Aragorn was the last to venture cautiously into the mine, but he soon moved toward the front of the group. As uneasy as whatever was lurking outside made him, he could not shake the feeling that something far more dangerous awaited them inside. This place had a dark feel to it, and the air was heavy with the smell of death. As the light from Gandalf's staff revealed countless decaying skeletons, Aragorn's hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword. Legolas's discovery only served to further confirm his suspicions, and the sword was out in a flash, poised to meet whatever foul thing might emerge from the shadows.

A panicked shout of "Strider!" suddenly caught his attention, and Aragorn whirled around to see Frodo being dragged away by a snaking tentacle. He rushed over to where the hobbits struggled, just in time to see Sam strike the tentacle with his small sword and succeed in breaking its grip on his master. The hobbits began dragging Frodo away from the edge, and Aragorn moved to help them, but more tentacles suddenly erupted from the water, knocking the three standing hobbits off their feet and catching Aragorn squarely in the chest. By the time he had recovered his footing, another tentacle had grasped Frodo and was dangling the helpless halfling over the water. It was as if some outside force compelled this fell creature, narrowing its focus to the one being in their party who absolutely, under no conditions, could be sacrificed. As arrows began flying through the air, Aragorn charged into the water, hacking his way through the writhing tentacles in an attempt to reach the one that held the Ringbearer. He could only hope he would not be too late.

Barbossa, in contrast, felt no such loyalties to the strange little man and was content to merely slash at anything that snaked his way. At one point he felt a tentacle brush past him, but it paid him no heed, clearly mistaking him to be just another skeleton. Any qualms he had previously had about the mines were now eradicated, and he quickly retreated into the shelter of the carved-out chamber to observe the battle.

Gimli could not - would not - see for the crimson haze obscuring his vision. The broken faces of his kindred still swam before him, taunting him, laying blame on him for surviving while everyone else died. Someone shouted for help, and fear evaporated, precipitating a beserk fury. His axe appeared in his hands without his even registering the motion. Roaring a battle cry, he leaped over the corpses, past the hesitant pirates - cowards, both of them! - and charged headlong into danger.

The first tentacle, slimy and greenish under the moonlight, almost tripped him. Almost. He saw it coming as though in slow motion. His every faculty was buzzing - he could have single-handedly taken on a hundred Orcs then and there. Still bellowing, he barreled straight into it, his axe chopping a wide swath before him. Watery ichor exploded wherever it struck. The tentacle retreated, writhing, into the whirlpool that was once the placid lake.

The victory, however small it was, felt good. It felt very good.

Like a steel siege engine, Gimli lowered his helmed head and charged straight into the water. His stout legs pumped, wading him deeper into the black depths until it almost reached his waist. He kept hacking regardless, swinging his axe manically in all conceivable directions.

At last the creature finally decided it'd had its fill. It arced one of its tentacles around, whacking the Dwarf full in the midsection. He stifled an "oof" as he went down, toppling into the water. The same tentacle wrapped itself around his ankle. Before he knew it, he abruptly found himself dangling upside-down over an encircling row of rather sharp teeth.

"Elf!" he shouted desperately, arms flailing. An arrow embedded itself right next to him. The tentacle spasmed but didn't relinquish its hold.

Blast that.

His other foot came up, kicking the tentacle with astonishing power. The thing writhed again. Roaring his rage, he hefted his axe with both hands, flexed his arms, and hurled it. The axe that was not made to be thrown sailed through the air, striking the very base of the tentacle. The entire appendage snapped off, sending Gimli the irritated Dwarf right back into the lake. Painfully so.

Sputtering up water, he picked himself up and went to look for his axe.

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Legolas was loosing arrows with velocity surpassing what any of the others were likely capable of - and likely accuracy as well, judging from how often he hit the flailing tentacles - but unfortunately there are more effective weapons than a bow and arrows. He paused momentarily to rescue a gasping Sam, who had been thwacked about by the angry leviathan quite enough.

The dripping hobbit hauled himself upright, still casting about with his blade and frantically looking about for any sign of Frodo. He caught sight of his master dangling by one ankle and dove back into the fray with a roar astonishingly fierce.

Elizabeth hardly knew what she was doing when she found herself flailing wildly left and right with a stick gotten from who knew where. A tentacle paused momentarily to snap it in half and she dove aside to avoid being snatched into the air like the unfortunate Frodo had been.

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Aragorn continued to hack his way through the writhing mess of tentacles. It seemed that for every one he cut down, another two emerged from the water, but finally he was able to reach the massive appendage that held Frodo. He swung his sword and cleanly severed the thrashing tentacle, which immediately dropped Frodo into Boromir's waiting arms.

Their Ringbearer once more secure, Gandalf immediately ordered the retreat. "Into the mines!" he cried, seeming to suddenly alter his opinion about the mine-turned-tomb, though really there was little other choice to be had. If they remained where they were, they would all inevitably die-- save the two undead in their midst, who would merely be faced with a very long time spent in uncomfortably small pieces. In the mines, despite the great danger that was quite obviously present, they at least had the advantage of their enemy not yet knowing of their arrival.

"Into the cave!" Aragorn echoed as he and Boromir (bearing Frodo) brought up the rear of their hasty retreat.

A well-placed arrow in the creature's eye delayed the beast just long enough for the last of their company to run through the stone doors. A loud cracking and crumbling sound was heard as the watcher's tentacles snaked up onto land and latched themselves onto the stone surrounding the entrance. With a great crash, the very face of the mountain came tumbling down, effectively sealing off their only exit on this side of the mines.

For a very long moment, the company stood in the seemingly impenetrable darkness, the only audible sound that of their own heavy breathing. Then, finally, Gandalf's voice pierced the silence. "We now have but one choice," he said slowly and wearily, lighting the crystal atop his staff. "We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard. There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world."

Aragorn's sword remained drawn as they began to follow the wizard up the short flight of stairs and into the actual mine. He was not foolish enough to believe that escaping one danger automatically meant that one was safe from others. Indeed, he'd often found it to mean the exact opposite.

"Quietly, now," Gandalf warned the others. "It is a four-day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed."

"Unnoticed. Bah!" Gimli muttered to himself, albeit quietly. The wizard had excellent hearing, as he'd been shamefully reminded countless times. He swung his dripping axe in a pretense of chopping goblins. Water sprayed in all directions. A moment later, a still unsatisfied Gimli slung a considerably drier axe over his shoulder.

The way was treacherous, though his stumpy legs stood him in good stead as they waded through mounds of debris and climbed over crumbled stairs. He kept his gaze singularly focused on the lighted crystal atop Gandalf's staff. He could not - would not - force himself to bear the sight of his defeated kindred... or what remained of them.

"Keep sharp," he advised gruffly upon passing the halflings, most of which looked none too confidant. An instant later he nearly tripped over a jutting rock, tragically defeating the veteran air of his advice. Just because the Elf had longer legs...

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"You are a greater fool than I had first perceived, Captain Sparrow, if you believe the dead to be our only concern," Gandalf replied shortly, indicating the end of any and all conversation. Cautiously, wordlessly, the rest of the Fellowship formed a line behind the wizard and began the four-day journey to the other side.


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They had been walking almost nonstop -excepting the occasional stop for food or a few hours of sleep- for roughly three days. Or at least, that was Barbossa's reckoning. Truth be told, it was hard to retain any sense of time when one was stuck in a dark, timeless hole such as this 'Moria,' especially when there was no set schedule concerning eating and sleeping and no celestial bodies to go by. He was fairly certain that it was the early hours of the morning on the fourth day, but honestly it was only a guess. They were at least making good time...or rather, they had been, up until now.

Currently, they were all resting on a ledge at the top of an incredibly steep flight of stairs. At the top of another short flight of stairs, the passage split into three separate paths, each marked by an engraved archway. All seemed to lead in a general eastward direction, but the left path sloped downwards, while the right climbed up, and the middle seemed to remain level, but narrowed considerably. In front of these three doorways was a protruding rock, and on this rock Gandalf sat. Had sat for some time now. And not in the whole time had he spoken a single word. He merely continued to sit there, staring at the doors in pensive silence and smoking his pipe, as if simply staring at them long enough would trigger a memory.

The rest of the Fellowship, in the meantime, was taking the rare opportunity to rest, though all remained on guard. Some occasionally spoke in whispers, but for the most part everyone just sat. And that was all Aragorn planned to do until their course was determined. He and Boromir both sat on the top stair, the former silently smoking his own pipe, and the latter merely staring off into the darkness. Such silence had been characteristic of this part of their journey, and not entirely unwelcome- particularly from the direction of a certain loquacious pirate.

Merry was disconsolately trying to coax life back into his few remnants of pipeweed. It wasn't working. He eyed the promising curls of fragrant smoke rising from Gandalf and Aragorn's pipes longingly and leaned over to whisper to Pippin - "Pip, y'think Strider has any spare pipeweed?" Really, that wasn't the question - the question was, would he share it?

Sam was, against his will, wondering the same thing. Moria was so cold and echoing and empty that it would have been a welcome relief to smoke his pipe even for a few minutes. He cast Gandalf an uncertain look and dismissed the notion - the wizard looked deep in thought and Sam was not one to disturb him.

Legolas had no thoughts of pipeweed. He was leaning against an uneven rocky wall, absently examining the fletching of an arrow but not really seeing it. Moria felt unhealthy to him, as though corpses might be lurking around every corner, and it was difficult for the elf to relax very much with the air of foreboding that pervaded the atmosphere.

Elizabeth was beginning to be rather fed up with the entirely silent and unhelpful wizard. He'd been in that same position for an hour now, unless she was very much mistaken, and didn't look like moving in the near future. She was tempted to mutter something to Will...but despite the wizard being old she was quite sure his hearing hadn't deteriorated in the least.

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"If ye think you can lead the way any better, be my guest," Barbossa muttered in reply, glancing sideways over at Jack for a brief moment before closing his eyes again. Eager though he was to get moving again, a short respite wasn't entirely unwelcome, if only for a few minutes longer.


Gandalf didn't move from his position as the two approached him. "It's Gollum," he replied mildly. "He's been following us for three days."

"Shhh! Gandalf's trying to think!" said Sam from the other side of the two - he had rather more reason to have great respect for the wizard since he'd threatened to turn him into a toad and fill the garden full of grass snakes - and Merry lapsed into longing silence, still eying the curl of smoke from Strider's pipe. He wondered vaguely what he and Frodo were discussing, considering the trepidation in Frodo’s uneasy glance down into the abyss below, but wasn’t quite curious enough to ask.

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The Wizard was doing something interesting... again. With a profound sigh, Gimli settled down on a jutting boulder and leaned against his axe handle. He wiped the perspiration from his brow and beard. Three days of stumbling through through rocks could wear it out on a Dwarf. Yet, strangely, he'd never felt more wholesome in his life. Down here in the bowels of the mountain, where one could literally hear the stone vibrating and the earth singing... this was where a Dwarf belonged.

He closed his eyes, picturing these rocks running silver with veins of mithril. Ah! Mithril! How he loved -

Something rather hard conked him on the temple, shattering his consummate fantasy. Luckily, Gimli had a hard skull. His eyes flew open. A rock, hurled across the chamber by... That bothersome tallish walking man/skeleton/thing! He'd never trusted them. The males had no sense of beardish fashion, especially the more wrinkly one. The woman was too headstrong for her gender - if she'd been a Dwarf, she'd have long ago been put back in line! And now they had the effrontery to start throwing rocks at him!

His own glare hurled imaginary daggers at a certain Jack Sparrow. He hefted his axe and executed a none too subtle downwards chopping motion. "I'm watching you," he muttered, with an insubstantial effort at not making himself heard.

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