[Kransha]

Brór had never seen an Elvish mind before. In truth, he had not ‘seen’ it, with eye or mind or heart of his, but, as the elf pulled him from the fray of beasts and their kin, he’d seen a morality and a humanity he’d not seen in an Elf before that date. As well, when speaking, in their manner, Elves such as Morgoroth let their minds be slates to be read, not as open books were, but as a volume in which only a single page can be read, leaving one grasping for more. It was not displeasing to him, nor was it desirable, or thus desired, but affected him in a stranger way, souring and sweetening his rabid mood all at once, calming his lust but inflaming his pessimism, as if it were trying to change his very nature. It was dark, as he’d suspected in the corridors of Dark Elf’s soul, but bore an uncanny light to it. The Elf was projecting to him, to no one else, just to him. This elf, Morgoroth, had saved his undeserving life and, as much as Brór despised his kind, he could not help but be appreciative and grateful, though he never showed it. His face was a pale, pallid, and devoid of lively color as ever, but held a gentle gleam reflected in the dank pools of his eyes and a younger hue in the cloudy grayed hairs of his long, untamable beard. He felt, again, in his step and his look, a vigorous, youthful light that seemed to course and lance through his very veins, fording each river within in him in a second’s span. He knew at once that the Elf could be trusted, regardless of his prejudices (perhaps not all Elves, only this one), and hurried to accomplish the task he’d been assigned.

He now ran, slashing with a renewed reservoir of righteous fury aflame in his eyes. He hacked unmercifully, but now more lithe and quick, waltzing nimbly over the crawling, spluttering things that scurried around, above, and beside, following on the heels of Morgoroth as best he could. He pounced on the spider attackers continually, bashing in their shells of hides with his soaring mace, which rent the air up with its murderous grunts of crude satisfaction as the venomous shrieks it induced. He made his way, with Morgoroth swerving most nimbly from side to side, flanking him mostly and, with his singing bow, abating the assailants. Brór, meanwhile, located the greatest hills of earth and mounds of stone to uplift. He surged against them, sheathing his mace in a mere instant, latching it awkwardly to his side, and plowed full force into the jutting rocks, cracking and swaying them only. He cocked his trembling head to his companions, who were battling doggedly toward him, and cried out at the top of his gasping bass to them, with a powerful thunder in his throat again.

“Come, brethren! Dorim and Dwali, rally and fight! To me! To me!”

He pushed, his muscles straining, his armored arms plastered with the sweat of great toil. At his side, the noble but shadowy elf fought with what weapons he had, quelling the rampage of the beasts as they came, dodging and snaking about them to let their lunges shoot astray and their deadly fangs find solace only in the rock-hard earth of their cave. Morgoroth was a welcome distraction as Brór, his two eyes closed tightly and reddened as if the force of his new labor taxed every aspect of his existence. Slowly, the jagged crags of boulders and stones began to be uprooted from the tunnel floor, rolling off into cradling niches in the rock. With swift, clenched fists, Brór jammed his hands into each stone, rolling them slightly forward. The ploy was unsuccessful, but the rocks did manage to crush a number of hapless arachnids, squealing incoherently beneath their inanimate destroyers. He pushed onward, kicking and stabbing with his arms and legs, flailing madly to hamper the voracious creatures, he bashed at the boulders and chunks of earth, continuing to flatten and annihilate many more spiders, but still, he got no closer to any goal.

Suddenly, the rocks moved with a painless, delicate ease as Brór brushed ignobly against them, nearly slumping upon them in his weariness. He thought himself beleaguered by foes as he felt the air around him hot with the breath of living things, but, as his eyelids peeled open with a decaying crack, he took in the sight of his comrades, Dorim Stormweaver and Dwali, pressing themselves, unhesitant, against the rocks. A quick chorus of spider screams rose from the tunnel and its pitch tone echoed all through it as the three dwarves rolled one great stone and those that clung feebly to it towards a maw in the tunnel floor from which the spiders were issuing. As spider climbed the rolling rock and thrust themselves on the dwarves, swift arrows, alight with tails of sunlight, caught them in their skyward paths and threw them to the ground. They were the shafts of Morgoroth, fired in quick succession. They downed the spiders attempting to waylay them, to their gratitude. Pouring their concentration and their inherited strength into each step, the trio at last had the boulder of debris hovering a body’s length from the door in the earth. Just as a new tidal torrent of spiders surged up in a column from the hole, the rock fell, swiftly turning, and trapped them in their hiding spot beneath, wailing in evil protest.

The dwarves backed up, circumspect, and again drew their weapons, rolling stones with their movement to slay more creatures. They needed now to find new ammunition for their scheme. They hurried on and back, letting Morgoth’s bolts continue to afford them much needed time to uproot more. They heaved the rocks up, pulling the makeshift weaponry up with great strength and heaving each piece towards the most congealed masses of their foes, crushing and maiming many, sometimes overwhelming another entrance. As Brór sprinted readily onward, he turned with an almost gleeful look to his brothers in arms, who swiveled about him, batting haphazardly at the horde of enemies. Brór’s sudden uproar alerted them again, causing them to turn, still battling the multi-legged fiends.

“Go, my kindred,” he cried loudly, brandishing his cudgel in the dark air to signal to all who could see or hear that were now within, “and let us bring the skill of the Dwarves to this fight. Let Spiders vile try as they may, for if they slay us here, we shall drag them unto the depths before our breaths have been spent!” As he spoke in a raucous roar, passionately echoed by Dorim and Dwali, though still lost in the shadow, the war cry of the Dwarves was full and deep in his mind and his chest, flaring out as the sulfurous and tormenting flames in the breath of a dragon would. It felt as a hearth in his sole, rebuilt and lit with fires to illuminate all the darkest depths. “Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!”