Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Groin Redbeard]

Crash! came the first surge of goblins. An even louder crash befell the goblins: down came the mattocks and axes of the dwarves upon the initial attackers. Then, followed by Frar, Trór plunged his spear forward into his first goblin and the dwarves sprang forward.

Trór soon stood the bulwarks, slashing his huge spear back and forth. The goblins, as tired as they were from their long march all day and night, fought ferociously to gain the defenses. Their scimitars glinted with a cruel light and they shrieked so terribly that they drowned the sounds of the battle. Again Trór slashed with his spear onto the shield of an oncoming hobgoblin. Twice Trór stabbed with his spear and twice he repelled the hobgoblin with the brunt of his shield. Trór raised his spear in a majestic pose and snapped his whole body forward releasing the spear through the hobgoblin and into another so closely were they pressing at the breastworks.

Suddenly, as Trór straightened himself (slinging his shield on his back and retrieving his axe from there with one smooth motion), a spasm of paralyzing pain brought Trór reeling forward off the breastworks. He felt the hard resistance of iron and guessed that he had fallen on several goblins. His shield was still fixed to his arm and offered protection from several hard blows that he was quick to block. Many strong hands clasped the shield and ripped it from his hands. Instinctively, Trór rolled to miss the strikes; some dented on the rock surface some found their mark in Trór’s side, but slid of his chainmail (if the orcs had thrust instead of struck it might have been a different story for Trór).

“My lord!” Trór’s ears faintly heard someone yell, but he couldn’t tell who it was; he didn’t care. His side was throbbing with burning pain from his initial wound and bruised by the many blows he was receiving; he could not deflect them fast enough. Another blow and another, each one pushing him further back until Trór was almost flat on his face; Trór’s mind was screaming at him: “get up! Don’t lie there—fight!” With great effort, Trór grabbed his axe and with a great heave swung it upright. His pain was now swimming upstream against his anger. To think that he virtually graveled before the enemy he swore to destroy.

Despite the immense pain in his side Trór stood his ground best he could. The bulwarks were to his back and for a long time he cleft, stabbed, smashed, and crunched anything that came near him. His beard was stiff with sweat his arms were bruised and it is said that his axe turned black and never again from that day shone its true metallic color.

[Durelin]

Kór stood surrounded by vaguely familiar faces, but he could not put a name to a single one – except Grór, to whom he had just been indirectly introduced. It was a strange feeling to Kór, the apparent calm around him, as Trór made his speech. He only half listened to the words, finding it hard to concentrate enough even for such a simple thing. He felt like he was trying to think from behind a cloud, staring idly at various dwarves around him. Many of them had already drawn their weapons – suddenly he felt he should have his axe in hand. He knew it was absurd, especially since he felt conscientious about drawing out his axe all of a sudden, wondering if now that he had waited until mid-speech he should wait until the battle began.

It was very strange indeed, that he had been standing here for so long, that there was this much preparation involved for what seemed to him to be a simple thing. It felt ceremonial, so plain and structured that it only frightened him more. Suddenly a great exploded from all around him, smothering him. He jumped, startled, and now was truly embarrassed so that for several moments he did not register what was being shouted.

Kór had trouble finding his voice, as if he had forgotten how to use it. The power of all the other voices was overwhelming. He remembered the face of the dwarf woman from behind her mug, and the depth of the grief she felt. He felt guilty, guilty for not grieving deeply, for not displaying ingrained loyalty in a battle cry. But there were other ways to demonstrate one’s character…

Kór found his voice the best way he knew how. It was weak at first, but it grew stronger, encouraged by others as it took root.

“Under the Mountain dark and tall
The King has come unto his hall!
His foe is dead, the Worm of Dread,
And ever so his foes shall fall.

The sword is sharp, the spear is long,
The arrow swift, the Gate is strong;
The heart is bold that looks on gold;
The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong…”

Kór wished dearly he was back home in Erebor, holding his harp as his father bellowed the song of victory.


It seemed a slow and drawn out process, all that lead up to the moment when the two walls collided, but the battle began abruptly and then it was all too fast for Kór. The dwarven ranks pushed forward as the goblins did, each side trying to hold their ground and cause the other to lose their hold. The few ranks ahead of him pushed forward no matter what, and every gap was filled in, with no thought for how that gap in the ranks came to be there.

Soon he was even closer to the front ranks. He found himself pushing forward, stepping over the body of one of his own comrades. He had not used a shield outside of training, but he found it natural to cover his body, and not to expose himself for a moment. As he found himself in the front ranks, he reached around and underneath his shield to strike, chopping at whatever he could reach. He struggled to hold his footing, until finally he pushed – or was pushed – forward over a fallen goblin, his boot falling directly on its head. He was glad he could not see a great deal in the night.

Thus it took him a moment to realize that there was a dwarf exposed ahead of the bulwarks, stranded amidst a sea of goblins though he was not far in. Kór pushed forward with greater strength, driven by an amount of desperation. “My lord!” he heard a shout from beside him, and he recognized the dwarf beside him as Grór and the endangered dwarf as Trór, one after the other. He was surprised Grór was still beside him, but pleased. Kór and Grór and the dwarves closest to them pushed their way slowly to their lord, as if they were forcing a wedge into the goblin ranks, hoping blindly that the rest of the line would follow them forward. Kór wanted dearly to look behind him, to make sure they were still protected and were not exposed themselves, but he knew he could not take his eyes off the enemy before him, lest he lose his footing and his life.

[Groin Redbeard]

It was a fight for his life. Trór's side hurt every time his axe brought swift death to an Orc. His axe was like a wave that blunged its cold height down onto flimsy, wavering, weeds. Yet, as the formidable surf, his powerful arms descended and then receded to fall again, but were slowly being choked by the carnage it wrought. Trór could hear nothing, his body was stricken so that he could not speak.

"If I die here, then I die well, indeed!"

Once again he raised his axe and directed it onto the shield of the largest Orc charging at him. As the blow glanced off the shield the Orc gave a dreadful yell; Trór thought that it might have been a victory shout, but all words sounded terrible in Orc language. Trór was quick to retaliate. Again his axe fell on the Orc's shield and continued until the shield was bent beyond use. The shield left the Orc's arm and came flying at Trór, who dodged it with great difficulty. Flinging itself with reckless rage, the Orc bore down merciless blows until Trór felt the full effects of his wound and fell.

The Orcs drew back to await the final blow that would seal their victory. Trór heard shouting, deep throated shouts: the dwarves had swarmed to his protection as they saw him fall. Trór took heart and with the last summoning of strength he struck his would be executer with the broad side of his axe, sending it hurdling back into its own ranks. Then Trór felt the presence of Grór and the coward Kór and lost all thought and knowledge of the moment.

~~~~~~~

Nali

The battle cry of Balin was still strong on the right flank. Nali’s arms grew tireless. Unharmed and jubilant, Nali helped drive the second wave of Orcs back across the ramparts with heavy loss. All was well with his warriors but rumors had reached them that the fight was strongest in the center and that Trór was dead. Nali persuaded the warriors to keep their thoughts focused on their own predicament, but now that a lull had reached his front all of their thoughts went were at the center.

“Find a runner and bring word of the fight in the center.” A runner was speedily sent on his way.

The Orcs charged again. The Orcs clawed to gain a footing but they were steadily checked by the dwarves. The carcasses of the dead Orcs were piled high on the ramparts and slipped as the Orcs groped for anything that they could use to pull themselves up. Nali put himself between a gap in the line and defended it with a tenacity that would surprise many of his age. Though Nali was a proud fighter, he wished that Onli would come soon. It would give him proof of the young dwarf’s loyalty and health: he hoped that Onli had not been killed.

Suddenly, Nali realized he made a mistake. His blow had been to hasty and fell harmlessly on a shield. Nali saw it coming: the shield was withdrawn and revealed a gleaming spear thrust at his chest. Instinctively, Nali sought to deflect the blow, but only half succeeded. A strong arm held the spear and it cleaved through his chainmail and into his arm propelling him backwards.

Nali did not scream or cry out for help; for a moment he wondered if he was dead. His eyes opened to see concerned faces kneeling over him.

“Do not move!” came a voice. Nali looked at his arm, alarmed at what he might see. The arm was bent in an unnatural manner and almost cut off. The sight of it made the pain come alive. He heard a sound like the strike of a hammer on an anvil and felt a sharp spasm of pain in his arm.

“Quickly, bear him to the halls!” Nali saw the officer who had greeted him at his arrival; his axe was red at the edge.

Strong arms picked him up and pressure put on his arm. The sky was dark, without a trace of dawn. Nali wondered if he would ever see the dawn; he wondered how Lóni and Trór were faring, and if his warriors could hold without him. Callous to what he might see, Nali twisted his head to see his arm. Red cloth now wrapped the stump which moments before had been his right arm.

[Thinlómien]

There was no reply, it felt as if no one was there. Had she imagined the cry of pain, or had it been herself? She felt a little dizzy - rum, grief and lack of sleep was evidently not a good combination. She took one step further and reached out to the darkness carefully. There was only thin air. She stopped breathing, there was no sound in the still darkness of the cave. She could not feel the presence of anyone. Am I going insane...?

Then there was a gentle cool breath of air on her face. She stepped back. "Who are you? Why have you put out the lights?" There was no reply, only the barely noticeable brush of something on her shoulder. A gentle brush, as if nudging her forwards. "Who are you? What do you want of me!" There was no reply but the echo of her words in the dark.

Suddenly, Vigdis could see a flickering fire somewhere ahead of her. She approached it carefully. In one of the lanterns, there was a tiny spark still burning. Its glow grew more steady when she came closer, and the warm light surrounded her when she reached to touch the lantern, it surrounded her almost as yellow as candlelight. She felt the brush on her shoulder again. She turned around. "Balin?" she asked quietly, afraid of her own voice and the echoes it might bring. The corridor remained silent and she could see nothing but darkness outside the small circle of the lantern light.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

He stood back and held his column until the battle turned furious in front of him. Bidding farewell to his brother, he lead the warriors forwards.

“Take care of thy other eye—I would feign have thee see me when victory is won.”

“For Balin then! Farewell.”

Náli's last words made him indeed think more of himself than of his brother now. Lóni knew that Náli will be fine, he could get out of many tight spots before. He was the one to lead his company victoriously through the Battle of the Five Armies, standing by Trór's side in the great battle for the first time.

As he rushed forwards, Lóni thought how similar things were once again to that day. But now it was Lóni, and not Náli, who was to support Trór's back. But the sounds of battle, always so similar, seemed even more similar to that day to Lóni. The clash of arms, the shrieks of the goblins, dim and distant howling of the wolves. On the far left, somebody even shouted "Moria! Moria!" just like the Dwarves of Dáin did in that battle long ago.

The Dwarven host moved forwards and rushed into the black tide.

The gloom was almost like on that day, too. As if seeing it in front of himself, Lóni could recall it: the great bats were covering the skies - how lucky we are today, Lóni thought, that the vampire carrion-eaters are not here.

He could hear shrieks from the far right, as one of his fellow warriors fell to the ground and a vampire bat descended upon him.

The Dwarven axes shone in fierce anger. And for a brief moment Lóni could notice Trór in front of the ranks, just like he was on that day.

"Let go!" Lóni cried, rushing to the fallen, but his brother dragged him to the side. "He is dead. Come! We have to follow Trór."

How are you, Náli, Lóni thought. Now it is me who has to follow Trór. You are right, I should take care of my other eye... I need it to keep it on Trór.

"Moria! Moria!" the cries echoed. They clashed. Trór was amazing, swinging his axe and thrusting his spear. The goblins surrounded them. At that moment, Náli gave out a battle cry and rushed forth.

"What happened!" somebody cried.

Lóni saw it too. The black tide moved forth and swallowed Trór. The Dwarves in the first ranks rushed to his aid.

"Brother, watch out!"

Lóni realised he made a mistake. His blow had been too hasty and fell harmlessly on a shield. He could only see a blurry motion of an axe being swung towards him from his right side. Instinctively, Lóni sought to deflect the blow, but only half succeeded. He could feel the blade cutting the flesh on his face, before he managed to push it away. But the pain overwhelmed him, he could not see, he fell to his knees and awaited the final blow.

Lóni could not be completely sure what was going on ahead of the bulwarks, but it was obvious to him that the goblins are rushing to crush the vanguard, to crush what was left of Trór and those who were defending him. Yet there was no way Lóni himself could stop them now.

He heard a strange noise and then a gurgling sound which no doubt came from the goblin in front of him. He managed to force his eyes open and through the mist and blood blurring his vision, he could notice it: a hail of Elven arrows fell from above.

"Take arrows!" he cried, taking his own very old shortbow. "Stop them! Shoot them!"

He was not the only one in the line to carry a bow. The Dwarves around him, who were standing in the back, were armed with ranged weapons too and now they sent their hail of arrows into the ranks of the Orcs. It worked: the attackers were distracted from their attempt and forced to pull back. Lóni knew it could not last, but it might at least give Trór and those around him time to put themselves together.

[Groin Redbeard]

Shrieks filled the air, groans of the dying and wounded. The sounds echoed from wall to wall each time growing fainter but greater in numbers and complexity, creating an audible vision of terror. This was not a battle, this was a hospital.

The First Hall was littered with tables and litters; a few surgeons anxiously trying to help the wounded quickly before moving to another wounded warrior. Nisa was one of those attendants who followed the surgeons around; she had a gift with herbal remedies that cheated pain and quickened sleep. Her timid nature was forgotten now, she had been in places like this before, but never so large, yet, Nisa’s will did not break. Outside the battle was becoming fierce. It was louder than before and fewer bodies were being brought in. Victory was near, or defeat had already been sealed.

“Nali!” Nisa recognized the aged dwarf. Nali was brought in on the shoulders of four warriors, he was hastily set down and surgeon was hollered for.

“Why do you linger my brave warriors, fight while you still can.” With tears brimming, warriors returned to battle. Nisa knelt by Nali and held his good hand.

“My lord, lie still you have lost much blood.”

Nali calmed down for a few minutes, enough for Nisa to clean the wound. What a ghastly thing to happen to such an old and venerable dwarf. Is fate so cruel that it would allow Nali to die so unfavorably? What great sacrifices necessity calls of us. Nisa was angry: this isn’t fair, this is not just. Like flies to vaunting boys are we to the gods: they kill us off like flies.

Suddenly Nali began to breathe heavily. He opened his eyes, wild and delirious. Nisa felt very uncomfortable with Nali staring at her, no look of recognition could be read from his face.

“How did it go, Trór?” Nisa started at the abrupt question. Nali clearly must be delirious with the loss of so much blood. She began to stutter.

“I did not see much; the boys got their dander up and charged the rocks. Did fortune favor us?” Clearly, Nali was mistaking her for Trór; perhaps relaying one of those old encounters they had back in Erebor. Nisa nodded her head, she couldn’t speak.

“We took those rocks?” Nali’s face lit up, trying to raise himself up. Nisa just nodded again. He lay back on the cot and sighed.

“I have never seen a worse ground,” Nisa began crushing some herbs in a goblet filled with wine. Suddenly Nali seized her arm. “Thou wilst give my boys full credit for today’s accomplishment?” Nisa was truly frightened now at Nali’s state, she needed to get him to sleep. With shaking hands she forced the cup into Nali’s hands. He examined it for a moment and then gave a knowing smile.

“Aye we’ll drink on it then.” He drained the cup and fell into a content, yet feverish, sleep.

[Durelin]

Kór

They apparently had reached Trór just in time, or perhaps the dwarf lord felt he could let go now that there were friendly shields and axes to protect him. He fell unconscious into the midst of his rescuers, though not before dispatching another orc attacker. All the would-be rescue party could do for several moments was fend off the orcs who rushed at them, seeing an opportunity to pick off a small group distracted by their fallen comrade. But then there was a whistling overhead, and many of the dwarves instinctively crouched down to try to cover their heads as well as their bodies with their shield. But the whistling came from behind them, and arrows weeded out the orcs in the front lines.

Trór’s body was pulled quickly behind the wall of the Kór and Grór’s shields, and was dragged slowly through the snow back into the vanguard even as the other warriors continued to push forward. They could not raise up Trór’s body to carry it respectfully, no matter how much they wished to – for his own safety and for the entire army. They could not bear his unconscious form away for all to see that their lord was leaving the battlefield in less than victorious fashion.

As the rescue party pulled back into the dwarven ranks, ready warriors flooded around them to hold the ground from which they had retreated. Kór felt almost able to relax, but when he had a moment to turn around, he felt a new fear and apprehension. Regardless of how he felt about Trór, this was the Uzbad Khazaddûmu, and the heart of the soldiers if not yet the heart of the civilians. Kór had to wonder if Trór’s reign would indeed not even last a day.

Quickly Kór got to work with the others. While Grór took Trór by the legs, Kór helped ease the stress on Trór’s body by lifting him from underneath. At least four dwarves helped carry the Lord of Khazad-dûm off the battlefield. It was unceremonious, but they hoped to avoid any commotion over the fallen lord as well as get him aid as quickly as possible.

~*~

Kórin

Kórin could only listen to the women in the First Hall fretting for so long. As wounded dwarves began to trickle in early still in the battle, many bravely rolled up their sleeves and did everything they could to put the warriors back together. But some spent more time worrying, and voicing their worry, than Kórin could stand. These were the types who would spend all their time worrying and leave no time to do anything about it.

She had already donned her mail and carried her mace at her side, and had gone to the hospital in the First Hall to get news about the battle. Unfortunately she learned little, and was still steaming over how much time she had wasted as she made her way to the Dimrill Gate. Kórin soon joined the ranks of the rearguard, but attempted to make her way forward in the lines as quickly as she could without disrupting the formation. Many dwarves glanced at her, even while they did their best to ignore her, and before long an officer instructed Kórin to take her place in line and stay there. She was disgruntled, but obeyed and held her peace. She was here to be a soldier, and she realized she should act like one.

She could not help watching the wounded being carried back from the front lines, fearing that each body might be a familiar face. Of course, it was perhaps better that Kór be among the wounded carried away than the dead left on the field until victory was won or...

Kórin did catch a glimpse of her brother, and she felt relief well up in her, though her tenseness did not lessen. He was not being carried, but was bearing a dwarf along with several others. She could not see the wounded dwarf to know who he was, but she would not approach her brother. She would not break ranks, and it was enough to see him alive. What more was there to know?