The taste of ash and fire was on his tongue.
It had sat there for seemingly endless hours already, hours in which he had watched the chaos around him unfold and slowly devour the world he had known since birth.
The dragon had come over them like a force of nature, spreading destruction in its wake without any regard as to those that tried to oppose him.
He had desired only death and gold and collected plentiful of both.
When Thorin closed his eyes he could still see its great claws, ripping grooves in the carefully carved stone of Erebor's halls,
its red wings and golden eyes filled with nothing but greed and malice.
He knew that the screams of the burning and the crunching of bone of those crushed beneath the dragon's feet would never fully leave his thoughts.
The once green plains around the mountain were now scorched and burnt black.
Dwarves were scattered as far as he could see, some of them unmoving on the ground, others weeping quietly arm in arm with their families or friends and many stumbling around,
eyes wide with shock. The air was filled with anguished cries, the wailing of children and the shouting of those still looking for family and friends.
Like an invisible blanket a stench was hovering over all of them - it stank of fire and ash, burned clothing, flesh and death.
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