Taking a deep breath, Līs started with her best gutteral roar deep in her throat, and let it climb to a growling baritone shout. "The True-silver awaits our return! The radiant lamps will shine through the columns of Dwarrowdelf again!" Around her, growlings and rumblings surged and crescendoed, and she shook her axe, laughing triumphantly. And deep within her eyes, a fire burned as if the very lamps of Khazad-Dum were reflected in them.
True-silver. All her life she had heard of it; she had read of it; she had asked about it. She had never worked with it, for True-silver never breaks and never needs repair. All that there was had been crafted.
But in the very bottom of her knapsack beneath her jeweller's tools, rested a book; the ink on the last page had barely dried. Into that book she had copied everything that she could learn about Mithril; mining it, refining it, forging it, shaping it, tempering it, bringing it to a perfect polish and luster. She was weary, her hand ached and her eyes didn't focus very well, but all that would pass. She had her tools, she had everything she needed except her little jeweller's kiln. Someone would make one for her when they arrived.
Still shaking her axe, she roared some more, glad that they would not leave til the dawn. She might even get some sleep before then.
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...down to the water to see the elves dance and sing upon the midsummer's eve.
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