Disclaimer: Tolkien's. Not mine.

So there they were, the nine of the Fellowship, stuck in the Mines of Moria, at Balin's tomb. Then the noises sounded.

"Doom, doom" came the drumbeat as the walls shook.

The Fellowship drew their weapons, Glamdring, Sting and Andúril flashing out from their respective sheaths. They readied themselves, preparing for battle, when suddenly, the drumbeats ceased. There was a brief moment of tension and uncertainty, of sweaty brows and clammy fingers, when, quite unexpectedly, the pattering of many feet could be heard. Not the heavy-footed thuds of orcs, but the sound of many Nancer's nancing. Soon, the grunt of orcs could be heard, punctuated with occasional words such as-


"Take that!"

"Like, you totally ruined my nail!"

The Fellowship looked at each other, puzzled, with the exception of Gandalf, who was straining his ears, his face pale. Amidst the gloom and uncertainty, the voices of the Nancers' could be heard. Voices so exquisitely melodious, and so wonderfully sonorous, chanting the names of the nine. Gandalf was now quaking, horrified, the very picture of fear personified.

"They are coming."