Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[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.”

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Óin was listening to the new Lord of Moria with growing discomposure. Even in his old face, he could not hide the surprise at the words he heard - and the fear. When Trór ended, the old scout was frowning so hard that his snow-white eyebrows stood almost vertically above the blue eyes, gleaming like the waters of a still mountain lake.

At last he shook his head.

"My lord, my lord, this is not nice for my ears at all what you say. But of course, you are right in implying what you think. Look at me, I have known for a few hours already what is likely going to happen - and yet I did not have the courage to admit it to myself, or to say it aloud. See, I do not have it even now." He chuckled, but his face remained grave. "I see. The beasts outside are upon us, and it is only the question of time before they breach the gates of Khazad-dûm. We have women, children, and civilians with us. Balin would know that I will be the last one to abandon my place in defending his home, but he would also do his best to protect those who are with him. And if it means retreating - so be it. The Hollin Gate is still open, you said. Very well. If you want to hear my opinion, Lord Trór," he paused for a while, as if still pondering for himself before actually saying it aloud, "I believe we should take our chances. Moria is deep, but the Orcs do not know it. I do. I can reach the Hollin Gate in two days' march, or even less, if need be. Of course, with any company, the journey might prove to be somewhat slower, but still... I say it is worth an attempt. Even if..." He sighed. "Even if the Orcs enter Moria, they will not be able to pursue anybody soon. And they will not dare to go further from the mountains, I know them, dirty monsters. They will be content with Khazad-dûm and what is left of it."

"And there is this other thing you spoke of..." Once again, the old Dwarf fell silent. Then he suddenly burst into rage. "By Durin's beard! How is that even possible? Is all the evil turning upon us? By Durin's beard, this is not a coincidence. Dreams can be tricky, lord Trór, but I know, I feel, something's wrong, and this time..."

Suddenly, he stopped and turned his head. He shook it, so his long white hair wagged, but he was not imagining things: loud voices were coming, and approaching fast.

"They said he is by the Bridge..."
"I need to speak to him, because if this is true..."
"What is it? What did the woman say?"

Óin recognised the voices: one belonged to Ori, another to Frár. Soon, he and Trór saw the dark shapes approaching.

[Folwren]

Kénan approached quietly. He knew Kéni was mostly likely dead, but what smote at his heart the hardest was the small figure of Iari, crumbled in a little heap beside him. As he drew near, he saw that she was asleep. Good. Perhaps she had missed her brother’s passing. But she had one of his hands clasped in hers.

Still several paces away from them, Kénan took off his helmet and took the axe from his belt. He laid them down on the stone floor before coming over to the two children. Iari did not stir immediately. Kénan glanced at Kéni’s face, and surprisingly, he did not look dead after all.

“Grandfather?” Iari murmured. Kénan looked down at her. She stirred and then sat up. Her hand never relinquished that of her brother.

Kénan knelt beside her and together they looked into Kéni’s face. Kénan wanted to say something, but he did not know what to say, or even how to say it. Should he tell her that her brother was about to die? Should he just wait and not even talk about it? What would she do when Kéni’s spirit did pass away? Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he had never been very near to his granddaughter. Now he regretted it. He regretted it extremely.

“Iari. . .” he began, but then stopped, for the hand that rested in Iari’s moved slightly, tightening a little on her small fingers, and then relaxing again. Kénan shut his mouth and waited.

[Kitanna]

Kéni's hand had moved. Iari turned away from her grandfather and clasped her brother's hand to her chest. "Kéni?" Both her hands held fast to his.

"Does he wake?" Kénan knelt beside his grandchildren. He had never put much stock in miracles, but now he looked for one. If the boy should die Iari's small heart would break into a million small pieces, but should he live... "Kéni, open your eyes, son."

The young dwarf stirred. Somewhere in his dreams he was trying to come awake. Kéni moaned and mumbled something incoherent. Perhaps he would come awake yet, at least to say his good-byes. Iari was holding tight to his hand the whole time.

"Open your eyes," Kénan commanded again.

But Kéni would not obey. With a final groan his hand went limp in Iari's. Kéni's chest stopped its labored rise and fall. A few moments passed in which Kénan let acceptance watch over him, while Iari came to realize what was happening. Tears, small and silent streamed down her face. She continued to grasp Kéni's hand, shaking her head all the while.

Kénan wrapped an arm around her shoulder. The grandfather had no notion of time, but eventually Iari let Kéni hand slip from her own. When she did she put her small arms around Kénan's waist and hid her face from the world.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

At first, Onli felt rather content. Even though Vriti was struggling, claw and tooth, he managed to wash her and get rid of the foul stench. He was still wondering what did the poor animal do to come to smell so badly, also the hair on her back, which looked like burned, looked curious indeed. Probably she had been once again sneaking somewhere where she ought not have. Anyway, after the washing procedure completed, Vriti spat at Onli and angrily crawled under his bed to sleep, which meant that everything was all right again.

But then, Onli somehow managed to fall asleep. He only lay himself on the bed, but in the next moment he opened his eyes and realised that the candles on his table have burned out. How long he slumbered, he could not tell. Hastily, he lifted himself and rushed out of his chamber.

How could he have fallen asleep? That was such a stupid thing to do. Now, he only hoped that he did not sleep for too long, and that Náli has not been requesting his assistance meanwhile. Indeed, now that was not the best way to make a good impression, he thought as he was running down the stairs. But where was everybody? The halls were empty. Onli headed towards the Twenty-First hall, then, in hope to meet somebody.

And then he started to meet them. Groups of people, soldiers, returning from the battle. Returning. Onli shuddered. This was too bad. He had missed the battle. From what he gathered, the Goblins have effectively sealed them inside. Another great news. Has everything turned against him today? The last thing he wanted to find out now was that Náli had been in need of his right-hand man and he was nowhere to be found.

And then he came to the First hall, and saw him. There was also his brother, Lóni, and Nîsa. Suddenly, he felt sick. But slowly, he walked closer to make sure what he was looking at. There was no doubt: Náli's right arm was gone.