Bungo and his companions Nuri and Forlong , moved by pity, took into their care the elven hermit Aya, who for long years had dwelt alone in the wild places. Though her heart was heavy with solitude and she had turned from the high folk of Elrond’s kindred, still they hoped she might yet find solace among the Silvan people, who keep to the secret fastnesses of the ancient woods. Thus, with gentle words and steadfast friendship, they persuaded her to journey with them back toward the peopled lands of Middle-earth.
Yet on the homeward road Bungo himself was troubled; for the daggers he had borne away from the fell sorcerer Snava gnawed at his sleep, kindling in him dark dreams and murderous thoughts alien to the heart of a hobbit. But with the quiet strength and good sense of his kind, Bungo mastered the shadow within. At dawn he cast the weapons aside, determining to hand them over to Balin or one of the Wise, choosing peace over peril, and so freed himself from their malice.
When at last they returned to Bree, they were met by Balin son of Fundin, a Dwarf of renown. Eagerly did they tell their tale of the North, and when the key of strange make was laid before him, Balin’s eyes shone with wonder and desire, for it was said to unlock a hidden way into Khazad-dûm of old. Greatly did this stir his heart, for the halls of Moria had long been closed to the Dwarves, and their memory weighed upon his people like a stone.
Forlong, the man of the Dunedain, then brought forth Esterlang, his sundered sword. Balin, moved by the tale of its breaking, promised that it should be borne to Erebor, where the forges of the Lonely Mountain still rang with craft and cunning, that the smiths there might examine it and bring it anew to life.
But for all these marvels, the road of the company was not yet ended. Their counsel turned westward, toward the Grey Havens and the twilight lands by the Sea. There, in the shadowed forests nigh to Mithlond, dwelt yet some of the Sindar and Silvan folk, and it was thought that Aya might find peace among them. For indeed, in Bree she had been ill at ease, distressed by the noise and tumult of mortal folk.
So they passed swiftly through the green hills of the Shire, where Bungo felt again the quiet of his homeland, though he lingered not; and soon they came to the ancient Elven-towers upon the western borders of Eriador. There they were halted by a stern warden, tall and grim, who kept solitary watch over those fair and fading stones.
That very night, peril came upon them; for both a servant of Umbar, a dark man out of the South, and an emissary of Saruman the White, moving each unknowing of the other, sought to seize a Palantír hidden high within the tallest tower. In the struggle that followed the southern warrior was thrown down, and the emissary taken alive; and the Elven-warden, though at first mistrustful, looked thereafter upon the company with new favor.
Each among them then dared to lay hands upon the seeing-stone, hoping for counsel. But the visions it granted were wild and fell: only war and shadow, ruin and the marching hosts of iron. No wisdom could they wrest from its depths, and each turned away troubled, the weight of dark tidings heavy on their hearts.
Thus ended that chapter of their wandering, with questions yet unanswered, and the road ahead uncertain.
The icy winds of Forodwaith howled across the barren wasteland as three figures pressed forward through knee-high snow. Nuri, a proud and fierce Dwarf of Erebor, clenched his axe tightly as he trudged ahead. Forlong, a secretive Dunedain Ranger, dressed head to toe in the white furs of the Snow Men of the North, scanned the horizon with wary eyes. Bungo, an eager Hobbit burglar and treasure hunter, pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter around his small frame, muttering about the unrelenting cold.
They pursued Snava, a wretched Orc who had stolen something of great value. Their path led them deep into the frozen wilderness, where death lurked in the silent drifts and shadowed crevasses.
As they pressed on, they came upon a funeral pyre, the embers still smouldering against the stark white of the snow. Skulls and bones, twisted in agony, told of a terrible sacrifice. Forlong knelt, inspecting the remains. “This is no common burial,” he murmured. “Dark rites were performed here.”
Soon, they encountered a band of Lossoth, the snow-dwelling folk. But these were no mere hunters of the ice; the cruel glint in their eyes and the black markings upon their hands revealed their servitude to the Shadow. Thinking quickly, Bungo produced the shell tokens they had found at the pyre, holding them forth with an air of authority. The Lossoth hesitated, then nodded, allowing them to pass without further challenge.
Further along the frozen cliffs, a sudden snowstorm swept down upon them. Blinded by the flurry, they found themselves separated. A monstrous roar shattered the howling winds—Snow Trolls! A massive clawed hand snatched Bungo from the ledge, hoisting him high. Another troll lunged at Nuri, but then turned at the last moment as the Dwarf stood ready with his axe. With a roar, the Snow Trolls leaped from the cliff into the drifts below carrying away their prize, only to be pursued into an ice cave.
Forlong, ever the silent hunter, crept through the cavern and found the trolls taunting Bungo, who hung upside down, bound and ready to be devoured. Without hesitation, he hurled his spear, striking the largest troll in the shoulder. With a cry of rage, Nuri charged from another passage, engaging the second beast. The cavern erupted into battle.
Bungo, ever resourceful, easily cut his bonds and seized a torch. As the fight raged, he flung blazing oil upon the icy floor, turning the cave into a fire-lit battleground. Nuri’s heavy mail saved him from crushing blows and sharp toothed bites, while Forlong’s swift strikes harried the beasts. With a final, desperate lunge, Forlong drove his sword through the heart of the first troll. The second turned to flee but met an arrow in the eye—Bungo’s keen shot felling the creature instantly.
Their journey led them next to a small, hidden refuge where they met Aya, a beautiful and mysterious Elven hermit. She provided warmth and food in exchange for Bungo’s songs and tales of adventure. But their respite was brief—Snava crept into the shelter, attempting to steal Forlong’s sword. The Orc was tricked and fled into the darkness, but the pursuit was far from over. Aya offered Bungo a Magic Ring if he would journey with her once again in the twilight forests and secret glades at the edges of the world. Bungo declined declaring he could not abandon his comrades in the hour of their need. However he promised to return feeling pity for the lonely Elf and offered to guide her to kin in Rivendell. She declined the company of the High Elves but perhaps there is another place where this Elf could find peace at last?
They ventured onto the Shadow Road, an ancient, forsaken path, braving the darkness that clung to its stones. As they ascended the treacherous stairway, Bungo lost his footing, tumbling into the abyss. At the bottom, dazed, he found himself face to face with Snava. The Orc struck, but before he could deliver the final blow, Nuri came charging down the steps, axe swinging. The battle was short, and Snava fell, leaving behind a set of keys—keys to Moria. Nuri took them, his heart swelling with the weight of their significance.
They pressed on, past the haunted houses of the Priests, where unseen whispers gnawed at their spirits. At the Altar and the Well of Fear, despair gripped them, yet they persevered. Deep within the chambers below, they found themselves troubled by shadows of the past. Weary and miserable, they trudged forward.
Then, Bungo’s sharp eyes caught the glint of gold. Something ancient and dark whispered to him, and in that moment, madness took him. The whispers of old sorcery twisted his mind. The prophecy of Forlong’s ancestor—the betrayal of a companion—was renewed. Seized by the darkness, Bungo took Snava’s Morgul blade and, with cunning, tricked Forlong into leading. Then, with a swift and treacherous stroke, he plunged the cursed blade into the Ranger’s back.
Forlong’s cry echoed through the chamber as the sorcery took hold. Writhing in pain, he fought against the shadow creeping through his veins. With great difficulty, Nuri and Bungo subdued him. As the madness lifted from Bungo’s mind, horror filled his eyes. “What have I done?” he whispered.
Forlong, weakened but resolute, reached for the pouch at his belt. Athelas, the sacred herb of the Dunedain, was pressed to his wound. Though the poison’s spread was halted, no time remained for rest.
A low, chilling growl rumbled through the halls. The disturbance had awakened something terrible. The Worm Wight, an undead beast of immense power, stirred in its lair. Its ancient, skeletal form coiled in the darkness, eyes burning with malice.With his ancestor’s spirit calling him to arms once more, Forlong gripped his Numenorean blade. Weary, wounded, and burdened by despair, the heroes stood together against the ancient terror.
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