[Kransha]

Bror looked warily from side to side, the orbs clouded beneath his hanging, furrowed brow, which looked as heavy as the savage weapon he clutched in each hand, both metal-shod and bound up in thick gloves of chain mail. His beard, frazzled and unkempt, was whisked over his drooping shoulders by the subtlest of breezes, the last, he feared, he would ever feel. He did not care for wind, and had not appreciated the gentle tranquility of daylight in the past, but now felt more than ever that he missed it dearly. In this dark, dank land, this seemingly impassable tunnel, with lurking shadows to overplay those that simply augmented the sinister atmosphere. For some time, at the tail of the motley party, the dwarf trio had traipsed slowly deeper into the tunnel, to court whatever doom the others would and face it alongside them, no matter how much tension the entirety of the group was suffering from, and had been for the duration of their 'adventure.'

Elves and men were all around him, or at least before him and ahead. They still looked segregated purposefully into their own units, but had formed a strange, muddled clump to be near each other, only for the sake of individual safety. Some might trust one another, but most did not trust anyone save themselves and one or two others. Dwarves trusted dwarves, elves trusted elves, men trusted men, and friends trusted friends, but no alliances had been made in earnest, which left the group uneasy. The three dwarves were as uneasy as the rest, and perhaps more, as they did not share any bond with the other races present.

The dwarf at the head of the three, Bror, was, as the other two were, half accustomed to the darkness. Years in the ominous fog of Cirith Ungol had manipulated his eyes’ former prowess. He was used to the darker shades and hues of these lands. But, his past life, the one left behind, left him with a second aspect of sight into the darkness, when he’d lived in a dimmer time, but brightened by happiness. He could see all around him, the rocky crags on the damp cave wall, the countless spider-built threads of cobwebs that hung above, with an assortment of dead and decaying creatures suspended from above, with a pestilential aura lingering around each corpse of orc and animal alike. Bror looked up and around, his nose wrinkling sensitively. He began to walk faster, jogging awkwardly in his heavily armored outfit, and soon had Dwali and Dorim pacing far behind. He weaved with some slight nimbleness past the elves and the men until he could see the back of their accidental leader, and he who had granted Bror his freedom, the man called Grash. Hurriedly, Bror sidled up to him. The man turned slowly, his face as slate as ever, as Bror began reluctantly to speak, ignoring anyone else who might be nearby, focusing unanimously on the man called Grash.

“Man…” he paused, reminding himself swiftly of the man’s true name, or the one he’d told his ‘allies,’ “Grash…you spoke of the beast in the tunnel earlier…you said that not all of us would ford this last obstacle, but some would, and that is why you freed us…” he paused again, his tongue held back with his words as he was unsure how to phrase his question, something he’d been considering for a long while, “Do you truly think that you will be one of those?...Do you trust corrupted men and prideful elves so much that, in this time where you hold onto life in this place of death, you would trust them to assist you...and each other…”

Grash looked at him with resilient lack of emotion and posed a brief question, still walking into the depths of the darkness. “You not trust elves and men?” Bror didn’t look back, but looked to the comfortable uniformity of the tunnel’s wall for consolation in whatever he thought. “No,” he said soon after, which didn’t surprise the younger man, “…no, I don’t. Neither do my kin. Elves serve only their own kind, and men serve only themselves…Were I one of them, I would not trust dwarves…It is hard to trust anyone after such emotions have been gouged from your mind.” He thought back to more painful days, days where he’d wished he had the strength of mind to run onto orcish blades and embrace a death with open arms.

The man nodded soberly, as if he understood better than Bror, which the dwarf severely doubted, and looked to him with a calm face. “You not trust…or you not want to trust?”

Bror looked at him darkly, but answered. “Both, I think…Answer the question!”

Grash turned from him too, still walking, but slower now as darkness closed in around them as the tendril-like legs of the keeper of this cave, sharp and unmerciful. He looked back barely a moment later, speaking as philosophically as a man with his waning oratory talents could. “Don’t know if I survive; maybe live, maybe not, but some get through...I want get through, but not get everything I want, not here. Some get through, some not, but some still get through. They go on, they get out. All might get through.”

The dwarf who he spoke to looked frustrated by Grash’s seeming evasion, but accepted the answer as either carelessness, or maybe misplaced optimism. He continued, digging deeper to get the reply he really desired. “But…if you have the opportunity…would you squander it in place of putting false trust in false allies? All our lives are at risk here, but the risk for some is not as great for some as it is for others…Some will help others and, if you run first, they will be the ones taken by Her.”