Last Hope for Moria RPG

[mark12_30]

Her eyes narrowing, Lînsie considered Oin. "You want him to go alone?"

"We can't spare any warriors, " replied Flori. "We need all our strength to hold the Gates."

"Apparently, I am not needed at the gates, since Ori said I didn't have to fight there, " Lînsie replied in a steely-cold voice. "I may as well be useful somehow."

Ori looked angry, but Flori looked at Oin. "She has a point. About not sending you alone, I mean."

[Imladris]

Ori stared at Oin, Flori, and Linsie. They had a point -- Orcs could crawl within the caverns, other unknown evils lurk in the dark. With a wave of his hand he said, “Fine…do as you will.”

He left Oin and Linsie in the chamber, and went to the Bridge. Distantly he could hear the orcs cackle, the dull banging upon the gates and they tried to force them open. The Dwarves were scattered behind rocks…waiting for the orcs to burst through like vile water through a flimsy dam.

He drummed his fingers against the wood of his short, stocky bow. His quiver was full of plenty of arrows. He hoped that the way to Hollin would be clear, so that they could escape that way. Maybe they could drop by the Shire and visit good old Bilbo again since they would be on the right side of the mountain. He sighed and notched an arrow to the string.

[The Perky Ent]

Nali's mind was having a frenzy. Orcs, gates, bridges, death. It was all too much. The gates were barred and all of his preferable choices were crushed. He now must hid behind a rock and fight to his death. Far off, he could hear the orcs coming.

"Well Ori, you've been a great pal...to the end." Nali said as his palms sweated as he gripped his ax so tight a troll would scream. "now i'll have none of that talk Nali! This will not be our end. If the worst coems, we can retreat into Eriador."

And as Nali drew a breath, a hoard of orcs came and flowed into the area right in front of the rocks. "Where are they!?!" one of the orcs said. Their position was sound. It would be a perfect suprise attack. But looking at the size of the massive horde, Nali drew a deep breath, which the orcs heard. They crashed into the rocks like water on a shore. The battle had started

[Orual]

"She has a point. About not sending you alone, I mean."

Óin looked indignant. "I can handle myself alone!" he announced, slinging his axe proudly over his shoulder. "I need no assistance."

He looked towards the path to the Gate, and suppressed the urge to shudder. He could handle himself. He needed...a really, really strong ale. Flori was looking at him, waiting for him to continue.

"If I need help, Lin going with me will not..." He paused so his voice wouldn't break. "If more than one person is needed, two won't..."

He coughed violently. "I'll go! I'll go. The rest of you decide who else will come. I will fulfill my duty for Balin."

I couldn't help him, but maybe I can help the others, he thought as he took a deep breath and started for the Gate.

[mark12_30]

Lînsie watched him go, and shouldered her axe. She let Oin get almot out of sight, and then nodded at Flori and headed after Oin.

"Watch yourself," Flori said.

"I'll be busy watching Oin, " she growled, and quickened her pace. Oin disappeared into the passageway west with Lînsie trailing him.

The darkness was thick, as it was everywhere in Moria when the candles and lamps were not lit. Oin carried a small flame. He would need it, Lînsie thought. They both would.

Oin paused and looked back at her. "All right, then, " he said.

Lînsie thought she heard gratefulness in his voice. It would have been a long dark journey to take alone. She nodded, and shifted her axe. They marched westward, glad for the little flicker of Oin's lamp. Flori had given him eight days worth of oil, if they kept the flame quite low.

[Saraphim]

The tiny flame of Oin's candle flickered in the darkness, and Narin had to make his decision quickly, or it would be made for him.

"Agh!" he exclaimed loudly, "Bugger it all!" and went jogging after Oin, and, more importantly, Lin.

Catching up to the pair proved to be difficult. The pattern of deep pockmarks in the floor had no rhyme or reason, and many times threatened to swallow the poor dwarf.

When he finally reached them, he was short of breath and pathetic-looking, but attempted to put on a brave and important face.

Oin and Lin looked at him like he was a fool. He was, of course, but didn't realize it.

"I... I heard," he panted, "That you were going... to the West Gate. I... I'll come too... O...orcs." he finished lamely.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Orual's post - Óin


Óin grunted as Lîn caught up with him. "Bloody troublesome dwarf," he called irritably, "when I say I can do it myself, I mean I can do it myself!"

"Now isn't the time for hard-headedness, Óin, though I know it's difficult for you to be anything but obstinate," Lîn retorted.

"Now also isn't the time for lasses to be meddling in the affairs of experienced adventurers," Óin shot back. If Lîn was surprised that he knew she was a woman, she did not show it.

"An 'experienced adventurer' would know that there is strength in numbers."

"Two isn't a big enough number."

"It's better than one."

"Fine!" Óin cried, flinging his arms into the air. "But when we both get killed, don't come crying to me." Lîn raised an eyebrow, and Óin started off.

The path got darker, and darker, and darker, until Óin could hardly see his own hands before his face. The Gate was getting close. "Nervous, lass?" he asked, trying to keep his own voice steady.

"No." He couldn't tell whether or not Lîn was lying. Honestly, he didn't care--even a lie was more comforting than if she had admitted to fear. He needed a steady hand.

He heard something rustling. Was that water? He reached out a foot and touched it experimentally to the ground, or what he thought was the ground. He stumbled when his foot did not hit floor, but water.

"Steady!" Lîn caught him under his arms before he could crash to the ground. "Steady!"

Óin was breathing hard as he righted himself. Something was not right. What was this water? What was in the water, more importantly? Not orcs, probably. Some animal? Fish? No, too big for a fish--

"Óin!" He heard Lîn's scream, but not in time. By the time he turned around and saw the monstrosity that had risen out of the depths, he knew it was too late.

"Run!" he ordered, trying to obey his own command, but not possessing the strength or speed to accomplish it. He felt a tentacle wrap around his ankle. "Run! Tell the others! Run!"

His head slammed hard against the floor as the tentacle dragged him, but he heard Lîn's retreating footsteps. "Tell Gloin--"

Hopefully Lîn had heard him, but it was too late to deliver a message. He died with his brother's name on his lips.

[Will Witfoot]

Alrik fingered the haft of his axe morosely. The low spirits of the whole company was evident from their shuffling gait and bleak expressions, not that he blamed them. He himself had never felt his spirit to be in such a low ebb, and suddenly he felt all the years of his long life weighing him down. He felt very, very old.
Without much heart he took up position at the bridge, resolving to defend it to the bitter end. It was a strong position, the narrow passage that lead across the deep chasm yawning before his feet effectively nullifying whatever numbers the enemy had to bear on them, and making fighting extremely hazardous for those on the bridge itself. At least they might be able to send many of the beasts to their black maker, but their chances of salvation looked slim.

He set down his axe and unslung the two throwing hatchets he had made during their stay in Khazâd-Dum. The spawn of Morgoth would have to pay a high price for passage.

He cast his eyes over the great hall, possibly for the last time. The magnitude of the work on everything, the pillars, walls, even the defensive bridge in front of him still moved him even after all the time they had spent in this place, the home of their ancestors. He took in all the painstaking detail in even the most mundane of features of stonework, and felt some vestige of pride and strength returning to him. If he was to fall here, to protect this place with his life, so be it. He had lived long enough. His wife had died of old age, he had done and achieved a lot in his life and had a part in shaping the history of his race. They all had.
Softly at first, but with increasing resonance, he began to sing an ancient battle-hymn of the dwarves. Soon the entire hall was echoing with words as old as the mountains themselves.

He looked around at his remaining companions.

"For Balin! For Khazâd-Dum! For the dwarves!". He cried. As the words left his lips, he felt the last vestiges of self-defeat draining out of him.

He had lived the kind of live he wanted. Now he wanted to find the kind of death he had allways craved.