[Osse]

It had not been the skill of the Eldar that had led the Dunedain to the small storeroom; rather, it had been through a misunderstanding. The party had become stretched out, winding through the corridors of the city like some giant millipede, the head often having no knowledge of the whereabouts of the tail. Belegorn had delegated the organisation of the party into Carthor’s capable hands. Not wishing to rely solely on the Eldar’s prowess, Carthor organised, as suggested, the end-man to mark the route the group had taken with the chalk the Elves had found earlier. For this task Carthor had chosen a capable young man, Derigorm.

It was because of Derigorm that the party stumbled across the little room. Derigorm, white chalk in hand, had fallen back slightly, far enough behind to be unable to see the glow of his comrades’ torches in front of him, and as the group took a passage to the left, Derigorm turned into a smaller stone doorway to the right. The room on the right turned out to be a small square room, roughly hewn from the living rock, with shelves of softer, smooth stone placed along its walls. On every surface stood stone and clay jars, ranging from great round vessels to small intricately patterned pots.

Suddenly aware that Derigorm was no longer with them, Carthor, located near the rear of the column, had halted the group. Soon after, Derigorm’s husky voice came running through the corridor behind them. Now at the head of the group, Carthor strode towards the sound of the younger man’s voice, finding him standing torched raised at the entrance to the chamber.

“What is it?” Carthor’s question was short, Derigorm’s answer matched it.
“Have a look.”

Shards of pale grey stone crunched and crackled under the leather soles of Carthor’s boots, rudely disturbing the quiet of the small chamber. The torch held aloft over the man’s grey head cast long, flickering shadows around the room, glancing off the glossy stone surfaces like droplets of water.

Every vessel, every jar, was broken - as if in a fit of fury the room had tried to consume itself. There was no surface that was not covered in the crushed remains of the containers.
Evidence of their contents littered the floor; grains of barley and oats, as well as other grains indiscernible in the ruddy light, spilled around the broken pots like waves breaking on jagged shores. The smell of broken clay, stale air and slowly rotting grain wafted like plant tendrils through Carthor’s nostrils, its mustiness sitting like some great carrion-fowl at the back of his parched throat.

Carthor was aware of the fact that the remainder of the group was pressing him in from the corridor behind.


Stepping forward further into the chamber, Carthor raised his hand, signalling the rest of the group to follow him forward. In the far right corner of the square chamber, a great shelf had been up-ended, its contents falling in ruin upon the cold stone floor. On the wall where the shelf had been standing, was a small, square, cunningly crafted door. The shelf, in its original space, would have completely concealed it.
Indeed, the door was hard enough to see in the dim torchlight as it was. Were it not for the huge flakes of broken stone around its edges and rutted centre, the door would have been near-unidentifiable. Carthor had seen such marks before, as if great hands had beaten upon the rock in their fury, rock-like themselves. The marks sent a shivering quake down his crouched spine, which ran like an electric current, shimmering through his entire body. Putting the thought of those who had made such marks from his mind, Carthor beckoned to the men behind him to come closer, and using the tips of their swords attempt to pry the door open.

Carthor’s broadsword fell clattering and cold from his hand as a scream rang out through the corridors behind him, echoing and resonating like some contorted, twisted musical instrument, playing chords that shook his soul. Turning, Carthor joined those rushing towards the scream.