of green grassland, where high summer held sway.
Yet with even a slight rise in elevation, the climate grew colder in the middle reaches of the mountains. Only hardy pines and shrubs could stubbornly survive there.
Closer to the peaks, there was nothing but stark, jagged rocks and steep cliffs beneath the white snow.
Here, the cold was harsh and cruel.
This strange phenomenon left most of the Hillside dominated by black and gray, giving it an ominous appearance from afar.
Elves and Men, who cherished beautiful things, would never live in such a harsh environment. Only the naturally resilient Dwarves had carved roads through this dark landscape to facilitate trade between their people and humans.
After all, Dwarves certainly could not survive by eating stones, as the legends claimed, and their