The dark clouds shrouding the Grey Mountains continued to churn, as though an evil hand were stirring and gathering them, deepening the gloom that blotted out the sky.
Hundreds of fully armed Dwarves Cavalry thundered forward. Rocks trembled beneath their charge, streams splashed beneath their racing mounts, and lightning streaking across the sky illuminated their armor, still bright despite its many scars.
Facing the oncoming Dwarves Cavalry, the Half-orcs at the rear of the formation began preparing to repel them. They braced spears of uneven lengths before themselves, hoping these crude weapons would offer some sense of security.
Amid shrill roars, the assembled Uruk hid behind the spearmen under their captains' orders. If any Dwarf fell while charging the spear formation, they would immediately swing their black iron hammers and deliver a killing blow.
The King of the Lonely Mountain, his sword gleaming blue, drove his fully armored Great-horned Sheep toward the Half-orcs' left flank at full speed. Rain rattled against his scarred steel helmet, then ran down its simple engravings and soaked the long beard he had grown.
A beard meant so much to a Dwarf that, after becoming king, Thorin had grown his out again and groomed it beautifully.
After all, reclaiming the Lonely Mountain had fulfilled the cherished wish of his grandfather, his father, and himself. The once-wandering prince no longer needed to remind himself at every moment that he must find a homeland for his people.
Now, he sought to reclaim another territory that had belonged to the Durin Dwarves for thousands of years: the sacred grounds of Mount Gundabad and the rich realm of the Grey Mountains.
"Children of Durin! Crush them!"
As the Half-orcs drew ever closer, Thorin, his face twisted with fury, drove his mount straight into them. Several spears snapped against the