Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Himaran]

"Ghaah!"

Dalin winced in pain, letting his hammer clatter to the stone floor. Grimacing, the dwarf tugged off his thick leather gloves and tossed them aside before examining his sore thumb. The damage appeared minor, though shades of deep purple blue and significant swelling had already begun to set in. He shook it furiously, sucked on it briefly, then shook it some more, silently cursing his misfortune. It had been simply ages since his last mishap in the forge; and while crafting something as simple as a pickaxe for one of the miners! Dalin couldn't decide if he was more perturbed by his lack of concentration or the pain itself.

The pain, however, soon faded, leaving the dwarf to brood on his error alone. It seemed as if he had been distracted all day; not even in the forge, a sanctuary of sorts to Dalin, was he left unaffected. Picking up the culprit hammer, he gripped the handle tightly, raised it up, let it hang for a fleeting second, and brought it crashing down against the searing red metal. Again, and again, he swung his craftman's tool in a gleaming arc. He oft likened the path of the hammer to that of his own life; it had a purpose, a mission, a point of conception and a destination. Again, and again, and -- a dull splintering noise jerked Dalin back to reality, a reality in which he had not only missed his target again but succeeded in shattering the base of his hammer in two.

This time, Dalin broke into a loud and profane rant.

Hurling the remnants of his hammer against the forge wall, the dwarf let out a bellow of frustration and collapsed to ground in defeat. What was wrong with him? All day he had struggled to concentrate on his work, let alone socialize with his brethren. What bothered the skilled craftsman even more was the gradual realization that he knew exactly what was bothering him: the dwarf was homesick. Moria seemed darker and gloomier than in past days; a strange sense of staleness had infected its massive halls and chambers. Far too often for his liking, Dalin had begun to catch himself daydreaming of the sunny slopes of Erebor. Rumors of growing orc numbers in and around the region did little to ease his discomfort. Perhaps it was time for a change.

Standing slowly, Dalin glanced around the room to make sure no one was there to witness his outburst. Thankfully, the forge was otherwise deserted. Strange that he was the only one...

... the Celebration!

[Ilya]

"What a waste of time!" Adela huffed, topping off the pan with the last bit of redcurrant jam. The celebration sounded and resounded against the walls, and by the time the pies were done, she reckoned most who might enjoy them would be rather too spirited to do so. "Should have started earlier," she mumbled, tucking a stray piece hair back behind her ear. As she ladled jam into the open mouth of the dough, it quivered like a piece of wounded flesh. Adela sighed, stoking the fire. Why was it her thoughts of late had touch of darkness in them? She glanced up at couple of the other maids chatting with one of the Ladies and then chuckled quietly, shaking her head. In the process the strand of her hair came loose again, limp from the close contact she'd had with the smoke of the fires since before dawn.

The music began. Adela smiled, closed her eyes for a moment, and pictured the kitchens emptying, leaving her alone with the music, a little put aside piece of meat, and glowing embers of the fire to warm her. The solitude of the dark flagstones, to lean on their strength and let her thoughts cease, would be the reward for all the hustle and bustle of the day. Adela didn't put much other stock in the boasts of the miners, but like any dwarf she could sense the voices of the stones. No small feat that the stone of Khazad Dum had tempered her somewhat these last five years, and she liked waiting for what, if anything, it might say back.

Pushing another pie into another oven, she paused for a moment, feeling a cool updraft strike her back and suddenly being aware of the sheer space in the air around her. Small though the settlement was, the 21st hall still seemed altogether too crowded between the boisterous voices of her fellow dwarves and the somber, brooding stones. And something else, she thought. An echo of an echo she could not name.

Adela shook her head, more hair flying free of the bonds that held it. "An echo of an echo indeed!" She huffed over to where the lasts of the meat was roasting. Most had already been carried into the hall, although the choicest cuts still waited for Lord Balin to return. "There's better trade in raspberries than rhymes, and always take a flagon over fate," she recited a mannish saying, looked about, and then popped a slice of one of the honeyed apples that had been set aside in her mouth. The Lord Balin was not a begrudging fellow, she reasoned. Or else, there are some things he just wouldn't count. She gave a leg a good turn as she finished chewing, the noise from the hall rising higher, as an arrow in flight. Odd, but the apple didn't taste very sweet.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Wind was blowing through the pass, coming down from the heights of the Misty Mountains, rushing down the Dimrill Stair, hurrying around the streams of Silverlode and following it, down, to where the young river gathered water from other streams, as they rushed down into the dale. The wind turned around the few scattered rocks, spread through all the length of the valley, as if some giant's child left them here after play. It flew then further, as far as the sharp edge of a waterfall, which suddenly stood in the river's way, as another stream joined her flow. The wind rushed into the crooked fir-trees about it, made them shiver, and it flapped the old and dirty travel-cloak of the Dwarf who stood by them, looking far into the valley below him. He was old, his short beard and long hair being already white, though his blue eyes watching carefully from under the brown hood were bright and vivid. In his left hand, he was holding a short bow, though all his arrows remained peacefully in the quiver he carried on his back.

The mountains were casting long shadows and the sun and the moon over the Dwarf's head were performing a heavenly theatre, but he did not pay any attention to them. He was observing carefully the dale, surrounded by steep cliffs, with only a few bushes and small trees vegetating in there. He stood motionless amidst the fir trees; for a casual watcher, it would have been easy to overlook him in his worn-out brown cloak. The nearby waterfall was bubbling loudly, making it impossible for the Dwarf to hear any other sounds, but the watcher himself was protected by it from being overheard. When he at last moved and stepped forward to climb down the path of slippery green rocks beside Silverlode's channel, his steps were deafened by the voice of the running water.

As he went down, two times he almost slipped on the wet surface. For the third time, he managed to catch his balance only in the last moment. "By Durin's beard," he said, being grateful that both his voice and the sound of his stumbling before were drowned out by the loud stream. "You should take more care, Óin, good lad. Otherwise you may end up breaking some of your bones and who's going to pick you up?"

As the Dwarf continued down the dale, more carefully, as now the rocky gorge was narrowing a little, and also the noise of the waterfall was getting softer, he continued to mutter to himself under his breath, just so not to be louder than the river's bubbling voice.

"Of course I have to take care," he mumbled, as he went on, "but who is going to take a look around the place, if not me? They are all - mining, baking, wining, dining, but nobody thinks about taking a routine survey of the mountains. Of course, of course. It's Durin's Day," now he at last lifted his eyes to take a look at the skis. As if realising with shock what panorama is hanging above him, the Dwarf stood silent for a while. Only then he shook his head, but still being unable to move his eyes away from the heavenly theatre, he stood still.

"It's Durin's Day," he repeated slowly, "but they do not think about some good routine check. At least the main road down here, around the streams of Kibil-nâla... even old Balin got careless, as he became the Lord of Moria." Óin shook his head and made a snarling noise, perhaps a laugh, perhaps not. He finally managed to get his eyes away from the scenery of the skies and looked down at the dale below him. "Of course I am not complaining," he said. "It is good to have a breath of some fresh air once in a while, and now-"

He stopped in the middle of the sentence. His eyes opened wide, as he was gazing into the widening valley below him. The green walls, washed by the running stream gave way and then, the icy cold water continued its way between scarred slopes and following down in foaming curves and leaps amidst the rocks. And there, amidst the rocks, something was moving! The Dwarf now saw it clearly.

"Óin, good lad," he said softly, with his mouth open wide, "you are out on a survey and remain gazing at the Moon and the Sun like some kind of an Elf, and here you have somebody walking all happy right under your nose! Hide somewhere, quick!"

He immediately obeyed his own order. Jumping to the side, he crouched behind the nearest boulder, just as possible it was in the narrow gorge. The icy water was washing his boots and once in a while, a cold shower sprinkled on him.

"Durin's beard, Óin," he mumbled. "You should have picked a better place to hide. But what! You won't climb back there to the fir-trees unnoticed, so do your best and stay put!"

The incomer took a little while before he managed to climb into the place where Óin was hiding, but he did not seem to notice him, until he was just a short distance, not longer than a bowshot, from him. Óin jumped to his feet, preparing his bow, but when he saw who the incomer was, he let his hand reaching for an arrow to lower again.

"By Durin's beard!" he cried in surprise. "It's a Dwarf!" Then he realised that he is no longer alone, and fell silent in a bit of embarassement. But only for a moment.

"Oh, hail to you, fellow kinsman," he said, lifting his empty hand in greeting. "I hope I did not startle you." He observed the incomer curiously. It was a very young Dwarf, lot shorter than Óin, but of a strong build, and his face under the long brown beard seemed pleasant on first sight.

"My name is Óin, of the tribe of Durin, from Khazad-dûm the realm of Balin, my cousin and our lord. And who might you be," he finally looked the newcomer into eyes, with a firm expression as if he had finally evaluated the Dwarf and decided to form a basic opinion on him, "and what brings you to the gates of Moria? Is it that you are bringing any news from our cousins from the North?"

[Boromir88]

Gror's long journey from Erebor was just about over. Gror had lost count of how many days it's been since he left. With no company, it felt like he had been following the Great River for years. He had turned west before reaching the Realm of that Sorceress Witch. Nasty place it was, he had heard, much worse than Mirkwood, and the thought of Mirkwood (which Gror had avoided as well), brought a sense of bitterness in him.

However, Gror had long forgotten about the Elves, he had spotted an Enemy that filled him with an even deeper hatred - Orcs, and a great host of them. He had spotted them not two nights ago, heading up the Silverlode. He then had headed straight for the East Gate with as much haste as possible. He didn't want to explore the matter further; someone had to warn Balin. Such a large gathering of Orcs could only mean one thing - they were out for blood.

He did feel at ease, being in the mountains again. It brought a feeling of relief that he hadn't felt since leaving his home. He doubted Moria would have the splendour of the Lonely Mountain, but the thought of being in the halls of Durin and in the presense of Balin filled Gror with excitement.

Gror was in such a day-dream state he took no notice that someone else had been watching him, until he heard a shout:

"By Durin's beard! It's a Dwarf!"

That couldn't have been the voice of any other, except a dwarf. Gror was just glad to be in the company of another dwarf again. He had practically forgotten what it had felt like. The dwarf introduced himself as Oin. Gror noticed that he was a much older dwarf, and with him was a special aura that Gror couldn't describe. In truth Gror was filled with excitement, but he didn't want to come off as giddy, and embarass himself in the company of someone like Oin.

"Gror, at your service." He said bowing, remembering what his dad had taught him about showing respect to his elders. "Yes, I am here by the orders of King Dain, and am to speak with Balin. But, there are more pressing matters, I fear. A terrible threat approaches, that I was not expecting. A great army of orcs is heading up the Silverlode. I suspect they will be on top of you by nightfall."

"That is a threat indeed!" said Oin. "There is a feast taking place in celebration of Durin's Day. I suspect that is where you will find Balin. Go and warn him. I should like to check out this rabble myself!"

"Yes, sir." Gror bowed again, and raced towards the Gate. But as he sped off he stumbled, and fell face first. He looked up, his beard and face, all wet and muddy - Great, Oin saw that, you just made a great first impression...fool. Gror, got up, brushed himself off and this time slowly walking away. That is, until Oin was out of sight.

[Groin Redbeard]

The fellowship of mourners walked up the steps to the great gate where they saw Kenan bare headed and bowing his head in reverance. The gaurds of the gate approached startled to see that Balin was not with them, and wished to see the dormant figure they carried. An exclamation of horror were uttered by the gaurds as Nali and Loni lowered Balin from their shoulders, some threw themselves on the ground and wept while others stood and looked on in horror. The hareld lifted his horn and with tears in his eyes blew a mightily on his trumpet, signaling the return of lord of the Dwarrowdelf.

"Kenan, my friend," Tror said as the old dwarf approached them, "I am glad that it is you that we must break the news to first, but what a loss... what a terrible loss is ours!"

"How did it happen," asked Kenan in a horse voice.

"Orcs, an archer shot him while he was alone at on the banks of Kheled-zaram. We were not with him to prevent it, we failled him, I failled him."

A cold wind was coming down from the north as Tror spoke. The sky of overcast with a grey sheat of clouds and the sign of snow was in the air. No birds except the distant caw of a raven could be heard, perched somewhere withing its mountain haunt. As the company mournfully paused at the gate the raven flew above them and screeched a loud, "Graw!"

One of the gaurds gave and pointed out across the dale, there was a lone figure making his way up the winding road to the gate, no doubt it was Oin coming in; that dwarf was always absent from the halls, wondering afar in search of excitement. Tror turned to Ori.

"Would you mind staying here to brake the news to Oin," Tror asked, "he knows you better and it will be a comfort to be with a friend when he hears of what was done. I must go and give an accounting to the colony."

[Gwathagor]

The body of lord Balin weighed heavier than it should have upon the giant shoulder of Frar as the Lord of Khazad-dum passed through his gates and entered his halls for the last time. Frar felt a strange burden upon his heart also - but whether in foreboding or simple melancholy, he could not say. It seemed that with Balin, something greater had died, for under his direction, the dark soul of Khazad-dum had flared up again and showed itself bright and steady. Perhaps Frar felt then the beginnings of what would be another quenching of that light, as the darkness of Mordor spread west, north, and south. They were leaderless now, and the flame was beginning to flicker.

"Carefully now," said Frar in a deep rumble. It irked him to speak now, to interrupt the private grievings of his fellows, but they were nearing a steep flight of stairs, and, beyond, the Bridge of Khazad-dum. The solemn band proceeded down the stairs without incident.

None had been injured in the Dimrill Dale skirmish, but they had all been badly shaken. Hardly a word had been spoken since Balin had fallen. However, Frar imagined that they were likely dwelling on similar questions: who lead them now? Whence came the orcs? And why? Why had they come for Balin? Had it been a mere band of marauders? Or was it the vanguard of a larger force? Instinctively, he began to plan. Guards and watches would need to be doubled, at the very least. They had not had to fight for many months now, since the last scrawny goblins had been driven out of the caves, and so weapons and armor would need repair and sharpening. Arrows fletched, spears carved, shields layered. Just to be safe, he told himself.

As he considered, and as he planned, the sorrow began to subside, driven off by the twins need and action. And almost immediately, though he did not notice at first, a deep-seated anger took its place - burning, as yet, only quietly and dully.

[Folwren]

“We failed him,” Tror said. “I failed him.”

Kénan did not know how to answer. They had all failed him. It was not something any dwarf should bear alone, and yet it was a burden that each one bore independently from the next.

“I must go and give an accounting to the colony.” He walked on, beside the six dwarves carrying Balin. Kénan turned and fell into step beside him. They were drawing near the bridge.

“But surely,” Kénan began, and then stopped. His voice lowered almost into gentleness in the presence of the dead body. “You do not mean to take him up there? Before all the children?” He thought of his grandchildren. Kéni - well, he could manage - but Iari! She was but a little girl! Still unhardened and unprepared for death. Kénan looked at Tror, hoping that he did not intend to take that course of breaking the bitter news.

[Arry]

Vitr raised his brow as Lys tipped back yet another mug of ale – one from her own cask this time. He wondered if she’d restocked their medicine box, if there were a good supply of white willow bark to put a damper on the raging headache he could see brewing on the horizon of the coming day.

Ah, let her have her fun, man. he chided himself, reining in the inclination to warn her off drinking so much so fast. She’d been a little down of late, or so he thought. Though when asked she’d said it was just some little chill she couldn’t seem to shake.

That worried him some; it wasn’t like her. His own Gran had had a bit of the ‘sight’, or so his mother called it . . . the knack of seeing into shadows, somehow knowing when something hurtful were coming. The one time, though, she’d had a chill as she described it, it was a dogged feeling of doom that she could not shake nor pinpoint as to its cause. ‘Feels like some cold wind from somewhere’s blowing cross my neck.’ In her last days Gran had talked about her heart going pitter-pat in her chest for no reason along with the wicked chill that raised the hairs at the nape of her neck and crept down her spine. ‘Some big, old hairy legged rock beetle just skittered over my grave,’ she’d say with a flick of her hand as if to pass it off as nothing.

It hadn’t been nothing, though. Death had come for her . . .

Vitr shrugged his shoulders in an effort to throw off his unpleasant thoughts. This was a day of celebration, he reminded himself. Durin’s Day and the day of his son and daughter’s birth.

As he raised his own mug with the others, Vitr put his free hand at the small of his wife’s back, wanting to make concrete the affection he felt for her. He only sipped at the brew, looking often at her face from the corners of his eyes. A smile curved his lips. Her cheeks were quite pink, from the heat of the crowded hall, he thought, as well as the ale she’d drunk, and no doubt from the sheer pleasure of being out and about with no tasks to be taken care of. Her brown eyes glittered merrily it seemed in the highly lit room, and as merry was her laugh at something someone had said. There against her near cheek lay a coppery tendril of hair having escaped from her thick, neat braid he noted, resisting the impulse to draw it back behind her ear. Seventeen years together, he smiled and, so far, more filled with sweetness than with sorrow.

By chance, or mayhap some uncanny design, a small, stray breeze curled its chilly finger down the collar of his tunic. Perhaps from one of the ventilation shafts that drew the outside air into the caverns. He shivered, taking his hand from Lys’ back to rub at the nape of his neck.

‘Mahal, be between us and harm,’ he murmured quickly, an old oath of protection coming readily to his lips. ‘And protect us from all baneful foes and their workings.’

And as quickly, his arm went round about his wife’s waist, drawing her close against him. His gaze flew round the room, seeking out the figures of his son and daughter.

[Kath]

Svori:

Svori had been desperate to get to the celebration for hours. He had been working away on the same part of the wall in front of him for almost as long, entirely distracted by the thoughts of the entertainment that would be on offer that evening ... and the chance to see Hepti. The woman of his dreams had been avoiding him recently, having stated a few days ago that Svori was still not responsible and hard-working enough for her. Had Svori been any less confident in himself he might have started to wonder whether he ever could meet Hepti's exacting standards, as it was he was standing in front of a piece of rock staring at it blankly.

"What are you doing?" He asked himself with a grin, stepping back a little and lowering the chisel he'd been holding motionless for the past few minutes.

Feeling the tension in his arms and back Svori stretched out a little. He had worked hard in the months preceding the quest to retake Moria to become an experienced miner and he had suceeded but his body wasn't quite used to it yet. He had found himself glad that he was a good fighter as the arm strength and steady hands gained from learning those skills had helped him improve his mining, but fighting tended to involve broad sweeping motions rather than the often minute actions that mining required and he found that his body was still adjusting to the newer actions.

"But!" He said as he began to put away the equipment he had been using. "At least it proves I've been working hard. If I'm hurting then Hepti is wrong about that."

Nodding decisively Svori made his way out of the area he had been working in and back home to drop off his work tools and have a quick clean up. He was heading out again within minutes thrilled at the prospect of an evening of celebrating - and was even more thrilled when upon arriving at the doorway of the cavern in which the party was being held he bumped right into the person he had been thinking about all day.

Hepti:
Unsure just how in the mood for a loud gathering she was it had taken Hepti a long time to decide whether to attend the celebration. It hadn't helped that people had kept coming in to her little workshop to ask her questions and just generally talk at her about the events planned for that evening, making her less inclined to go and causing her to get behind with the work she had intended to finish that day. The one thing that had finally convinced her to leave her work and go and have some fun was hearing the laughter coming from the celebration hall. There was something in Hepti that meant she just couldn't let a laugh go by without finding out what had caused it, and so she was convinced.

She was extremely pleased with her decision when she found herself standing next to Svori just as she was about to enter the party hall. Hiding a smirk she returned his surprised greetings.

"So ... may I accompany you in?" Svori asked Hepti, rolling his eyes internally at the strangely formal language he so often found himself using near her. He knew she was the one for him just because of how nervous he got whenever they met, something that never happened with any other woman. He held his breath as he waited for an answer.

"Why not?" Was Hepti's response, and she had to smile at the grin that blossomed over Svori's face.

"Okay!" Svori replied, and then lowered his voice as he realised how loud he'd been. "Okay then, let's go in."

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Onli was happy. This was the obvious beginning of the great celebration, all the dwellers of Moria were coming from all directions to join in a singing, drinking, eating and chatting choir. Onli felt good, like in the old days in the Blue Mountains, when he was invited to banquets along with his mentor Vill. They have been meeting with various important Dwarves; there Onli got to know Dwálin, brother of the current Lord of Moria, and Dúvi, the Dwarf with mysterious past and connections. And there it was also where he had once seen Thorin Oakenshield, shortly before his last, but fortunate journey to Erebor. Fortunate, because even though the honourable Thorin died, his brave deed opened the Dwarves the door to Erebor. And without that, Onli wouldn't have been where he was now.

The hall seemed really full. Onli registered most of his "favourites", that is, the craftsmen whom he was keeping especially good relations with, seeing the potential in them and hoping to make fortune on promoting them. He greeted everybody, smiling cheerfully, thinking inside himself that he should try to get close to the Lord as soon as he arrives. Today would be a great opportunity for strenghtening his good relations with the "high ups". Onli smiled, as he picked himself a mug of beer. He's going to join Balin, and won't let him go until they talk properly. Onli already started to think what he's going to tell the Lord, recalling his knowledge of proper etiquette. Yes, he thought with a smile, this day is going to be great...

*******************
Vriti

There was plenty of food scattered on the ground, when the heedless Dwarf stumbled and dropped the plate he was carrying. Despite his cursing, and despite the fact that it was her over whom the Dwarf tripped (and her back was still hurting a bit), Vriti accelerated, chasing a rolling bun filled with meat. She caught it, the bun was far, far slower than the rats and frogs she hunted (sometimes just for fun) in the empty caverns. Spitting the distasteful crust, she started to chew happily the bun's contents.

But there seemed to be some unusual amount of noise gathering around. Vriti quickly evaluated the situation, and grabbing yet another piece of food, she made her way under the feet of the Dwarves to a safe corner.

A small dwarven child spotted her and pointed at her, shouting something in a high voice, but Vriti hissed at it. She did not want to be interrupted while eating.