Thurin stepped into view. Armor scuffed and battle-axe still dripping with the ichor of dead forest spiders. His great black beard was stained and a tad unkempt from his travels, but still very well groomed. While not as naturally silent as an Elven ranger, Thurin had kept himself alive the past century by walking far more quiet than others of his boisterous kin. 

The past tenday he had tackled the forest known as Mirkwood. His supplies had run for quite awhile, but eventually he had needed to hunt. The Dwarf had managed to nab two conies, but the only other prey he had managed to kill was prey that had aggressively approached him. Needless to say, he was quite tired of Spider meat, but he still thanked Aule for the provisions, and the satisfaction of killing a few of the monsters. 

[i]Come back alive, or at least leave dead in your wake[/i] his father had told him when he had volunteered. Thurin felt that statement odd, for he'd gone through worse surely. The Trolls and Orcs of the mountains, and the nameless beasts of the deep, were more dangerous than forest spiders. Either way, Thurin had embraced his father and had traveled the foothills the past month before wading into the realm that was Mirkwood. 

Seeing Elven arrows aimed at him, his stared at Elennína as if to say 'try it.' He was never the most polite around Elves at the best of times, and he was more tired and hungry than he cared to admit now, to say the least. The broad adventurer stood as a statue, grim and stonefaced before the Elven warriors. 

"No harm," he grumbled. "Unless you're kin to spiders."