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Óin had been lost in thought for a long while since they had parted with the Elves. A sick feeling had been rising in him, some sort of foreboding. It was not his previous grumpiness or obstinance. It was something different entirely.
He watched the other Dwarves as they carried on their way, and the sick feeling grew stronger. Nothing good would come of this trip. He thought of his young nephew, Gimli, and wondered what he was doing. If he'd only stayed home, he might know.
Caught in the middle of these thoughts, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard an arrow whiz by Balin's head. Orcs, he thought, his heart dropping to the toes of his thick, sturdy boots. He heard his thought echoed by Narin.
"If we win this, Moria and all its spoils are ours," Narin cried, and Óin groaned, but it was half-hearted.
"If we lose, all our toil was for nothing," he added in an undertone. The comfort he usually derived from his moaning and peevishness was gone. He clutched the hilt of his axe tightly. Now for it, he supposed...
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