Last Hope for Moria RPG

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

What chance have we? Flói's mind was humming. He's never been in combat before. There are at least two Elves, probably more. All have bows drawn...and aimed. Will there be any of us still standing should it come to hard blows?

He turned once again to companions. Despite the fact that no words had been said to him ever since their departure - except during the fight - he felt the bond now between them. On his own, he would probably have rushed away from the Elves - to his doom. Now, seeing these Dwarves standing still, defying their foes on their own land, seems to instill courage into his heart. He grasped his axe tighter, and whispered for the Dwarves to hear,

"Let them come. Could they really stop us from reclaiming what is ours?"

And I know my armour can stop their flimsy arrows, he added to himself.

[Taralphiel]

Maron looked about the group as they all drew their axes. He watched his glint dully and his eyes darted from scowl to scowl in his company.

It seems that a situation had come about, and that the Elves had found them making their way through Mirkwood. Maron tried to keep down a panic. He had never been in war before, and the mix of excitement and fear coursed through him steadily.

"Let them come. Could they really stop us from reclaiming what is ours?"

Maron heard Floi's whisper and grit his teeth and gave a very small nod. He had said and done little so far in this trip. But now was the time to prove his skill.

[Saraphim]

Narin noted that the negotiations were drawing to a close. Inside, he was twisted with fear, but outside, he unhooked his twin axes and twirled them threateningly.

"Let them come. Could they really stop us from reclaiming what is ours?" a dwarf whispered.

"No, laddie, they can't" said Narin, more to himself than anyone else.

One of the elves, who had spoken to Lin before, was looking at Narin in disgust. Narin realized that he still had a mottled, bruised face and a slightly swollen eye, and that he must look a disgusting sight to these pristine elves.

He smiled wickedly at the elf.

[mark12_30]

Lîn glanced at Thorgeleb, and then at Balin, and muttered, "This is ridiculous; I can't fight with one of my own jewellry customers. Bad for business." He hefted his axe, and stalked around behind the dwarves.

The elves stared, Thorgeleb raised an eyebrow, and Lîn came up behind Floi, and hefted his axe, and glared at the Prince of Mirkwood. "Guard yourself, " muttered the dwarf, and took up a fighting stance. Then he chuckled. "Thorgeleb, I'd wish you a happy marriage and all, but under the circumstances..."

[mark12_30]

Thorgeleb sighed, and took aim at the nearest dwarf, muttering something inaudible. The elf beside him whispered, "What did you say?"

"I said, " replied Thorgeleb, "why can't we all just get along? I'm in no mood for burying dwarvish corpses just two weeks before my wedding, for pity's sake."

"Your pardon, 'Silver Eagle', that we so inconvenience you, " shouted Ori. His hearing was better than Thorgeleb had guessed. Meanwhile Thorgeleb's arrow *pinged* off of Floi's helmet, Dwarvish voices roared, and the melee ensued.

"Baruk Khazad! Khazad Ai Menu!" "Erebor!" "Durin and Moria!"

"For Thranduil and Greenwood the Great!" .... "Mirkwood, silly." .... "Yes, but Greenwood sounds better for a battle cry."

By then the dwarves were actually swinging at them, and the elves skipped backwards, shooting arrows. Close quarter fighting was certainly not what they had in mind.

[Imladris]

Ori

With a bellow, Ori aimed his fist into the nearest elf’s stomach, but, with a remarkable twist of his body, Ori found himself pummeling thin air, and stumbled forward. The elf laughed and danced away with a taunting lilt, drawing an arrow from his quiver. Swiftly he shot it, and it whistled by Ori’s ear. “You call that a shot!” Ori shouted. “It appears your marksmanship has been highly overrated!”

“I missed, you oaf, on purpose!”

“Hah! Just like my fist missed your stomach’s acquaintance!” Ori shouted, redoubling his attack.

“Don’t trip upon your lengthy beard!” the elf said, grappling with Ori.

Ori, with a roar, swung a hook that hit the elf square in the jaw, which sent him sprawling through the underbrush and knocking him on unconscious. “Better tripping over a beard than awaking with a headache,” he murmured. He rubbed his fist with satisfaction and glanced about him quickly. Nali, it appeared, was flailing his fists at three elves who were doing a good job beating him. With a growl, Ori charged into their midst, wondering how they were going to get out of this frying pan.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Flori ducked another arrow and winced as it embedded itself deep into the trunk behind him, before launching himself with a snarl at his attacker. He didn't pause to withdraw an axe, simply grabbing his elvish opponent's feet and bringing him crashing to the ground.

"So much for your famed elegance, elf!" he yelled, before landing a square punch on the elf's face. He drew back his hand for another kick, but the elf, even stunned as he was from Flori's solid punch, drew up one knee very sharply, knocking the dwarf with a clang on the back of his head. The dwarf rolled away, holding his helmet and shook his head a few times before scrambling to his feet, taking up a fighting stance against the elf...who, he now realised, was no ordinary elf. He had managed to fell the Prince himself.

The elf had whipped out two long, white blades, far too long to be daggers but several inches short of being even a short sword. His brown eyes were narrowed as he flicked his hair out of his face. Flori laughed audaciously. "Ha, hair in your eyes, lass?"

The elf clenched his teeth furiously and his knuckles whitened on the handles of the knives, but he couldn't resist a reply. "No large matter for me - at least my face doesn't take up the larger part of my body, midget!"

"Girly-elf boy!"
"Garden gnome!"
"Thief!"
"Tresspasser!"

The fight was quickly deteriorating into namecalling, something Flori considered far too familiar and a possible hazard in a fight. By means of putting a stop to it, he launched himself at the elf's legs again, knocking the elf with a dismayed yell to the ground once more. But the prince was quicker this time, and it was he who landed the first punch, sending Flori sprawling then pausing to rub his knuckles painfully. No one punches a dwarf without severely regretting it afterwards.

But Flori had not completely lost his senses yet, and could see that the fight, which had been an all out brawl before, was now turning rather nastier - Inn-style, dirty fighting is one thing; axes and bows are quite another. He caught Ori's eye, and saw his brother nod. Turning back to the prince he muttered angrily, "Why would you revel in a fight, elf?"

"I do not relish it, dwarf, and neither did we begin it!"

"Well it must be some form of elf-magic then, for the dwarves certainly did not!" came the outraged and patriotic reply.

"Elf-mag...dwarf, just because you cannot-"

"Enough! I have had enough of your ceaseless babbling, boy; the truesilver and all else that Mirkwood yields is ours and no filthy elven pup will get his hands on it!" Flori yelled, then cried, "Durin's folk! For the kingdom to be reclaimed, do not waste any more time! We have showed these so-called warriors a thing or two to remember the people of Dain by!"

Turning, he paused only for a second on the elf before turning with the rest of the dwarves, who were finishing off, landing their last punches and giving the elves a little more to remember them by, before they barrelled away through the trees, still yelling fearsome war-cries and catcalls at the elves behind them.



The elven prince watched them as the four other elves got to their feet, and two started towards the place the dwarves had vanished, but the prince called them back.

"Wait - do not pursue the fight any further, there is little point. It would do neither party any good."

The two other elves stopped, frustrated. "What would you have us do, Prince Legolas?"

Legolas had a slight, bemused smile on his fine features. A dwarf hundreds of years younger than me called me 'boy' and 'pup'. What's more, the prince had noticed what the others had not; just before Flori called away the other dwarves, he had given a very small, almost unperceptible wink under his bushy eyebrows. The prince shook his head, that slight smile still there, then sheathed his knives and turned to the others.

"Only one or two of us need track them, to make sure they cause no harm in the forest." He looked across the courtiers, then nodded to Thorgeleb. "Thorgeleb - follow them, if you will. Make sure they cause no harm and do not come too close to any of our people or the palace itself."

Thorgeleb nodded and gave a small bow before darting lithely away into the trees. Legolas grinned slightly, then murmured, "Silver eagle, huh?"

"I heard that!"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

All the while during the skirmish Malí had been hiding -- yes, hiding behind a large, rotting log. While her kinsmen fought, she had lain behind the log, reciting lists of all the major imports from the Elven kingdom and the revenue it had brought in. The list was not terribly long, but because Malí insisted on also reciting the lovely Elven names that had signed the goods in on the lists, her murmuring lasted well through the skirmish. Malí was not a fighting Dwarf. She had two hand axes, yes, but she'd never used them and never even held them before packing them for the journey. Malí was all about keeping track and calculating and making sure everything was perfect. Oh, and what a job I've done so far! Malí scolded herself inwardly.

Soon Malí had begun to wonder why she was so scared, for the sounds of axes and the whirring of arrows slicing through the air had become scarce. All Malí began to hear was name calling and every so often a punching noise came to her ears.

The skirmish was over before Malí could finish her list of panic, and she leapt up and followed fretfully behind the rest of the dwarves, meekly whooping and cheering war cries along with the rest of them.

[mark12_30]

Thorgeleb swung a little northeast of the Dwarf-pack, and trotted along casually and silently. There was no question where they were; their travelling was loud enough to wake an elf from deep dreams.

Not that that took much, either, he smiled. Then he frowned, and looked down at the ring on his hand. Two weeks til his wedding day. Would he be back to the caves on time? He would never live it down if he missed his own wedding...

The idea of being called a latecomer for the next thousand years made him hope that the dwarves knew where they were going. Make sure they do not stray, the prince had said. Thorgeleb stifled a snort; everyone knoww the story of Thorin's part and how they got lost.

Suddenly, Thorgeleb wished he had volunteered someone else.

Lîn

Aside from the occasional slap of branches across their faces, the cavilcade of dwarves trotted along contentedly and unmolested in the woods. Lîs adjusted her beard slightly, when she thought no one was looking. It was dark enough in the forest that no one saw anyway.

She sighed with relief that she had not come to blows with a known customer. Thus far, she had avoided comitting any serious business blunders; she had only comitted... well... insubordiation and striking a commander. She sighed, and shot Balin a sideways glance. Hopefully he'd forgotten about it, or would soon.

Perhaps it would be best if she gave Balin a wide berth for a while. She edged away from Balin, a little, and drew closer to Ori, Flori, Marin, and Narin.

She turned to them, and said pleasantly enough, "Any scrapes?"

Marin replied, "Bah."

Flori said, "Hah."

Ori said, "Heh! Scrapes? From an elf? Sissy long-haired creamy-skinned pointy-eared..."

Narin could hardly claim to have no scrapes. "Nothing new, " he said.

Lîn smiled, and they jogged on.

[Orual]

Óin crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a tree while his companions had a bout with the Elves. He had no wish to get into a scuffle with the denizens of Mirkwood. Besides, hadn't he said that going into Mirkwood was a bad idea? He surely had. It wasn't his fault that they had gone off into this forest. A forest was no place for a dwarf anyway. Nothing but trouble could come of it!

But trouble had come of it, and now his friends were in a bit of a fix. Óin had a feeling that the Elves did not truly mean violence--nothing that would leave scars too deep, at least--just a little mischief and fun for them. Typical of Elves, that sort of behavior. For all their talk of being the Firstborn, all their wisest-fairest-eldest bibble-babble, they really could be very juvenile sometimes. He rolled his eyes and sighed deeply, and slid his axe out of his belt.

"Baruk Khazad," he said without much vigor, and raised his axe, and joined the fray.

[Pyroclastic]

Deep in the caverns of Khazad Dum, Uzgash sat in his office cave, the ruins of his supper before him. The great orc chief sighed as he leaned back against the cavern wall, contented. He reached up to scratch his head, "Donk!" His hand hit the iron helmet he wore and bounced off of it with a resounding noise. Uzgash glared at himself. He felt so stupid. Almost as stupid as Turgrog, or Nazklash. Orcs like them made him ashamed to an orc in Moria. In the outside world, orcs had to be sharp, swift and strong. These Moria Orcs were softies, they would never survive in the wilds. Uzgash longed for his old band of minions, and the freedom to raid whenever and wherever he wished. Uzgash didn’t think much of Nazklash. He would just use him because he was easily disposable. Lugnush, he didn’t even bear mentioning. Except…hmmm, Uzgash thought about Lugnush for a moment. He might be useful after all. His rivalry with Nazklash could be a great advantage.

Uzgash snorted as he remembered that he had a ‘meeting’ to attend later that day regarding plans for the revolt. He was not looking forward to it. "Meetings, what useless things," he thought to himself. "Here’s the plan: kill Turgrog. Allow mayhem to spread. Nazklash takes the blame. He and Lugnush fight for power…" In the middle of his thoughts, Uzgash suddenly got bored. He found that he just didn’t care anymore. He picked up a bone left over from supper and flung it across the cave, just to hear it shatter against the opposing wall. Moria was so dull! He was a warrior, not a politician. This all reminded him of Gondor, where you could raid anywhere you pleased, because it would take three weeks for the men of Gondor to decide who was responsible for seeking out the raiders. Plans for the revolt faded from his mind as he remembered his glory days of fighting and pillaging, now there was the life for an orc!

[Pyroclastic]

Uzgash watched the orcs mass toward the armor chambers. He knew he should be excited and enthused about the impending ambush, but it all seemed so petty now. He had gone to the meeting in full armor, anticipating that there might be some trouble, but for the most part it had been fairly peaceful. Now the orcs were trouping out, on their way to the massacre. Uzgash had had enough. So many squabbles, and he had allowed himself to get sucked into one at last. No. This was not how he was going to live his life, always sneaking around, never actually doing anything. That was the behavior of a stinking Elf. No, that would not be him. He picked up his axe, a double headed one he had taken from a hidden Moria Armory, and began walking. He was leaving Moria for good. This was it, the end of Moria at last. The captain almost smiled.

As he approached the gates Uzgash’s mood deteriorated quickly. Where were the guards? He heard an orcish shriek, followed by a deep "ARRAGHHH! Take that!" Dwarves! Uzgash slowly peered around the gate, taking survey of the battle. A small band of Dwarves was being beaten back by the Moria guards. The guards were ill prepared however, and had become separated into scattered small groups. Uzgash stepped out of the Moria Gate and leered down at the Dwarves below. At last! Some real fighting! Now this was life for an orc!

[Orual]

Óin had been lost in thought for a long while since they had parted with the Elves. A sick feeling had been rising in him, some sort of foreboding. It was not his previous grumpiness or obstinance. It was something different entirely.

He watched the other Dwarves as they carried on their way, and the sick feeling grew stronger. Nothing good would come of this trip. He thought of his young nephew, Gimli, and wondered what he was doing. If he'd only stayed home, he might know.

Caught in the middle of these thoughts, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard an arrow whiz by Balin's head. Orcs, he thought, his heart dropping to the toes of his thick, sturdy boots. He heard his thought echoed by Narin.

"If we win this, Moria and all its spoils are ours," Narin cried, and Óin groaned, but it was half-hearted.

"If we lose, all our toil was for nothing," he added in an undertone. The comfort he usually derived from his moaning and peevishness was gone. He clutched the hilt of his axe tightly. Now for it, he supposed...

[Will Witfoot]

Alrik was nearly quivering with excitement as they neared the gates of the ancient citadel, but held his composure. What would the beardlings, let alone the more elderly dwarfs of the lot, think if they saw him give way to such impulses? They would laugh like drains.

In one hand he grasped his great axe, using its shaft as a walking stick of sorts. His bag was slung on his back and he was wearing his full suite of armour. On his head was perched the winged helmet, incorporating the terrifying war-mask he had made as a gesture of respect to all those ancient dwarfs who had fallen in the long years of war that had slowly eaten away at the dwarf race.
Suddenly there was a metallic ping a little to his left. Turning his head he saw an arrow rebound from Balin's helmet. He saw one of the young 'uns pick it up, and noticed the black feathers that had been used for the arrow flights. He did not need the collective cry of 'Orcs!' to tell him what they faced in the depths.

He reached up and pulled down the mask. It was made of the finest steel, polished to shine like a mirror, and carved in the likeness of a roaring, guttural stone statue. His beard flowed from beneath it like a white river, the gold and bronze rings gleaming in the late sunlight.
He gripped his axe with both hands, brandishing it aloft as a challenge to their hidden agressors.

"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!". The guttural roar rang from his throat. Atlast, a real fight!

[Will Witfoot]

Alrik gave a deep, guttural roar and charged the nearest of their silvan adversaries. The elf let loose his bowstring, and his arrow embeded itself into the ground at Alrik's feet. Obviously the pointy-ear intended that he should come no closer. Such a warning was lost on the old dwarf, who merely gave a thunderous bout of laughter before ploughing into the elf.

"Use your arrows on me, would you, you yellow-bellied pointy-ear?!" He roared before planting one of his stony fists into the elf's belly. His opponent doubled over as air wooshed out of his lungs.
His opponent recovered quickly, though. Before Alrik had the chance to pound his face, the elf lashed out with his stringy arm, catching the dwarf on the cheek. The blow was more powerfull than he would have expected from an elf, but in his time Alrik had taken far worse punishment. His cheek stung angrily, but he forgot about it when he realised the audible crunch the elf's knuckles made at contacting his face. He grinned.

"My face has been attacked by things far mightier than your reedy fist, coward."

Before his adversary could come up with a suitably nonchalant rebuke, Alrik smacked his fist into the pointy-ears chin. The elfs eyelids drooped and he sunk to the ground, knocked out cold.

Just as quickly as it had begun, the skirmish was over, the elves not being able to match dwarfish toughness or strength in a fistfight. Regrettably, it had not gone on long enough for weapons to be used in earnest. A pitty. He would have dearly liked to test the strenght of his axe-arm, and if testing involved dissemboweling a few elves, well, so much the better. Still, he supposed he woud get a chance to make that test soon enough.

"Durin's folk! For the kingdom to be reclaimed, do not waste any more time! We have showed these so-called warriors a thing or two to remember the people of Dain by!"

He regognized the voice of the king's kinsman, Flori Bronzeshield, and gave a thunderous roar of approval. As one, the dwarf party turned from the elves, marching deeper into the underbelly of the dark forest, hurling insult's and abuse at their would-be captors left behind.

[Imladris]

[b] Balin [b]

The elvish circle broke before the dwarves as they rushed into the depths of the forest, leaving bruised and unconscious elves in their wake. Balin turned, and shouted, “Tell your flower crowned King Thranduil that’s thanks for the last time the dwarves passed through his dreary forest!” With a loud laugh, he turned and followed the dwarves through the forest. “Slow it down, lads!” he called. “Old Mirkwood has a knack at taking the strength out of one. Besides, wouldn’t want this to look like a retreat when we beat them fair and square, but they’ll probably say they won.”

Taking his place at the head of the column, besides Ori, Floria, and Alrik, Balin said, “There, Flori, I told you I wouldn’t create trouble.” He flashed them a smug smile and then broke out into a dwarvish marching tune.

They tramped through the forest for several days, passing as quickly as they could underneath the murky darkness. At night, there were always two dwarves on guard, though they only saw glowing green eyes flicker and glow in the darkness. On the third day, when they saw thick, sticky spider strands clinging languidly to the rough bark. Balin shuddered and eyed Ori and Oin nervously. They merrily buttoned their lips and increased the pace.

He once thought he saw a slim, slightly glowing body, vanish between the trees, but he couldn’t be sure. He narrowed his eyes and stroked his beard, but then decided that the elf, if that is what it was, was nothing. He could not bring them all single handedly to Thranduil’s halls.

Suddenly, Balin paused and said, “I thought that we’d be through the forest by now.” Behind him, Mali gave a satisfied snort.

“In other words, we’re lost,” Ori said with a sigh.

Balin bit his lip, peered up into the branches and said, “Yes we are.”

[mark12_30]

Thorgeleb
Thorgeleb smiled sadly as Balin's words reached his ears. Yes, he thought, they were indeed lost. With all their bluster, they were pitiable, in their own pathetic way.

He sighed. They'd end up going in circles, or providing breakfast for the spiders. And then he'd be late for his wedding. Not good.

He swung his heels idly while the dwarves argued below.

Lîs

Lîs had stayed on the fringe of the group ever since she and Balin had had their encounter. She was feeling very chagrined about the whole thing, and tried to behave more like a responsible older soldier and not a rascally young one. The trouble was, she was young. Jewellry was her first passion, of course; but she also liked mischief. If only she could have clobbered somebody besides Balin. Anybody besides Balin.

Round and round her thoughts went, making her feel more and more alienated from the group. She wandered the perimeter of the group again, looking outward, restless. She put more and more distance between her and the group, til she barely had them in sight. Then she stopped. No good wandering off and getting lost, she thought; even though Balin had gotten them lost, at least they were all lost together... She stood in the dark and listened to bits of the argument that came her way.

"There's no sense going on if we don't know where we're going."

"Let's backtrack, then."

"How will we do that if we don't know which way is back and which way is forward!"

The argument went on. Lîn stood under a large tree trying not to worry. The darkness closed in around her, and she imagined webs, and spider-feet. She looked up at the branches above her, and saw a faint glimmer; two faint glimmers. A pair of eyes! she realised with a nasty start. She shrank against the tree, clutching the handle of her axe. But she looked again; and saw heels swinging and kicking in sheer boredom. An elvish face looked down from the tree.

It took several deep breaths before her fear subsided enough that she could whisper, "Why, hello, Silver Eagle. How pleasant to find you here."

Thorgeleb whispered back, "Hello, and well-met, Opal Setter. It would seem that your illustrious leader has gotten lost."

Lîn replied with a wry nod, and the elf smiled. "I don't suppose he'd consider asking for directions, " Thorgeleb said.

"It's not a dwarvish strong point," agreed Lîn.

"Well, I am glad you are an axe-wielder and not an archer; you mistook me for a spider, did you not?"

Lîn smiled, and waved her axe at him. He smiled back.

The argument between Balin and Flori continued, and they listened, the elf's eyes twinkling merrily in the darkness.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

"Now that was a fight." Flói was gushing before Nali. Did you see the way I felled Thorgeleb like a tree? Serves him right for daring to challenge the helm I wrought."

"The first time one encounters combat is quite memorable."

"Will you tell me your first experience in combat?"

Nali smiled, and remained silent.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Flori started to call after Nali, taking a few running steps after him and starting to call his name at Narin's disappearing back.

"Nar-"

"Flori, leave it." Ori surprised Flori and he turned around to him. But as soon as he saw his brother's expression, he understood - he had seen it in Narin as well; the blushes around Lin, his beryl present which, he knew, she kept with her alwats, the nudges and whispers from the other dwarves and Narin's blush that spoke as well as a confession. He grinned at his brother, then sighed a little - it left them wit three less fighters.

Slowly, he walked forward, standing by the closed door of the chamber down to the stairs and the bridge, the rest of the dwarves around him. He looked at their faces in turn, then nodded, satisfied at what he saw.

"We'll defend the door if possible - it's the smallest gap before the bridge and to take any one of us they would lose many of their own. We can fight well from there." He looked at them once more, then grinned at all of them, his blue eyes glittering darkly. "Alright lads - let's show the coddle-brained, wood-headed monsters how a dwarf of The Lonely Mountain fights!"

The other dwarves roared approval and, axe held high in the air with the rest of them, Flori wrenched open the door and flooded down it, fighting down the words that automatically felt they should come after the last word '...lets show 'em how to fight - and die..."

As they came to the entrance, the dwarves hit the first wave of orcs, taking them by surprise and hitting them from behind - because it was from behind, they didn't hit the more dispensable grunts first, but the higher, more powerful orcs. An immediate advantage, Flori thought with grim satisfaction as he swung his large axe with both hands. The first sweep cleanly took off the head of one orc and sank into the chest of another, but the next victim in it's path was ready and ducked around it. He was a swarthy individual, arrogant and full of himself, his rotting teeth set in a permanent sneer and one eye half closed by a wound as if winking salaciously. But he was quicker than Flori might have given him credit for - a rusty blade was out in a flash and as the dwarven warrior swung his axe again, it met with the blade, sparks flying.

The battle for the dwarrow-delf had begun.

[Imladris]

Ori positioned himself behind a rock, and drew his short, stocky, solid bow. He was better at using a bow to pierce the throats of orcs than an axe to hew them to pieces. He sighed, and aimed as the first of the orcs burst through the gates. The arrow whistled through the air, and found its mark. The orc toppled and what life remained in him was instantly trampled by his companions.

Some of the dwarves had bows, like Ori himself, while others were wading amonth them, hewing their heads, or any other appendage in immediate reach. The arrows in Ori's quiver were soon spent, and he reached for his axe. He gripped the handle and, jaw set, beard braided and tucked into his belt, he stepped from behind the rock and threw himself into the flood.

It raged about him, casting him where it would. He fought with all his strength, and the orcs fell beneath his arm. The sea swelled as another wave of orcs poured through the opening. Their leering faces were contorted with gruesome battle cries as they plunged through their fellow orcs, seeking for the dwarves, lusting for their blood.

Ori suddenly found himself next to Flori. His brother's blade was notched, stained with blood, and Flori himself was grim of face. He saw Ori, and flashed a small smile at him. Ori returned it and nodded before he continued to fight the tide. The tide that could not be stemmed.

His brother's words echoed in his mind: Alright lads - let's show the coddle-brained, wood-headed monsters how a dwarf of The Lonely Mountain fights! He nodded as he swiped an orc's head and watched it bounce away.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Turning with speed that belied his age and size, the speed that takes many dwarven enemies by surprise, usually fatally, Flori hacked viciously at the orc's head as it raised it's blade over Ori. The creature hit Ori with a flailing arm at it fell, dead, causing the dwarf to turn sharply, his weapon raised. Flori flashed a grin at his brother, winking briefly.

"Can't watch out for you all the time, little brother," he called over the noise, grinning. Ori raised an eyebrow and grinned back, before both turned back to their battles.

Amazingly, the dwarves were holding their own against the tide of orcs, but where the dwarves were clearly numbered at only a handful, really, the orcs seemed unending. Flori kept seeing them oozing like relentless, vile mould from doorways, corridors, coming across the bridge, even from the ceiling... The orc snipers were fatal and, despite Flori's warning earlier, the dwarves were venturing further out from the doorway. Some could even have got up the stairs, he realised with a sudden lurch; into the Chamber of Records even. They could be after Lin, Narin and Oin - if they came in such numbers, how would the three dwarves stand against so many?

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden shout of depraved glee and triumph from the orcs and he looked around with dread, trying to work out what had happened, despite all the warrior training that told him never to let his guard down; he had a feeling they had just lost an advantage. The orc behind him certainly thought so, and took full advantage of Flori's distraction; the next thing the dwarf knew was a searing, white hot pain in his left upper arm which, the intensity of which almost caused him to cry out. Spinning around a little muzzily, he faced his opponent...whose eyes suddenly crossed and rolled backwards before he fell forward, an arrow in the back of his head. Flori saw his brother staring at him, pale-faced, and the younger dwarf pointed his bow tip at Flori's arm.

"Brother...your arm is..." Flori looked down at the offending limb, staggering a very little from the dizziness which had suddenly set in. Through what seemed like someone else's eyes, he saw his arm distantly - or what was left of it. His arm now reached only down to his elbow, a bloody stump: below that, there was nothing. His chainmail did not cover all the way down his arms. Biting his lip desperately, he urged back the adrenaline of battle into his system, fighting down the sickness at seeing the stump where the rest of his arm, his hand even, should be, and he shook his head at his brother, who was coming towards him

"I'll deal with it, Ori - don't waste time!" he snapped, his voice overly brutal in an attempt to get rid of any tremor or pain out of it, for his brother's sake. Turning away from the younger dwarf's anguished expression, he looked across the bridge to see, with horror, the object of the orcs' delight. Two hulking, bent figures, standing a full twelve feet each, even hunched as they were. Around them, seemingly tiny figures danced nervously, holding the chains around the hulks' necks in an attempt to restrain them as they thrashed.

The beasts were like nothing Flori had ever seen, but he heard his brother murmur something beside him, under the cover of the rock, momentarily safe from the distracted orcs. "Cave trolls."

"What?"

"I've read about them," came the horrified reply, Ori's eyes wide and white. "They..." he trailed off, aparently unable to continue as he looked at his brother.

Flori looked back at the hulks and, much as he wanted to, he could not reassure his brother. The things were huger, almost the size of Oliphaunts, and Flori had never had to directly fight one of those. And there were two of these. They were huge, vicious looking, mottled creatures, the blood of the orcs who had got in their way staining their hands and chins. And they were evidently furious at the audacity of the ridiculous-looking orcs trying to control them - they could whip the largest aside with a hand. One protruding jaw filled with terrifyingly sharp teeth dropped as one troll threw back it's relatively small head, about the size of Flori's upper body, and bellowed furiously.

Flori found himself feeling suddenly weaker, but forced it away. The orcs filled bridge and the flat area between it and the stairs to the second hall: the dwarves contained a small area of it, and Flori was sure he had seen at least one of them fall. He had no time to dwell on what he had to do.

Standing, he bellowed, "Dwarves, retreat back! Up the stairs, now, go! Take down all who try to fight you!"

Whipping his good arm around, he hacked from beneath one orc it's legs, then brought down the axe with a sickening crunch upon it's spine.

"To the hall, dwarves of Moria!" he called again, still defiant.

[Imladris]

Flori's arm was gone. Ori did not have much time to muse over the horrid fact, not even time to mourn the loss, before he saw the great cave troll enter the gates. Trolls that tore you limb from limb, that would squash people into jelly, fry them, chop them, put you into sacks. Ori shook his head...he could almost see Burt and the other trolls around the fire...but these trolls were not like those trolls...they were stained with blood and he could see the blood lust in their eyes.

They had lost the bridge. They could not combat the tide of orcs and the two trolls. Dimly he heard Flori shouting, "To the hall, dwarves of Moria!" He saw a dwarf fall, and wondered how many they had lost, whether Oin, Linsie, and Narin had made it safely to the West Gate...

Flori...how would he fight now? How would he defend himself? Ori felt a montrous panic rush up inside him and clutch at his throat. As he bounded up the stairs behind his brother, Ori wondered how long they would be able to hold the Chambers.

The Chamber of Records would be easily defended Ori hoped. But then again, the Bridge and the Second Hall was supposedly easy to defend as well...

The orcs rushed after them, grappling with them, trying to cut off their retreat. Ori fought them mechanically, keeping close to his brother. He felled the orcs almost mechanically, remembering Balin and the five good years they had had. And all the lost chances of escape that had been ignored...all the warning signs that had bid them leave...of the dwarves who had fallen...

[Taralphiel]

Maron

The dwarf wheezed as he struggled to keep up with the remaining of the company as they headed for the halls. His lungs were burning and he was finding his axe weighed heavier than ever before.

"Maron, don't you slow down yet, not just yet..."

In his panic he had still been able to manage keeping his footing right, something he thought miraculous in the back of his mind. But his greatest thought was of his fallen comrades, and the blood spilling freely on stone.

"You musn't give up now Maron..." he said roughly, and pushed himself forward, following the backs of the dwarves in front of him.

An orc dove across his path, and his reaction seemdd almost fluid. His axe planted swiftly and Maron stepped over the fallen creature and kept on his pace.

He had come and seen what he could have only dreamt of, and all he could wish for now was to see his greying Uncle again and tell him that the shine of truesilver had lost its lustre to him.

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~