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Old 08-02-2009, 09:15 PM   #181
Groin Redbeard
Ghost Prince of Cardolan
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Join Date: Nov 2007
Location: Facing the world's troubles with Christ's hope!
Posts: 1,735
Groin Redbeard is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.Groin Redbeard is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.

Everything was dark. Trór was walking in total darkness as conscience of himself as if he had been awake, but he knew that it was a dream. He was still dressed in his armor, his axe, black with his enemy's blood, his axe was still in his hand, but the pain in his side was gone.

Trór could sense something staring at him in the darkness. He moved forward cautiously, repetitively looking over his shoulder. His boots made a dull thud on the unseen floor and echoed all around him.

A voice broke the silence and it was not his own.


He froze at the mention of his name--afraid to move afraid to speak. Again, the same voice called to him, only this time louder. "Trór." He spun around expecting to come face to face with a gruesome spectre, but was still met with utter blackness.

“Friend or devil,” Trór, “I do not know into what vision or nightmare you have cast me under, but I will see your face. I command you to show yourself.”

Footsteps could be heard close by. Trór gripped his axe and braced himself for a terrifying encounter. However, instead of a wraith or demon, Trór was met by what looked to be an old Dwarf, but Trór knew that this was no ordinary Dwarf. The Dwarf wore a crown of pure silver, richly carved and decorated with jewels the like of which Trór had ever seen. Robes gracefully flowed in the Dwarf’s walk and were of the finest needle point. Trór knew he would never such crafts as these as long as he lived.

The Dwarf had a white beard that flowed down to his waist, his noise was sharp and his face was wrinkled. He stood tall and in reality was shorter than Trór, but the air of the Dwarf and the authority vested in his stare made Trór feel very small. The Dwarf’s stare far surpassed Trór’s worst glare and Trór quickly fell on his knees.

“Spirit I know that you are no devil come to taunt me. I know that I am dead and that I am now encountering the terrible unknown that all Dwarves face when they have died. Spare me, I pray you! What is it you will?”

Trór dared to look up at the spirit, somewhere he had seen this face before whether etched in stone or in person but he could not tell. The spirit bade him rise (which Trór readily did). Trór saw that they were standing within the walls of Khazad-dum itself, he was not dead--this was a vision! The spirit pointed to the end of the hall. Fire! there was a fire in the mines.

“What does this mean, spirit?” But the spirit said nothing. Instead, it gave Trór a very pitiful look and bowed its head (it looked to Trór as if it was crying). Suddenly, Trór could hear the din of a battle surrounding them. Once again he felt the pain in his side. The vision was gone.

The battle echoed in his ears. He could feel himself being lifted by strong arms and felt the swaying motion of his march. He still felt the pain in his ribs and wondered if he was bleeding. Trór's eyes were shut, his muscles stiff; unable to speak unable to move, but he was conscious.

Trór could hear his bearers talking to one another.

"Is he dead?"

"He breaths still. Let us wake him."

"Don't put him down!"

"Keep moving!" Trór recognized two of the voices for Kór and Grór.

With great effort, Trór conjured enough determination to speak.

“Put me down!”

“My lord,” spoke Gror, “The Uzbad Khazaddûmu lives!”

Trór opened his eyes and saw that he was within the gateway of the First Hall. Trór immediately thought of his vision and the fire in the mines. He wanted to jump up and run to great halls to see if they were burning, but he found that he was unable to stand without great pain. He looked over and saw wounded warriors lying all around him suddenly he remembered: the battle.

“Warriors, how goes the battle.” For a minute the thought of defeat had entered his mind.

“We still hold most of the defenses, my lord, but they might be overrun even as we speak. Shall the horns blow retreat?”

“Retreat?” A fire leapt back into Trór’s eyes. Gone was the memory of the vision. He only thought of the battle. “If our foes were a hundred times stronger I would not sound retreat! For us there is not retreat, only victory or defeat. Help me up. Give me a banner to lean on and I will stand in the gateway for our enemy to see. I am still Lord of Khazad-dum and I still live!”
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