A bitter wind swept across the summit of Mount Gundabad, carrying the freshly fallen snow farther afield.
Winter had come.
The north was brutally cold in this season. In just a few short days, white frost covered the Grey Mountains, and a thick, hard shell of ice formed over the ever-flowing Greylin.
Under such harsh conditions, all life began to wither. Even the remarkably hardy low shrubs began dying back, preserving more nutrients in their roots to fuel fresh growth when the weather warmed the following year.
Yet the resilient Durin Dwarves braved the cold wind, working with boundless energy outside the halls of the Sacred Homeland.
They were unlike the humans, who spent most of their time huddled indoors by the fire and could only come out to help briefly during the warmest hours around noon.
Shouting deafening chants, the Dwarves lifted great blocks of stone to repair the breaches smashed open by the trebuchets. The Dwarf engineer directing his people surveyed the walls built by the Half-orcs with a cold eye, his gaze filled with contempt.
Time was the only constraint. Otherwise, he would certainly have advised the King Under the Mountain to tear down the rubbish before them and let him oversee the construction of new defenses.
Of course, having received word from Gandalf, Thorin knew that the dragons had left him little time.
Just yesterday, his Wizard friend had appeared in an utterly bedraggled state, his clothes disheveled, his face haggard, and his spirits low. Even his beloved Old Toby could not dispel that despondency.
"An envoy from Mordor has traveled across half the northern wilderness and visited at least four dragons. Thorin, I don't know how many of those great worms accepted the enemy's invitation. I only hope you'll prepare to evacuate, rather than lead