Last Hope for Moria RPG - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

Will Witfoot · 04-22-2004, 03:29 PM

Alrik fingered the haft of his axe morosely. The low spirits of the whole company was evident from their shuffling gait and bleak expressions, not that he blamed them. He himself had never felt his spirit to be in such a low ebb, and suddenly he felt all the years of his long life weighing him down. He felt very, very old.
Without much heart he took up position at the bridge, resolving to defend it to the bitter end. It was a strong position, the narrow passage that lead across the deep chasm yawning before his feet effectively nullifying whatever numbers the enemy had to bear on them, and making fighting extremely hazardous for those on the bridge itself. At least they might be able to send many of the beasts to their black maker, but their chances of salvation looked slim.

He set down his axe and unslung the two throwing hatchets he had made during their stay in Khazâd-Dum. The spawn of Morgoth would have to pay a high price for passage.

He cast his eyes over the great hall, possibly for the last time. The magnitude of the work on everything, the pillars, walls, even the defensive bridge in front of him still moved him even after all the time they had spent in this place, the home of their ancestors. He took in all the painstaking detail in even the most mundane of features of stonework, and felt some vestige of pride and strength returning to him. If he was to fall here, to protect this place with his life, so be it. He had lived long enough. His wife had died of old age, he had done and achieved a lot in his life and had a part in shaping the history of his race. They all had.
Softly at first, but with increasing resonance, he began to sing an ancient battle-hymn of the dwarves. Soon the entire hall was echoing with words as old as the mountains themselves.

He looked around at his remaining companions.

"For Balin! For Khazâd-Dum! For the dwarves!". He cried. As the words left his lips, he felt the last vestiges of self-defeat draining out of him.

He had lived the kind of live he wanted. Now he wanted to find the kind of death he had allways craved.

04-22-2004, 03:29 PM	#11
Will Witfoot Haunting Spirit Join Date: Nov 2003 Location: Fornost Posts: 67	Alrik fingered the haft of his axe morosely. The low spirits of the whole company was evident from their shuffling gait and bleak expressions, not that he blamed them. He himself had never felt his spirit to be in such a low ebb, and suddenly he felt all the years of his long life weighing him down. He felt very, very old. Without much heart he took up position at the bridge, resolving to defend it to the bitter end. It was a strong position, the narrow passage that lead across the deep chasm yawning before his feet effectively nullifying whatever numbers the enemy had to bear on them, and making fighting extremely hazardous for those on the bridge itself. At least they might be able to send many of the beasts to their black maker, but their chances of salvation looked slim. He set down his axe and unslung the two throwing hatchets he had made during their stay in Khazâd-Dum. The spawn of Morgoth would have to pay a high price for passage. He cast his eyes over the great hall, possibly for the last time. The magnitude of the work on everything, the pillars, walls, even the defensive bridge in front of him still moved him even after all the time they had spent in this place, the home of their ancestors. He took in all the painstaking detail in even the most mundane of features of stonework, and felt some vestige of pride and strength returning to him. If he was to fall here, to protect this place with his life, so be it. He had lived long enough. His wife had died of old age, he had done and achieved a lot in his life and had a part in shaping the history of his race. They all had. Softly at first, but with increasing resonance, he began to sing an ancient battle-hymn of the dwarves. Soon the entire hall was echoing with words as old as the mountains themselves. He looked around at his remaining companions. "For Balin! For Khazâd-Dum! For the dwarves!". He cried. As the words left his lips, he felt the last vestiges of self-defeat draining out of him. He had lived the kind of live he wanted. Now he wanted to find the kind of death he had allways craved.