Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Durelin]

The difficulty Kórin had of finding Kór did not help her rage one bit. She asked nearly every dwarf she ran into if they had seen her brother, and she was of course lucky if she even got a civil answer, with how she barked at them, demanding an answer. Finally she was directed towards the kitchens, perhaps just to be rid of her.

She found him, though, to her surprise drinking rum with a couple of dwarf-women. They of course heard her heavy footsteps as she entered, and looked toward her.

“Excuse me,” she muttered half-heartedly. “Kór, we need to talk.”

He excused himself considerably more politely than Kórin had, placing his glass down, and followed her out of the kitchens.

“I’m guessing the council did not go well?” Kór asked with only slight hesitation, not hiding the mirth in his voice.

“No,” she snapped. She sat down on a nearby bench and Kór joined her. “We have a pompous, arrogant, blood-thirsty fool who will lead us all to our deaths. I have no idea what Balin saw in him.”

“Who?” Kór asked.

“Trór.”

“I am not very familiar with him,” Kór said slowly.

“Neither was I.”

Kórin’s voice had lost much of its fervor. The siblings were quiet for several moments, as her intense anger gave way to a sad and quiet bitterness. Kór knew her anger could flare up again at any moment, that it was not gone, but he was not afraid of it. He was about to ask her to simply tell him what happened when she spoke again.

“It’s all my fault,” she murmured.

“I doubt that,” Kór began.

Kórin ignored her brother. The words came out in a flood, her anger quickly rekindling as she spoke. “Trór has threatened to place you in the vanguard of the army he’s foolishly taking out against the orcs. And I have no doubt he goes through with his threats. He is that kind of dwarf. And it’s all my fault. He’s doing it out of spite for me. He’s playing with your life in order to spite me. Does that sound like a dwarf fit to lead? He will lead us all to our deaths.”

Kór swallowed. He had not expected that he would somehow be involved. And it seemed Kórin forgot that this was the first he was hearing of any armies.

“I guess he did it because I’m a woman. He can’t punish me, but must punish a man close to me. That is how men like him think.”

“Kórin?” Kór broke in quickly before his sister could continue. “So there will be a battle?” he asked as she went silent and turned her eyes back up from the floor to look at him.

“Yes. There’s a large army of orcs headed up the Silverlode,” she began, starting out calmly again. “Apparently a scouting party was responsible for killing Lord Balin. Trór is apparently taking a number of dwarves from the regular army – or perhaps the entire army, as he is insane enough – he’s going out to meet them. Apparently he’s leaving defensive preparations to everyone else. But you’re not going out with him. He’ll do his best to force you, but his command has no real power. Besides, he has to find you…”

Kórin trailed off as Kór shook his head. “It’s alright. If he really wants me there,” he began, attempting to jest.

“No,” his sister interrupted. “He’s going to get all of his men killed. If they are fools enough to follow him…”

“Well, if they are defeated everyone left behind will hardly be in a good position.”

“We will have the strength of Khazad-dûm.”

Kór sighed. “If I must, I must. It makes no difference when and where I fight. I expect we all will have to.” Kórin shook her head angrily and began to speak but her brother quickly continued. “How did you manage to anger him, anyway?”

“Just insulted his lofty pride,” Kórin snorted. “All it takes.”

“Uh huh…” Kór said, but did not ask any further questions.

[Gwathagor]

The soldiers were indeed ready, sixty of the fiercest, finest warriors in Khazad-dum. They stood shoulder to shoulder like grim chiseled stones, three ranks deep, awaiting Frar's command. Not one of them moved a muscle, but the tension was nearly palpable. They all felt it - the excitement, the pre-battle thrill. Even the most hardened veterans there, who had known that sensation countless times before and lived to remember it, felt it again, as they always would before a fight. Frar surveyed them, weighing their strength and their morale with a practiced eye. He strode down the ranks, turned, and strode back. He paused and tapped his foot - and then nodded slowly, his jaw set. He spoke to the lieutenant.

"Send for my axe."

The glowing embers of their excitement were kindled into a flame. This is what the dwarves wanted to hear. Most of them had fought under Frar before, and these muttered quietly to each other, some nudging, some grinning solemn grins. "Gamil Naragatholbund" they called him: "Old Citadel," and the other soldiers could see what they meant. Frar towered above all but the tallest of them like a black boulder, a titan of basaltic muscle and sinew bound in iron. "But have you seen his weapon?" they said. The newcomers had not, but they heard the name "Buzunimbar" passing between the ranks, and they wondered at it.

"First two ranks, step forward."

They did so as one man.

"You will be under my command. Third rank, the Lord Tror will lead you. We have very little time and we cannot wait for our skilled masons to be summoned. When we reach the site, we will throw up simple defenses - enough to break the goblin-army's advance. Then we can take them man-to-man."

Two smiths ran up, breathless. "Your - axe - sir," one gasped, and it was no wonder he was out of breath, for the weapon the two of them bore between them was tremendous. It was nearly as tall as an ordinary dwarf: long of handle, heavy of blade, and forged entirely of a dull black metal, of which, in the torchlight, only the very edges of the blades gleamed all along their twice-curved lengths. Buzunimbar it was, Black-Horn, the only axe Frar had ever borne in his long life, and it was as dark and scarred as he was; but its edge was still keen, and it had been newly sharpened. Most of the dwarves knew that axe and what it had done and could do. The others could well imagine, now that they saw its for themselves, why orc-chieftains told stories to their youngest fighters about the Grim Claw, the bane of their northern kin. It was a thing of fearsome use and terrible beauty.

Frar gave his thanks with an inclination of his head and took the enormous thing from the hands of the relieved smiths as though it were no lighter than a wooden board and yet also as if it meant as much to him as life itself. The smiths edged away and disappeared down a corridor. Frar felt the weight in his hands and lifted the horrible axe with one hand, raising it above his head.

"Gundi!" he thundered. "My hewers! Follow me!"

The electrified dwarves roared back their approval with a shout. "Buzunimbar! Buzunimbar for Tror and Khazad-dum!" they cried, and then fell silent. The soldiers all turned a sharp ninety degrees, and then the first rank began to march as a single-file line, for, even as they cheered him on, Frar had already turned his back and strode out of the hall towards the East Gate.

Outside, the last light of Durin's Day was failing as dusk crept up out of the east into the Dale - and with it, the goblin horde.

[Groin Redbeard]

The night was darker than the inside of a coal mine. No moon or stars guarded the warrior’s footfalls; yet, not one stumbled for Dwarves have sharp eyes, accustomed to the darkness of their mountain halls. However even for Dwarves, it was some time before they could descend down the steep path of the Dimrill Stair with ease.

The warriors soon were led off the old road and onto uneven ground, passing by the pillars and ridges of rock like specters. The steady clanking armor and thumping of boots guided Trór as he brought his warriors behind Frar’s lightly armed soldiers. He could see their dark silhouettes zig-zagging behind boulders and down in crevices, disappearing and then reappearing where he least expected them to emerge. The confusing manner of Frar’s movement kept Trór focused on narrowing the gap between their two bands but Frar kept his distance.

The wind was blowing hard, stinging his eyes. Trór had thought that it would rain tonight, but instead of rain it began to snow. He should have recognized it, the clouds were high and puffy when he last saw them; the snow would have to prompt them to move faster than rain would have. If the snow persisted in coming down harder it might slow the warriors down and cause the goblins to catch them, it might confuse them on their way back to the gates, or worse, separate Frar from Trór. This was a disaster in the making.

Trór squinted and put his hand up to shield his eyes from the snow, he had lost sight of the last line of Frar’s column. He continued to lead his Dwarves for a few paces and then stopped, frantically swinging his head in every direction. Presently he heard what he hoped for, the clanking of armor, Trór’s eyes were not sharp but his hearing was far better. With a wave of his hand they started moving again, one of the officers, Bain, a sharp eyed Dwarf, accompanied Trór in the lead.

“Faster,” came a hiss from Trór. Bain looked at him, confused if he had heard him or not.

“We must go faster!” Trór said with one breath, and with a considerable amount of annoyance at not being heard the first time. The warriors quickened their step and Trór could soon make out the swaying silhouettes of Frar’s warriors again. His column was soon brought behind Frar’s at a comfortable distance. Trór left Bain to lead the warriors and left to find Frar.

Frar was found at the head of the troops, leading the entire expedition. He was incredibly large and not too light footed, this gave Trór no difficulty in overtaking his attention.

“I don’t like all this wind and snow.” A surge of icy wind met his words. Trór stopped running and Frar dutifully stopped as well, the wind howled and whistled about them.

“I am beginning to doubt if we could find Oin in this awful mess. I doubt if splitting up will be a prudent choice now and I don't know if we should go much farther if we can't see what lies in front of our noses. We've been running for sometime now and are well beyond the Eastern Gates,” Trór turned back to see if he could see the peaks of Barazinbar, Bundushathur, or Zirak-zigil but none were there to be seen.

"This all has a foul mood to it. Azanulbizar has clouded our vision! Though this might be a blessing after all, it has clouded the Orcs' vision as well, though I doubt it will affect their sharp sense of smell and hearing."

Trór was beginning to lose hope, he could not clearly see much farther than a hundred paces. Chances of finding Oin in these conditions were bleak indeed. Despite the conditions, however, it pained Trór to think about abandoning the search and leaving his friend in such a hopeless predicament. He ceased searching the rocky plain for a sign and turned to Frar. Hopefully his subordinate would shed some helpful insight on the matter.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Óin

At that very moment, in the falling darkness of night, Óin was stumbling back to the gates of Moria. He emerged amidst the rocks, from his own hidden path, unknown to anybody else. It was dark and a bit hazy, Óin could not see very well in the gloom, yet he was afraid to light a lantern for himself because he was not sure how much far the goblins' advance parties might have reached and he did not want to be spotted. Thus, he hurried, half-blindly, up the hill, towards the ancient eastern gate of Khazad-Dûm.

The journey was not an easy one. But stumbling in the shadows, wrapped tight in his cloak to protect himself from the wind that came from the mountains, old Óin reached at last the walls of Moria.

"Stop right there!" a shout came from the darkness. "Who are you?"

Guards, Óin immediately figured out. He reached for his tinder box to light his lantern so that they could see him, but his face changed in surprise when he realised that there is nothing where his belt pouch should be.

"I must have dropped it when climbing down that hill," Óin muttered. "And just that was my old tinder box which I did not manage to lose since the Dale was founded! Óin, you silly -"

"Hey, you heard me?" said the voice from the darkness. "Who are you! Speak, or -"

Óin cleared his throat. "Óin son of Gróin," he shouted. Something like delighted cries came in return and suddenly, bright light blinded him. "It is him!" a young voice cried, and suddenly he was in the middle of a group of happy guards who were leading him into the gates. The heavy door closed behind them.

"Lead me to Balin," Óin said in an important tone. "I need to -" then he noticed the looks the guards exchanged with each other.
"What is that?" he asked. "What is wrong?"

But at the moment he spoke it he already knew. Suddenly, the breath he took turned into a sort of stridor and the old Dwarf leaned his back against the wall. He closed his eyes.

"Go and fetch somebody," Óin muttered, surprised how old suddenly his own voice sounded. "I have important news for the colony."

When the young guard run away, Óin shook his head and put his hand on his heart.

"Óin, my good lad," he whispered softly. "Looks like you have already lost another friend."

* * *

Lóni

Being left by his brother and appointed with the task of conveying Trór's orders to the colony, Lóni strode towards a close stone block making a support for a column and climbed on it so that everybody can see him clearly. Not being overly fond of being in the position of a commander or an announcer, but knowing what his duty was, he cleared his throat to speak. Sleeking his golden beard, he was also reminded to his slight displeasure that he still did not have time to properly polish his armor after the battle with the Orcs. But now he had to speak. All eyes were fixed on him.

"Folk of Khazad-Dûm, hear me," he started, being careful to pronounce clearly and accurately. Everybody was attentive.
"It was but a few hours ago when our Lord Balin died, slain by the foul Orcs. Like in the ages of our fathers, these creatures have violated the ancient Dimrill Dale." Lóni knew that with the simple folk, it makes little sense to go into details, his main concern was to give them a basic outlining of what was going on but at the same moment to support their morale. "Your Lord had already set out at the head of our soldiers to push the beasts back, but there is a need for everybody's hands." There was a silence for a few heartbeats, Lóni silently counted up to three and then roused his voice to full strength.

"By the word of the Lord of Moria," Lóni was careful not to speak the name; from his experience on the Council he learned that it may not be too good to emphasise too much the fact that it is no longer Balin, but Trór who is the leader. "Each and every single one who is capable to wield a weapon shall assemble and report to the armory. Each and every single one who can fight shall be prepared ere our Lord returns. The enemy shall not take the Gates of Moria, and everyone of you will contribute to that in your post. Now, everybody act as is your due."

Lóni rubbed his left eye. The time of decision was getting near.

* * *

Onli and Vriti

After a short stay with Nîsa around the incident by the Gates, Vriti left the nervosity-soaked area and headed on one of her lonely trips to lower levels. Now she was scurrying through one of the dark corridors deep below the lit hall where Lóni was giving his speech. These corridors were always lonely and the faintest smell of Dwarves did not even come as far as here. Vriti could freely run here and play around with the large beetles who were running around and across the uneven floor. She always jumped, putting her paw in one beetle's way and then she again raised it, leaving the critter utterly confused for a while. She was always capable to spend several hours with this game, very often while her master was wandering through the upper corridors and looking for her.

This time it was not so, however. Little did Vriti know that her master had been busy, very busy with the new job he had been appointed with. Little did she know about his encounter with Kór, where Onli approached the Dwarf just when he finished talking to his sister, and stepping in carefully, but firmly, supported by his newly gained authority, he asked Kór to come with him to Náli. Vriti did not even know about her master's, nor about Kór and his sister's feelings at that moment.

But however Vriti was just a small Eastern mountain ferret, even she could sense the unrest in the colony. She remembered the change she observed in the last few hours. The Dwarves were odd, confused, some seeming a bit detached and not as friendly to her as usually. Sometimes nobody even noticed her. There was a general atmosphere of fear, and strange smells coming in from the outside with the night-breeze, as well as some strange and unexplainable feeling creeping down the whole colony.

Even now, when she was many levels below the twenty-first hall, Vriti could feel some weird tension, her senses were warning her now and then in almost an irrational way. Once or twice when chasing the big beetles, she stopped, her hair standing on end and that was when she sniffed and stood for a while, attentive, as if this tension was something she could catch with her senses. And then it disappeared again and she went on, chasing the beetles in the unevenly hewn low corridors, and just a vague feeling remained somewhere in the back of her tiny head, a warning to her little fuzzy self.

At once during her play she came to the edge of a great hall, where the cavern's roof was running up into unsuspected heights and disappearing in utter blackness. All that Vriti could rely on was her sense of smell and touch and a vague feeling of large space around her. There was a way leading to the elden way upstairs, back to the lit caverns and corridors of the Third Deep, and Vriti had traversed these caverns and corridors leading towards it before, but this time she could feel something was different. She stopped at the edge of the hall, knowing that about twelve leaps in front of her there is a large column supporting the ceiling of this large room, and beyond it, there lies an archway pointing her way towards the stairs to Third Deep. The ferret sniffed in the stifling air of the cavern and headed towards it, avoiding the column by close proximity. Now in front of her there lay the archway, sensible only by the vague feeling of form and slight movements of the air. Vriti's whiskers trembled and she stopped, sensing the archway and the corridor beyond it being just three or four leaps away.

The archway was there. Vriti gazed into the darkness on its other side.

And the darkness gazed back.

[Thinlómien]

After Kór had left, Adela had excused herself quickly as well and Vigdis had been left alone. Being alone was what she both needed and dreaded tonight. She felt weak, drained and despite all the lights around her, the world seemed dark. She leaned herself against a huge pillar and closed her eyes for a while. It did not help, not at all, for all she could see was Balin's pale face still and stern in the candlelight.

"Vigdis."

That was a voice used to command and a voice she knew. Náli was a venerable Dwarf, and one of those few whose good opinion she valued so much that she would rather not be found in such state. Mahal forbid, he probably thought she was drunk. She bowed, thinking she needed to explain herself...

"We do not have time for pleasantries, friend, I must speak bluntly for now. War is drawing nigh to the foot of the mountains, even now our new lord is searching for the Goblins, but that is of no concern to thee. As a new Lord rises to power the old must be lain to rest; unfortunately, no arrangements have been made for Balin to be buried. Willst thou be willing to build his tomb?"

That was a lot of information to absorb, but Vigdis had learned to concentrate on the essential and know her place. But suddenly, she could not find words. She bowed again. She could feel tears coming to her eyes, but she would not cry, not here, not now. She forced herself to talk. "You give me a great honour. I will take it as my duty and I swear he shall have a tomb worth the legend he will become."

Náli nodded. "That is well then. I trust thee in this matter. But now, time runs and other urgent matters are pressing. I shall come to thee in regards of this matter later."

Vigdis bowed once again, and Náli nodded and hurried away. Vigdis's eyes followed the man until he disappeared from sight. She wondered why he had asked her in particular. She prided herself in being one of the best masons in Khazad-dûm and her skills were no secret, but something in Náli's manner made her suspect there was more. Had the old dwarf's keen eyes seen more than they had revealed, or had Balin betrayed her feelings to his closest friends?

She did not know, and after a while she decided she did not care. It was not essential now. What she needed now was half a glass of rum, half an hour of sleep and a whole night of work.

[Groin Redbeard]

It was thus at the twenty second hour that Ori returned at the head of fifteen stout Dwarf warriors burdened with litters overflowing with the magnificence of Khazad-dûm. The array of armor and weapons of which Oin had discovered in the Third Deep was brought forth from into the hall and distributed. O, to see the array of craft that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention!

Old weapons, wielded by the Dwarves five years ago with their Lord, Balin, were forgotten for this new weaponry was crafted back when the renowned forges of the Dwarves was at their height. The weapons of the gifted smith, Narvi, and craftsmen, Doric, were here. The axes were rimmed with jewels and helms were crafted of silver. Leggings, much like the kind of the Iron Hills, were fitted to their legs, but these were of a lighter substance and no arrow or soft thrusting sword could penetrate the small links of chains. The most skilled of the smiths marveled at the metal breast plates bearing the emblems of Durin the Deathless, for they were of the most intricate detail.

However, no matter how delighted the Dwarves were at the sight of such wonders, they were still grim of heart. They did not forget the slaying of the Lord Balin and the encroachment of the Orcs upon their borders. Jealously would they defend their homes against the invader!

Little did they know, however, of Lord Trór’s predicament. For it was Trór and Frar who, unbeknownst to them, had passed Oin in the blinding snow and thus failed in their first reason for leaving the shelter of the mountains. Their path had been dangerously treacherous so far, but now a new enemy crouched for employment: Orcs were close at hand. Their keen sense of smell had tracked the scout Oin to the fords of Kheled Zaram, where they lost him in freshly falling snow.

The historical records are unclear as to what happened next, but it is of my opinion that the Orcs, frustrated and possibly scared of the consequences of failing, pushed onward until unhappy fate put them onto the larger scent of Trór and his warriors.

Thus with rough and all unable quill, I, Drók, shall recant how the warlike Trór, with his friends, assume the greatest struggle of the time. Can these pages hold the vast dale of Azulbizar; or, could you cram within these leather bindings the very armies that did ascend to the fight at Khazad-dûm? But I must ask for your pardon. Instead let us bring to this great account your imaginary forces; for it is you who must now deck the characters of history, turning the accomplishments of many years into an hour glass. Permit me to call us to this history. Your humble patience I pray and may it please you, gentle reader, to hear of the great stirring of the Dwarves and of the Second Battle of Azulbizar.

[Durelin]

“Folk of Khazad-Dûm, hear me!”

For the second time that day, the Twenty-first Hall fell silent. Kór and Kórin had sat in silence themselves for several minutes, and though neither made any outward sign of interest, they both listened closely as the announcement was made and orders were given. The speech was quite brief, and Kórin gave a bitter sigh. Of course they would keep as much information to themselves as possible, including the new lord of Khazad-dûm! Apparently they expected everyone to fight under unknown leadership.

Why didn’t Trór give the orders himself? she wondered. He would have enjoyed more opportunity for that. It dawned on her that his party should have left before now. Kórin tried to remember Trór’s precise words…the “vanguard of the army”. Leaning forward, she covered her hands with her face.

She heard someone approaching, but did not move. It was a dwarf who had come to summon Kór. She felt her anger rise even more when she heard Kór stand up without any hesitation. Then she rose from her seat, as well. They had requested all who could fight, and she was certainly “capable”.

Kór looked at his sister, knowing exactly what she had in mind. He started to say something, but did not, and simply shook his head – somewhat in sadness, but mostly as a simple gesture. It meant, “you don’t have to do this, Kórin”, but he had no doubt she knew that. He knew she felt responsible, but he also knew that she would always be there, regardless of any guilt.

[Groin Redbeard]

Nîsa had already heard the news from the lips of the council, so the shock was not as drastic with her. However, when Lóni finished speaking she found herself shaking. The danger was real and consequences were equally as frightening—even with a victory it would be bought at a high price. Nîsa had never before been present in a battle, save five years ago at the great purification of Khazad-dum, but she did not see much of wars horrors for the women were not brought into the city until it was cleared of any stain of battle. Now she would have to play a more important role of tending the wounded and preparing food for the soldiers, knowing at anytime the defenders could be overrun and her life taken.

The crowd began to stir at the coming of Ori and the armory. The Dwarves began to take heart, for they were leaderless and the thought of Ori being a worthy successor was in the forefront of every Dwarf’s mind—he would be their leader for a time.

Now that there was a soaring of morale the males, with grim farewells to the few Dwarf women, surged forward to choose their armor and weapons. Nîsa felt like weeping at the sight of so many of her friends willingly stepping forward to what very well might be their doom. She saw Bain, the smith, handling a handsomely crafted axe and rushed to him.

“I wish this day would not have come.” Nîsa flung herself on Bain and hugged him. “Why must peaceful days always end? Take care of yourself Bain; find a good warrior to stand by.”

It had occurred to Nîsa that flinging herself uncontrollably on Bain would certainly wound his pride as a fighter, but she did not want him to leave without knowing that she cared for him. He was a burly, strong Dwarf and could no doubt handle himself. She released her tight hold on him stepped back. Her gaze was downcast.

“I am sorry if I have wounded your pride, but so many of my friends will doubtlessly die today, and if not today tomorrow. Please don’t be one of them, take care of yourself!”