It seems only fair I contribute.
---
"Where the engines of the Elves lie within and without the trees, where the engines of Men rise to the dome of heaven, the engines of Durin's Folk delve deep within the earth. It is our engines that were first in this Age of the world, and it is our engines that shall save it. So says Balin!"
"So says the King of Moria!" Frodo was nearly deafened by the throng of Dwarves at the great feast. There were more here than he had ever seen in his life; this was not necessarily a difficult feat, but it was a landmark event for the young Hobbit nonetheless. Idly, he stroked the old oak butt of Sting, the old Elvish hand-cannon that Bilbo had bade him bear against enemies. He looked down, and something caught his eye.
The serpentine-powder of Moria hissed in its horn, and the barrel of Sting shone blue.
"ORCS!" He cried, but the drums of war drowned him out. The goblins of Moria were streaming in, armed with vicious toothed blades (some made of actual teeth, probably troll) and the stolen hand-axes of murdered dwarves.
One roared louder than all, a pale beast the height of a man with but half an arm left, the rest replaced with a vicious hook. King Balin took one of his pistols, of the "axe-handle" design commonplace in Moria and of a larger bore than even the musket Sting, primed the pan with the finest powder known to the Dwarves of Moria, and created a light breeze where said foul goblin's pitiful amount of brains had once resided. The King threw his pistol to the loader and hefted an axe in his hand, sprinting forwards to meet his ancient enemies face to face.
Legolas's arrows struck home in short order too, and the sword of Boromir soon drank goblin blood. But Aragorn stayed with Gimli, who ran, seemingly, from the field.
"Strider!" Samwise bellowed after him. "Ruddy Rangers, thinking of nought but 'emselves. I've 'alf a mind to give him a bellyful of Gaffer's best lead!"
Sawise was, however, soon silenced, as were many. Aragorn and Gimli had run only to the end of the chamber, where there lay a great mound beneath a tarpaulin. The Ranger sucked the last dregs of pleasure from his pipe and upended its contents once his Dwarven host had dragged aside the curtain.
"Behold," cried Gimli, "the rocketry of Dwarves!"
The missiles were lit by Aragorn's pipe, and soon the goblin attack became an ignominious retreat. Dragonfire beat down their looted shields, and dwerrow-iron shrapnel, cast in the shape of runes of hatred, rent their flesh asunder with every detonating rocket. The goblins were eviscerated... but not yet beaten. Not quite.
"The drums, the drums in the deep place," said Pippin once the last of the rockets had exploded and the Fellowship had their hearing back. "The drums are getting closer! Gandalf, what do we do?"
"We fight!" Balin roared as he reloaded one of his pistols. "We fight as though sure of victory ere it should slip our grasp! What manner of foulness have they that can stand to the powder of Moria?"
Boromir, who had reached the doorway, looked around.
"They have a Cave Troll."
