((Now. And I hope it's okay with everyone, but I'm going to briefly godmode, just to bring us ahead a bit. Nothing major, but enough to get us going again, hopefully))

Finally the miruvor had been passed around to everyone and returned to Gandalf, who quickly tucked the flask back into his pack.

Now feeling at least slightly rejuvenated, the group continued to trudge through the snow, each of the hobbits clinging to one of the men when it became too deep for them to walk.

It may have only been a trick of the wind in the cracks and gullies of the rocky wall, but Barbossa could have sworn that there was a voice echoing on the howling wind. Ten years ago, he likely would have dismissed such a thought immediately, but the past decade had taught him that the possibility of a supernatural occurence should not be discounted solely for being supernatural. He'd seen far stranger things than a phantom voice on the wind.

Apparently he was not the only one to notice this, for Legolas suddenly stopped walking on top of the snow -though how he was managing such a feat was beyond Barbossa- and stared up at the sky. "There is a fell voice on the air," the elf annouced unnecessarily.

Cuiva nwalca Carnirasse; nai yarvaxea rasselya!

"It's Saruman!" Gandalf replied, straining to be heard over the wind. As if in response, lightning flashed overhead, sending a shower of rocks down from the mountain's face. The Fellowship flung themselves up against the cliff, narrowly avoiding the deadly shower of boulders.

"He's trying to bring down the mountain!" Aragorn shouted. "Gandalf! We must turn back!"

"No!" Gandalf climbed up out of the snow and began calling out an incantation to counter Saruman's. "Losto Caradhras, sedho, hodo, nuitho i 'ruith!"

Cuiva nwalca Carnirasse; Nai yarvaxea rasselya; taltuva notto-carinnar!

Lightning struck overhead yet again, this time much closer, and Legolas only barely managed to pull Gandalf back from the edge before they were completely buried in snow.

All was still for a moment, and then one by one the members of the group began to pop up out of the snow.

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((*drags in Elegost, beaming proudly* I has a Boromir. ))

((Oh, you know you wanted it ))

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" Aragorn argued insistently. There was no long any doubt in anyone's mind that this storm had been conjured by Saruman. Even without the storm, Gandalf's tales of his imprisonment in Orthanc was evidence enough that the White Wizard could no longer be trusted. And he most certainly did not want Ring to go anywhere near Gondor. Men had long ago proven themselves untrustworthy. The same weakness that had corrupted Isildur flowed through the Gondorians' veins, through his veins. The further the Ring stayed away from any of them, the better.

Barbossa finally pushed his way up to the surface, snow clinging to his beard and hat and any other exposed surface. Ordinarily he would have pressed for more information concerning exactly who was trying to kill them and why, but at the moment he was far more interested in just getting away. It was unbearably cold, especially for those acclimated to the hot, humid climate of the Caribbean, and the fact that they kept getting giant boulders dropped on them didn't help the situation. "Anywhere is better'n here," he countered, wiping a majority of the snow off of his face. "It's obvious that someone doesn't want us here, an' I'm beginnin' to agree with them. It'll be the death of us if we try to continue."

Clawing upwards as if through water, Merry and Sam broke the surface of this unexpected deluge. Both were covered in chunks of clinging whiteness, their cloaks almost completely obscured by it.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam attempted to gasp, but nothing came out and he had to spit out a mouthful of snow before attempting it again.

Elizabeth fought her way back into the biting wind and numbing cold and almost wished she'd stayed beneath the snow. The word had taken on a whole new meaning - to her, 'snow' meant drifting flakes, briefly white against the ground but soon melting. This was a significant shock, to find herself practically swimming in the stuff. "Wherever we go, can we talk about it somewhere warm?" she cried over the wind, lips blue with cold.

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((Sorry I haven't posted in *cough*forever*cough*, mates. I'm going to "officially" drop out of this one.))

"Silence!" Gandalf thundered, abruptly ending the sudden onslaught of queries and suggestions. He needed a moment to think, to consider their options. He'd earlier told Gimli that he would not go through Moria unless he had no other choice, and he'd meant it. There was a darkness lurking there that no one in their company had ever encountered before, and truth be told, he was not certain that even he could defeat it. But this much he knew: if they entered those mines, it was highly unlikely that they would all make it out.

On the other hand, however, they certainly could not continue on their current course. The storm would likely only grow worse if they persisted, and beyond this cliff there was little shelter to protect them from falling rocks and lightning. Barbossa was correct in his prediction that going any further in that direction would be the death of them. And yet Aragorn was also correct in arguing against the Gap of Rohan. Saruman's arm may have grown long, but even more dangerous was his body. The further away from Saruman they remained, the safer the Ring would be.

Sighing heavily, he turned his attention back to the others. "Let the Ringbearer decide," he finally said, fixing his gaze upon the hobbit in question and desperately hoping that his decision had been the right one.

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Elizabeth could feel, even over the howling wind, the air suddenly thick with conflicting emotions. The dwarf was practically bursting with suppressed eagerness under his crust of flaky white, the elf was grim, the wizard resigned and the hobbits uncaring one way or another as long as they got somewhere out of the howling, freezing wind. Belatedly she realized Will was saying something, and muttered a noncommittal reassurance in return, too cold to do more than clutch her makeshift cloak about her.

The snow blew over the heads of the hobbits, nearly obscuring their diminutive forms but not entirely masking their violent shivering. Sam edged closer to Frodo where he stood, a lone figure against the wind, and Merry huddled miserably while snow shifted around him.

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Gandalf said nothing in response at first, instead simply allowing the hobbit's words to sink in. He'd known that would be the choice. It seemed like the most logical answer to any who did not know of the evil that lurked in Moria, and he had no better option to present. They would simply have to face it head-on and pray that the Valar were with them.

"It is decided, then," he said tiredly. "We will wait for the storm to subside, and then attempt to make our way back down."

"We risk being buried again if we remain here any longer," Aragorn argued insistently. "And the snow will only grow deeper. We must begin our retreat now, before it grows dark. We have five strong men with us. Surely with our combined efforts, we can force a path through?"

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((No, we're not. We're not just playing by the movies here. We're going by books and movies and our own creativity. Really it should be Elegost's post or something, but he seems to have wandered off...*goes off to hunt him down*))