As the group hied South, keeping close to the base of the Misty Mountains, they passed landscapes of familiar obscurity.
The lands around them had changed since they had traversed it last. Elladan and Elrohir were aware of the perceptible nuances in the Wild. There were tracks of strange feet, Men of a strange breed. The plains stretching Eastwards evinced a snaffling presence of evil stirring. As the group crossed the River Ninglor, they noticed that the fields lay masked by a gloom.
Concerned yet unscathed, the elves made haste of their progress. Their concerns did not end with the Eastern eye. The Misty Mountains seemed to be crawling with terrible sounds. None of their nights passed without vigil.
Elrohir grew concerned of how vulnerable they had become. Even if they could stand their ground and fight the evil around them, their presence had been announced, and was surely being watched. There was little hope of stealth in their arrival. Unless they hoped to baffle the orcs that lay ahead by a spectacular entry in the Mines of Moria. Or was he just imagining their susceptibility and the worst? And was there still hope from quarters unlooked for? Unfortunately, time was running out.
The sun awoke on their fifth day from Imladris to show them the pinnacle of Fanuidhol, a spire of silver marking the Southern horizon.
Moria was upon them.
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