Litharil moved slowly, her sword was drawn and held low.
Her shield was raised, as if to guard against the the endless dark.

Around her stretched the halls of Khazad-dûm. in the faint illumination, they appeared like the bones of some dead titan — broken pillars, shattered bridges, and debris caked in the dust of ages.

She had entered the this forgotten Hall hours ago, following the rumour of an old relics lost during Balin’s doomed expedition. But Moria did not surrender its secrets easily.

The first warning came as silence.

“How long are you going to sit there smoking,” Zairaphel complained from the couch. She batted her hands in the air in an effort to disperse the coiling milky-blue clouds. Her golden hair hung loose, untidy, and she had not bothered to retie the collar of her dressing gown.  

I find that I am growing more recluse, interested in the world around me, yet not interested in the people in it.
I have grown weary of conversation, of polite platitudes, of words that have lost meaning and relevance, even before they have been uttered.
Is it a sign of fading? I guess it is.
My spirit is still invested in this world, nature, its future, how it will develop.

The following is a tale of early Edhelion as known by the dwarves who were their neighbours as told by a merchant of the Broadbeams. It has, to my knowledge, no relation to historical events at all and is merely made up of the most spiteful of dwarven rumour. However, it goes some way to explaining why the inhabitants of the Vale of Thrain occasionally refer to their home as being to abode of dragons.