We heard it as a soft sound at first. One step into the halls, and we heard it.
Soft whispering whirls echoing thru the empty halls.
We saw nothing in the dark. The cold was damp against our skin.
Then there was a quick flash, a reflection perhaps, nothing more. Nothing less.
We drew closer and saw it seemed to be spinning. Yes, difinately spinning, whirling, cyclone of steel reflecting the one shine of moonlight comming thru the crack in the cavehall roof.
He was practicing. Whirling without stop. A tromb of deadly axes, one in each hand, stirring up the old cave dust in a pillar around him.
His eyes were closed, his bare feet made a distinct rythmic pattern as he spun with utmost control.
Dha-thump, dha-thump-thump, tha-thump, da-then something changed... he opened his eyes and saw us... saw our Angmarim robes, saw the crests and symbols he hated, the signs of his enemy.
He saw the pale skins we bore and smelled the corruption that we are - and, without stopping the spinning, the rythm suddenly changed...
Thump! thump! thump! thum-thum-thum-thum-thum! as he charged towards us, eyes shimmering with the fire of the Forge itself! Around the blurry shape that was his body was what seemed a solid ring of whirling dwarven steel!
And the cyclone was upon us! The iron tromb ripped us apart! The whispering whirling sound had grown into a roaring chaotic orchestra as our limbs and flesh were cleaved from our bodies in seconds.
This was the last we heard, the last we saw, the last we felt. For ever, and ever.
But he, the warrior, the dwarven champion, is still practicing down there. I am sure.
Still whirling.
Still spinning.
Still living the Way of the Axe.
