The mountain wind carries their foul voices. Even further does it carry their stench. The pursuer on their tail ensures she makes no sound, bare feet taking careful steps on the stony path. She hastens. The chase nears its end.
They came out of the ancient Dwarf-Mountain in the north. A retinue of ambassadors no doubt, dressed in their best rotting hides and assorted filthy trophy-skulls. On wolves they rode across the Vales, but now a pack of eight is left and they move on foot. Evidently the Bear-Men didn't let them escape their realm unscathed.
The Elf halts and listens. Rumour echoes through the pass. The granite walls reflect the Orcish voices back and forth until the direction of the source can't be established anymore. The Hithaeglir betray her: the clouds turn grey and heavy and the wind grows louder, a storm is brewing.
Forth goes the pursuer on the path, but it is not right. They didn't pass here. They entered the cleft but they didn't come out, and they didn't plummet down the ravine below the narrow path either. The Elf growls in frustration and turns to trace back her steps. No voices can be heard anymore and the stink fades fast. She has lost the trail. Her keen eyes examine every possibility over and over again, but the conclusion remains the same: the Orc-pack entered, yet didn't exit and didn't fall. It's like the Earth has swallowed them whole! Swallowed... them...? Whole...?
Her thought is interrupted by the echo of hooves trampling, carried down the path on the rising wind.
