Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

As Lóni walked back into the underground halls, he felt like awakening from some kind of dream. The outcome of the battle - especially the last, what was it, seconds? Minutes? Hours? - it all seemed unreal to him, hazy, as if he had not really been there, or maybe he had, but in some other life or time or memory.

At one point, the Orcs were charging at them, they released their arrows and the black tide stopped, and he saw Trór being carried away from the battlefield. And in the next moment, the onslaught was renewed, and Lóni was once again holding his ground in the small spot beneath the slopes of the mountain, in front of the gates. And was it the Mountain, the one where he had been before? He could not discern one memory, or dream, from the other. He remembered the glorious moment when the gates swung open and the figure of their leader stood there. Thorin in Erebor. Trór in Azanulbizar. Did the past and the present always seem so intertwined? Lóni felt like awakening from a dream, but he now started to feel the present very strongly.

"It is like emerging from deep water, isn't it," said a voice next to him. He turned and saw Óin's face, with his white beard dirty, his face bearing an exhausted expression. Lóni nodded.

"True. But I am afraid that this was not yet the last time when we have had to go into the water."

Óin shrugged and, turning to join a group of Dwarves who followed to see the Lord of Moria, disappeared in the crowd. Lóni walked on, he intended to see his brother first to tell him that he is all right. Lóni was imagining how Náli could already be worried, especially if he heard about what happened to Trór, and knowing that Lóni was nearby.

However, it was only after he didn't find his brother among the leaders of the right flank, that Lóni started to feel a bit unsettled. Then he asked, and finally somebody told him that his brother had been wounded. They pointed him to the place where Náli lay, and Lóni walked there, fearful in expectation.

"Oh brother," he said, when he looked at the motionless body. He could not say anything more, he just gazed at his brother's face, his body, his legs, everything so much alike to his own. There were only two differencies for the older of the brothers - the two eyes still hidden behind the closed eyelids, and only one arm, resting peacefully upon the blood-stained blanket.

[Groin Redbeard]

The Hall stank with the odor of blood— Nisa felt as if the whole Hall were rotting. She had been up the entire night attending the wounded and now was her chance to rest.

Nali was still unconscious. He had been lying still the entire night except for a few moments where he would violently thrash his head and mutter something. Even an unconscious Nali gave Nisa comfort, so she chose a spot close to Nali and began to nod. However, her sleep was soon disturbed by many heavy footfalls—the warriors had returned.

Nisa jumped up at this. Where was Trór? She couldn’t see him amongst the crowd. She knew that he had been wounded and returned to the battle, but where was he?


Trór

The rock surface of the table shifted its weight on its legs as Trór slammed his fist down.

“How many?”

Grór hesitated for a moment before he responded, fearing that his response would bring out an even worse reaction. “We lost a little less than half our strength, my lord.”

Trór stood silent for a long moment. This was not the kind of victory that he wanted, but it couldn’t be helped. Even an army a fraction of its former size was better than nothing at all—Trór was fortunate to still have an army.

“What of my nobles?”

“My lord, the casualtys are still coming in, but for now the only noble that we have lost is Nali.”

“Dead?” Trór’s eyes were wide with surprise and fear.

“No my lord, he has lost an arm.”

Again Trór fell silent. Nali was a good Dwarf and hard to replace. However, a match must be made, but later, not now. He turned back to his officers; most of them were minor for his nobles had not yet returned from battle.

“What of the miners in Second Deep, have they been sent for?”

“Yes, my lord, but we must remember that Lord Balin sent the miners out weeks ago to carve out new passages. They will be half a day more in reaching us. Lord Balin’s death will also be a great shock when they return; they might not be fit for duty until tonight.”

The officer would have continued, but Trór raised his hand for silence—the nobles had returned. Trór could see Ờin coming alone. His beard was splotched with blood, Trór smiled to see it—Ờin had showed his valor had not diminished with his age.

“So well your blood stained beard becomes you, as your valiant deed today; they both smack of honor. I am glad to see you well, Ờin.” Trór looked over his shoulder at his officers; all of them watching his meeting with Ờin as if it were a matter of pressing importance.

“There are too many eager ears here, my friend. Will you walk with me to the bridge? There is pressing matter that I must discuss with you.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Once again, despite the fact that he had known Trór already for a long time, Óin was surprised. This Dwarf, he thought, was one who had been badly wounded in the battle not that long time ago, but how he bore himself! How he acted! His endurance had to be admitted, that was for sure. But when Trór asked Óin to follow him to the Bridge, the old Dwarf was slightly surprised. He did not give away any sign, though, his face remaining motionless.

"Aye," he said. "I will follow you."

A few of the captains shot their eyes in their direction, but neither Trór nor Óin made any response to it. They walked away, the older Dwarf following a few steps behind the current Lord of Moria. What is it, he thought, his blue eyes pinned on Trór's back, that the Lord was having on his mind? Was he planning to act in some way? Did he want Óin to go on a scouting mission, now, or to do something else to thwart the Orcs' plans? Óin would not be surprised at something like that, though he could imagine that it would be hard to get out of the gates, surely besieged by now. Even now he could see in his mind's eye the Orcs approaching the gates, choosing the best places to stand, the old Dwarf remembered every inch of that ground and he knew exactly where they would find good places to stay - and how hard would it be to drive them out of these spots.

At the near end of the bridge they stopped. Óin looked for a moment into the depths of the pit and shivered slightly at the breath of chill currents blowing into his face from the unknown depths. He shook his head and turned away.

"So," he said, raising his eyes to meet the sight of the younger Dwarf, but seeing instead a wounded, but a tough warrior and the Lord of this kingdom, now shrunk and besieged, however still a Dwarven realm of old. "What was it, Trór, that you wanted to tell me about? My earsight is not as good as it used to be, but I am listening to you."

[Durelin]

The orcs retreated even as the warriors of Khazad-dûm were beginning to feel the pressure of falling back. They managed to hold their ground fiercely enough that the orcs gave way. There was no doubt that the dwarves had lost many, and no matter how many orc corpses lay in the snow, the dwarves were now even more outnumbered due to their losses.

Kórin returned from the battlefield, exhaustion and realization hitting her hard. Even when she saw her brother in the First Hall, she could not feel relief like she had earlier. On her mail were splotches of her own blood, as well as the blood of others, orcs and comrades alike. She knew how many orcs she had felled that night, but that she could not count the number of dwarves she had seen fall kept her grim and silent.

When Kór saw his sister enter the hall among the other soldiers sent to the First Hall rather than kept outside as a garrison or to gather the remains of the dead, he almost smiled at first, with relief and with amusement at the fact that she did indeed get her wish to fight, but seeing her covered in the residue of battle left him unable.

Kór made his way to her. "Do you have any wounds that need tending?" he asked after an awkward moment of plain recognition.

"Not any that need tending before others'," she began. "For one thing, I am still standing."

Kór could only nod and look down at his feet. "Trór is among those wounded. We were afraid he was dead..."

"Was that whom you were carrying off the field?" Kórin asked.

Kór nodded. He was starting to shake, and it was getting difficult to speak.

"So he has survived the majority of his men," Kórin said grimly. She looked around the Hall for the new Uzbad Khazaddûmu, but did not catch sight of him.

Staring at his sister's face, wondering at the flat seriousness of her expression, Kór spoke, "We need a drink."

So they returned to the Twenty-first Hall where their day had begun in revelry, and bore back Kórin's keg to the First Hall along with others who brought food and drink to the soldiers returning from battle.

For now they would recover their strength, and leave it to the lords to determine the next step in protecting their lives and their home. They could hold out in the vast depths of Khazad-dûm for a long time, but she was not sure they had the strength anymore to make an effective defense. Still, there was hope of survival, if it could be called that, as the mines ran deep...

[Gwathagor]

Frar leaned heavily against the stone wall and let his axe fall to the ground with a dull but resounding clatter, like heavy bones knocking against each other. His black hair and beard were matted and sticky and made even blacker with orc blood, save for a few red patches where his own blood, oozing from a gash above his right eye, mixed with theirs. The wound had ceased to bleed and was now bandaged with a strip of linen wound many times around his head. His armor was scored deeply on all sides, but only in a few places had it failed altogether, and these wounds too had been bandaged up - and the armor buckled straight back on over them. Altogether, the appearance of the titanic warrior was one of battered, ferocious dignity. Though the head-bandage unfortunately covered his right eye, his Frar's left eye burned with a redoubled fire, a fire that had been rising all day and that the recent battle had only serve to stoke. Frar cast his heavy leather gauntlets down beside the axe, took a deep breath, and looked around him.

All around him were soldiers who had just returned from the field off battle. They trickled in, most wounded, most still in their armor, some of them bearing their gear with them from more distant chambers, clearly with the intent to stay. All were dirty and bruised and beaten in body - but still strong in spirit. They were in a moderately-sized chamber just off the main hall, just an arrow's flight from the Bridge of Khazad-dum, and from here they could answer any threat immediately. In the meantime, they would rest, bind their wounds, and wait.

Frar walked among his soldiers, taking in their strength and morale. He said little, but for his faithful dwarves, his nods and growls spoke plenty. They knew: he was tremendously proud of them and heartbroken at the wounds they had taken.

An hour or so later, his task completed, Frar went in search of Tror, hoping against hope that he had survived the last furious skirmish before the orcs had retreated down the Dale. Their losses had been great and only a very few of their surviving soldiers had gone unscathed. Frar was not excited about bringing his report to Tror, but it was necessary nonetheless.

[Thinlómien]

Vigdis

Hasty footsteps in the corridor. Vigdis lifted her gaze from her work which she had been watching for a time she could not venture to estimate. Yes, they were real footsteps, not ghost-like, and light, lighter than the footsteps she had half expected to hear.

"Help!" a voice called, and it was a young voice. Should I care? wondered Vigdis, still staring at the stone that looked so final, so cold despite all the love she had poured into it.

"Help me!" the voice called, now with a note of desperation. These are your people, Vigdis, she told herself, he would have wanted you to look after them. Not without regret, she left her work - it was finished, she was telling herself, it had been finished already for a while - and stepped into the corridor.

A boy was running towards her, looking exhausted and face full of horror. His step was not steady, he looked as if he was about to faint. "Help!" he shouted again.

"Calm down, what's the matter?"

The boy jerked his head abruptly and stopped upon hearing her voice. "I have... there is... I must tell something to Lord Trór." His eyes were filled with tears. He looked as if he could fall unconscious to the floor at any minute. Vigdis nodded at him approvingly. "You are a brave man, and I see you have done all you can to deliver the message. But you do seem tired, tell it to me and I can take your message forwards."

The boy wavered for a while and said: "My lady..." (Vigdis was both amused and utterly bewildered to be addressed so) "there is something in the mines. I... I was there with my grandfather... he... he's a miner and we went down to the third tunnel by the chasm and there was... there was suddenly red light everywhere... and then blackness, blacker than the blackest smoke... and I asked if it was... if it was a coal fire and grandpa said yes but he did not look like he was telling the truth and he told me to run... to run as fast as I can to the colony... and leave him there because... because he can't run because he has only one leg..." The boy burst into tears and Vigdis stared at him helplessly, not sure what to do and grief and fear building in her heart.

The boy cried. Vigdis hated to do what she did, but now it was not only about one poor little boy, it was about the whole colony. She spoke up harshly: "Is that all? Did your grandfather tell you why he told you to run? It's not the time for useless weeping, we may all be in grave danger."

The boy looked at her, humiliated and angry, but continued: "He told me I had to run and leave him there because I had sworn to my mum I will obey him whatever he says. He said it is important I make it back even if he can't because it may be that our worst fear has awoken."

Vigdis' heart was filled with dread. Durin's Bane... all these years she had thought, or liked to think, that it was a mere legend, a nightmare from old times. But the flame and the shadow, and the old man's words... they could not be ignored. Even a legless man could have stood a chance to run from a coal fire and he had undoubtedly seen something...

The boy was still weeping, but quietly, standing on his own two legs, but hardly managing it. For the first time Vigdis saw clearly how young he was, how utterly unready to face such horrors. "Come," she said, gently this time, "I will take you to rest and your news to Lord Trór. I swear. You need not to worry about this anymore."

The boy walked to her obediently and took her arm to lean on. He let her take him to her workroom and wrap her in the blanket she kept there for the cold nights she used for working. He let her pour something strong and warm down his throat, and started feeling dizzy. "Now, sleep well, brave one," he heard her murmur. "But... what about grandpa? Will someone go look for him?" the boy asked urgently.

Vigdis hesitated a while before replying. "Certainly," she lied when she saw the little one close his eyes. Then she hurried away.

On her way, she met Adela, the kitchen maid she had been talking with earlier. "Look," she said, "there is a young boy in my workroom, sleeping. Someone should take care of him. Can you find that someone?" "Sure thing," Adela said, and Vigdis left her with brief thanks.

She was trying to find Lord Trór when she bumped into a venerable old dwarf with a messy beard of straw yellow and grey. "I need to see the Lord. It is urgent."


Ori

Urgent? Ori wondered, raising his eyebrows as the young woman rushed into him and started demanding things. He was displeased to notice that she hadn't bothered to add one bit of respect to her tone or phrasing. He could recall this was the woman whom Balin had let fight with the search parties and who had always seemed to be found nearby where he was, sometimes even holding private council with him. For some reason, he found this unbearably irksome at the moment.

"I did not see you fighting today? Where were you hiding? Finally realised your place?"

Her cool grey eyes flashed with unexpected fire. "Yes, master Ori, indeed. I was carving the tomb of Lord Balin."

He was afraid he could not hide his surprise, nor his displeasure. A woman carving the tomb? And this arrogant, improper woman of all the female craftmasters they had? "On whose orders?" he asked carefully. He did not want to sound too rude - it was possible someone had really appointed her to do it.

"I got the orders from Master Náli, but I understand he had agreed with Lord Trór." She did not need to add that it was not Ori's business to question the decision in this case, he could hear it in her voice and he had to admit she was right.

So, even grumpier than before, he decided to change the topic: "And you came here for a reason, I understand?"

"Yes. I have news for Lord Trór."

"He's resting. He was sorely wounded."'

"Then I hope Mahal grants him the strength to heal quickly. However, my news are urgent and cannot wait."

"You can tell your news to me, young woman, and I can judge whether they're urgent enough to bother the Lord with, or not."

The grey eyes flashed again. "Firstly, the mission I was appointed with is done. Lord Balin now has a tomb to reside in." She made a brief pause and while he remained expressionless, she continued: "An old miner and his grandson were in the third tunnel by the chasm, in the lower mines, today and it seems they came face to face with Durin's Bane."

Ori felt all the colour leave his face. Of course, it had always been here, the fire and the shade, but they had been foolish enough to hope it was gone, or forever asleep... and of all moments it chose to appear now. "I need to talk to these miners. Lord Trór needs to see them. Now," he said in a hollow voice.

"I'm afraid it's impossible. The old miner has - most probably - perished and his grandson is currently unavailable. He was exhausted and I gave him some drink, he is asleep now."

"On whose authority did you do that? The information is crucial!" Ori shouted, surprising even himself. He hardly ever lost his temper.

"On my own authority, and judgement. The boy would have been of no use to you. I now know what he knows and you can wake him up when you really need him. He was so exhausted he could barely speak even when I met him."

Ori could feel the anger boil inside himself. What was this woman to act on her own judgement on such important matters? But delivering these news to Lord Trór was more important now than the dispute with this insolent woman. "I'm going to see Lord Trór now," Ori said calmly, "and you'd better follow me."

The woman nodded curtly, and followed Ori without a word.

[Groin Redbeard]

So many thoughts whirled through Trór’s head. Where to start? “I could almost see them,” he began, “Our troops moving in one smooth motion down the mountain. The Orcs almost broke. I could feel them braking. If only I had more warriors, I could have crushed them.” Trór lifted his open hand and slowly crushed the air, gazing at it in a vision of victory.

Weary and bereft of sleep, he braced himself against a pillar. He lifted his axe and examined, the head stained a permanent black. “Have you ever felt hopeless?” Trór was still looking at his axe but he could feel Oin’s eyes burning a hole in his head. There was no answer. Oin knew that Trór was asking a rhetorical question and waited for his lord to expound on it.

“When I was wounded, my aides bore me off the battlefield. While I was unconscious I had a dream. In my dream I met a Dwarf; his was beard as white as the snow capped mountains and I knew I had seen him before, though I knew not where. He led me for many hours (at least it seemed like hours) without saying a word through my kingdom, empty and dark, until presently a light began to show—a dull burning red glow from one of the roads that led to the mines. The dwarf looked at me with a sad and foreboding face. There was another road, though I did not see it at the time, but I remember now. It was dark and it stank of Orc. Then the dream ended.”

Oin was patient and expressionless. He did not say anything and Trór was thankful for it.

“I know that face,” Trór began again; “He was staring at me the entire time I could not see him. I believe it was Balin in my dream.” Trór started to stroke his beard. “Oin, I have lived a soldier’s life for as long as I can remember, but I have never felt anything as brutally clear as this. It is as if tomorrow has already happened and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Again Trór fell silent. An idea was blowing in his brain, but there was no time to think. He no longer felt his usual bold and tenacious character sweep hold of him; instead, he felt slow, he felt careful, but something was happening. It left him breathless. As if something was hunting him. The odor of death was everywhere. The wounded, the dead, and the dying were all uncomfortable reminders of an ever encroaching enemy.

“Something is approaching, Oin. It shakes my very soul with fear to think of what it might be.” Trór left the support of the pillar and stood looking across the bridge. “If I had an army I would stay and fight. But this is not an army! Can I ask them to do what I dread to do myself?

“Oin, my friend I trust your counsel. My plan of fighting has failed –the Hollin Gate is still open. Our hope is waning fast; we have a few hours to make a decision.”