Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Folwren]

Kénan growled something in reply to Onli's nervous mumble of words before reaching out and snagging Kéni by the collar. "You just mind your own business, young fellow," Kénan said as Onli turned away. "Mind it and you should be just fine." With that, he turned, pushing Kéni in front of him.

The walk back home must have been a miserable affair for Kéni. Kénan did not say anything, but the grip on the back of the boy's neck said enough. When they reached home, and the thick door was shut behind them, Kénan finally let him go. He turned him sharply about to face him.

"Stubborn old fool, am I? Who brings shame on my family? Shame?" His voice was terribly stern. "And what do you call speaking against your Grandfather in a public place? Not shameful?"

"Not when you deserve it," Kéni answered defiantly.

"You know better than to speak disrespectfully to me, Kéni," Kénan said in a low voice.

"Respect has to be earned," Kéni said. "It can be lost even then, and you've lost all the respect you ever earned tonight!"

“You are too young to understand such things. You will understand in time. If you did understand, you would have known that had any other dwarf addressed me in public and called me a fool and a shame to my family because I spoke up in a time of danger to save lives, I would have laid into him like you’ve never seen me. That dwarf wouldn’t walk for a week, if he walked again.” He began to unbuckle his belt. “And I can promise you that you at least will not be sitting for a week.”

When it was over, and Kéni was allowed to turn about and face him again, Kénan said:

“I did not speak with myself or my family and mind, lad. It was for the greater good of the colony. I did not bring shame upon our name, for Trór has heard me and will take the advice I gave him. I did what I thought best to do, and though it was bought with a price, I accomplished my goal.” Kéni’s eyes still flashed with reproach. “I did what had to be done, boy!” Kénan said. “You will understand, in time. Now get off to bed.”

Kéni obeyed, but he had hardly lain there five minutes before his Grandfather’s thundering voice called him out again. He crept around the corner of his door post with a shrinking feeling and hanging head. Finally, he looked up to face the bristling and wrathful Kénan.

“Where is Iari?”

[Kitanna]

"Where is Iari?

Kéni sat up in his bed. He was so angry and frustrated with his grandfather he hadn't thought to check on Iari. He threw a cloak over his shoulders. "She was fast asleep when I left!"

"Where do you think you're going?" Kénan growled.

"I'm going out to find Iari. You can be the one to stay behind this time!" Kéni knew he would receive the business end of his grandfather's belt again, but he was more concerned about Iari.

He ran out of the house, not waiting to see how Kénan would stop him. "IARI!" He cried as she hurried along. No doubt his voice was waking those who had tried to get some shut eye after the day's events, but he cared not. "IARI! Where are you?" Hot tears were starting to sting his eyes. He couldn't live alone with Kénan.

Kéni banished all thoughts of death and despair. The orc armies weren't roaming the streets and Iari wouldn't have wondered far. But he couldn't completely banish those thoughts. His sister was his life. "IARI!"

"Kéni?" He breathed an immense sigh of relief upon hearing her little voice in the shadows. Iari came out from the shadows near the weaponsmith's.

"Where were you?" Kéni pulled her into a bone crushing hug. "Where were you?"

"I didn't want to be alone so I went to find someone who would let me stay with them."

"You're going to catch it from Grandfather." Kéni finally realeased his sister. He took her by the hand. He knew they were going to get it from Kénan, but perhaps he could shield her from the worst of the yelling.

[Groin Redbeard]

After he had brushed the subject of Onli and Trór into the back of his mind, Nali went on to ask Ori a question about what the dwarf had just said.

“Tell me Ori, what dost thou mean by inquiring about who will command the citizens whilst the warriors are away? Thou pose the question as if the battle will be far away, while in truth Trór has consented to have the Orc’s beat upon our defenses.” Nali gave worried knowing look at his brother and then back at Ori.

“Do you think that Trór will ignore the council?” Nali leaned deeper and spoke nearly in a whisper. “Thou knowest him better than either of us, Ori. Do you know, or suspect something that we don’t?”

[Dimturiel]

Bain soon realized he could not do anything. That was a puzzling thing to him as it had never happened before. Usually he was able to work at any time and nothing that happened outside would bother him. But it was not so then. It was not like that now, however. It was not that he could not hold the hammer in his hand, what bothered him was that he could no longer work without thinking of anything, his mind bent only at the task at hand. Perhaps he should not be surprised, he told himself. What had happened was too big to be simply put aside.

Frustrated, Bain tossed his hammer. The sound of it clattering as it fell made him strangely uneasy. It seemed almost like an omen. Bain shook his head vigorously as soon as the thought came into his mind. He was not the one to think about omens and other such nonsense.

Not quite knowing what he was doing, Bain headed back to the hall. Company, that was what he needed – the presence of others around him, even if no words were to be said. But when he reached the hall he found that it was almost empty. Of course, he thought, many would not be there as they were now probably busy deciding what they were all going to do next. Bain thought idly for a moment who would now take Balin’s place, but even that thought passed quickly from his mind. He would find out soon enough. No need to trouble himself with that yet, he told himself as he sat down at one of the tables.

[Durelin]

Trór was truly startled by Kórin’s request. Did she think her brother was useless? Such things could not be tolerated-it was his duty to fight- how could her brother be as cowardly as not to fight? Yet Trór was not wrathful, something in Kórin’s voice stemmed the surmounting anger that he felt at hearing such a request. It was almost was as if she had pleaded with him to save a life. Nevertheless, her brother would fight if he could help it.

“And who am I to grant such a request? I command the masses, but the masses do not command me. Every cowardly Dwarf will be seeking this grant if I am to give you such a boon. Am I to give a pardon for your brother simply because you are of a higher quality than him?” Trór spoke in a steady calm voice (he thought Kórin would respond hotly if he would respond in any other way) and paced the back and forth in front of her, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “Five years ago he fought to reclaim Khazad-dum; now he must fight to keep it. What dreams he has made, what wealth he has accumulated while here I cannot say, but if he intends to stay as an honorable citizen and not send others to protect the women and children then he best pick up his axe and fight!”

Kórin’s blood boiled hotter than ever at Trór’s remarks. She did not care one ounce about how he treated his troops, or whether he lead the peoples of Khazad-dûm to their destruction through his arrogant nature – but he dared to insult her brother, all but call him a coward?

It was all Kórin could do to force herself to speak rather than scream at this dwarf. “He did not make this request, I did. And I made it because he is the better – far better – dwarf than I, and deserves better than to die as a result of your pride or plain incompetence.”

Kórin had not really mindfully set out to insult him, but the words “pride” and “incompetence” came nonetheless. Whether or not he was a competent military commander had not really been at question – she could not speak one way or another on the matter – but it was a simple jab at Trór which her anger apparently could not resist making.

“You will do well to remember to whom you are speaking to!” Trór’s patience had met its end. Prideful was a description that he could abide with; in fact, he often described himself as a proud Dwarf: proud of his leaders, proud of his soldiers; proud of his kin. Incompetent, however, was the last insult that he would accept from Kórin passively.

“I will not grant you this boon, not only for your lack of respect for me: the only Dwarf who has the authority to grant your request, but also for your coward brother. If he is a better dwarf, “a far better dwarf” as you put it, then he will fulfill his duty alongside myself and other brave Dwarves.

“Honor is the very essence of life to a true man and he would not risk losing his honor as a consequence of shirking from duty. But why do I speak to you of honor and duty? You are a woman and do not understand such things. If you had an ounce of either honor or duty you would not think of suggesting such a cowardly thing, unless you know it is what your brother would want.

“Therefore, I will grant the opposite of your wish. I will find your brother and personally see that he fights in the vanguard of the army. If he is a “far better dwarf” than yourself, and cherishes virtuous honor, he will accept the assignment readily. If not, however, then he will have your impetuous words to thank for it.”

Trór paused for a moment, wondering whether to punish Kórin as well. Trór had no idea on how cruel he had just been to her, and that his punishment was more than enough. Perhaps the punishment would not have been as harsh if Trór had issued the sentence to Kór in person; however, the effects of issuing it to a relative of his, especially someone close, had not occurred to Trór until he saw the look of pain and anger on Kórin's face. He recognized his mistake in doing so but did not show it, especially since he thought his judgment was just.

“I leave in six minutes,” said Trór somberly, “if you still intend to come then you best be ready.” He waited for Kórin to leave. There was nothing more to be said and he did not expect her to join him afterwards.

Kórin clenched her fists so tightly that even her short nails dug into her palms. Every part of her wanted to give him a bloody nose at the least, but for some reason she did not. She was not sure why – she could not think of any consequences she might be afraid of. He had already flung enough insults at her – and he could do that all day as far as she was concerned – but beyond that he had already done the worst he ever could.

“You…you despicable--!” she all but screamed. “You will not last long with enemies both within and outside Khazad-dûm. I can only hope you are not a coward and lead your troops from the front!”

She spat on his beard before turning and storming down the hall, forcing her way past some dwarves still gathered near the doors.

[Gwathagor]

When the council was finished, Frar retired to the doorway, waiting for Tror to finish speaking with Korin. He would keep himself close at hand, for he knew that Tror would need him soon enough - perhaps even more than Tror himself realized. Frar often felt that Tror underestimated him. It was not unusual. Indeed, many dwarves saw him only as the hearty warrior, but behind that black beard and scarred face, Frar kept a keen mind. He was generally wise and could be even cunning at need, particularly in battle. But, as a hero of Frar's youth had said, "Talk low, talk slow, and don't say too much."

Frar had said hardly a word during the council. He was no politician and he had no taste for politicians, for those who were content to talk and would sacrifice anything for the sake of that idol, policy. Dwarves gone wrong, he would think. Dwarves are fighters; debate suits us not. Like Tror, Frar found such extensive talk and compromise exhausting. He would far rather take orders or give them - in fact, he would rather take orders he disagreed with than sit and talk about them.

He stirred angrily several times throughout the heated debate and nearly spoke once or twice, but he restrained himself. Ordinarily, he would have been Tror's fiercest ally, this council was one battle Tror would have to fight on his own - if he could not win the respect of his dwarves alone and today, he would never do so.

So, when Korin spat on Tror's beard, it was all he could do to keep himself from lashing out. As she brushed by him in the doorway, he clenched his jaw and followed her with burning eyes as she walked away. It was true that you couldn't please everyone, but an insult of this magnitude to a leader was unthinkable. Did Korin not realize that the colony was effectively in a state of war? Discipline was non-negotiable, and, indeed, it was only his desire to preserve the unity of the colony that kept Frar from exploding at Korin right then and there. He would give her this one free; but the very next insubordinate dwarf to cross his path was going to have his (or her) face broken. The colony would be better off without that kind of hot-head anyway.

He looked back gravely at Tror, but kept his righteous fury to himself.

"I wouldn't count on your ale being very good in the near future, if I were you. In fact, if you'd rather not be poisoned, you might stick to water."

He spoke jestingly, because he knew that they did not have to discipline Korin properly - not now, on the eve of battle. He also knew that Tror would need all the encouragement he could get now and in the days to come.

"I said very little during the council, Tror - I am not one for words like Balin was - but I want you to know that I will stand by your mind in this. And the next time one of your dwarves speaks against you, I'm going to knock his head off. Or hers," he finished, looking back the way Korin had gone and massaging his massive fist. "But for now, give me a task. We've precious little time to make ready."

[Groin Redbeard]

Trór tightened his jaw as Kórin spat upon his braided beard, yet he did not flinch or say a word; in fact, Trór was pleased. Kórin’s insult would be a serious matter under different circumstances, but it could be ignored-she was just rabble. The insult showed Trór that his punishment was harsh and that was good. He was rid of her, and a dwarf would soon be purged of his cowardice, a good start. Two hot heads down, how many more would there be? He looked down and wiped the spit from his beard.

When he looked up, Trór was surprised to see his friend Frar suddenly appear before him. Frar looked angry and focused when he spoke, but Trór was surprised to hear the wit and humor in his voice: good joke; a rare thing from Frar. Trór chuckled to himself, knowing that it was Frar’s subtle way of encouraging him. Frar went on to explain why he had not spoken during the council, but there was no need to explain, Trór understood perfectly well why Frar hadn’t spoken: warriors make lousy diplomats. Anyway, Trór was glad to hear that Frar would not stay quiet in the future; Trór needed help from his friends.

Frar stood half a head taller than Trór and was visibly as tough. Through Trór, Balin kept the colony safe, and through Frar, Trór accomplished the task. Both warriors were strict disciplinarians and perfectionists, which is why Balin chose them for their jobs. Trór was harsher and more rapid in his affairs, while Frar was subtle, wiser, and a little more cautious than his commander-their differences were what made them strong as a team. In a whole, Frar's advice was usually not accepted well (a fault of Trór's); however, his advice usually shaped the direction that the war council would take. Frar wasn't one to hold grudges against his opponents. Even when strategies would turn out in ways that he opposed Frar would dedicate himself to the strategy with as much determination as if it was his.

Even though Frar was older, Trór had always been superior in rank. Even under the rule of Dain Ironfoot, Trór had been amongst the king’s closest advisers. Unlike most dwarves in similar circumstances, Frar did not hold Trór’s youth against him. As gratitude, Trór shared the command of the army with him as much as possible. Frar was the superior in age and Trór in rank, and they loved each other for it. Frar was his closest friend and adviser, now they would be even closer.

“Indeed, no time to lose.” Trór was roused by Frar’s enthusiasm. Leave it to his old war hound to stir him up. He could read Frar’s thoughts as clearly as he had spoken them: ‘Take care of your new subjects. Let me find the Orcs, say the word and I’ll kill them all.’ But Trór knew Frar would never dare to ask such a thing. They started to walk briskly toward the arranged troops, who were all deeply stirred by Balin's death; their rage was evident in their eyes and clenched fists.

“We will take sixty of our finest and fastest soldiers. Your dwarves are the best trained and equipped to move fast; therefore, the majority will from your command. Forty is a good amount and I will take twenty of my own. You will take the point; I will bring my dwarves no less than twenty paces behind yours.”

The sixty dwarves were already in file before Trór and Frar reached them. Forty of Frar’s and twenty of Trór’s; the officers were well trained, they knew what to expect. The leading officer stepped forward and bowed slightly to Frar and then Trór.

“My lord,” the officer said grinning, “the soldiers are ready.”

Trór faced and leaned over to Frar. “Our objective is to find Óin and the front of the Orc army. We will go as far as the ground I had chosen on the map. If we haven’t found Óin by then, we must assume that he has found his way back to here and we must do the same.” Frar nodded. “Use your own discretion on whether or not to engage the enemy,” Trór added with a grin. He knew that it was against what he led the council to believe, but the soldiers were itching for a fight, as well as Frar. They shook hands before they departed, Trór went to the rear and Frar took the point.

Trór’s soldiers hushed as he approached. Individually, they were the toughest warriors in the army, remnants of Trór’s old command. They all wore heavy steel hauberks and helmets that protected their noses and eyes. Their boots, like Trór’s, were fashioned with iron plates after the manner of the Iron Hills' dwarves. All of them a wielded a heavy doubled handed mattock and protected their backs with shield, which was sturdily slung on their back. Some of the warrior’s beards were braided to keep from getting knotted, while others simply let their beards grow wild. Their faces were whether worn-not old but experienced-there were no young dwarves under Trór’s command. They were loyal, hard, and feared, traits of their race and occupation. Veterans, they were all veterans.

His shield and battle axe were brought to him; Trór slung them on his back. His spear had been placed to the side at the beginning of the council and was now picked up again. Trór thrust it upwards as if to test its effectiveness, produced a cheer from his troops. His helmet was placed in his hands, it was modeled similar to the helmets of his soldiers except that his was gold laced on the rims and bore the emblem of a raven on its crest; it was a magnificent specimen of dwarven craft. The brisk wind that had been blowing during the council had brought clouds to shield the light of the moon and stars. Trór lifted his gaze heavenward. It looked like it was going to rain, a common occurrence in the winter months. Good, the rain will render our march inaudible. Trór slowly positioned his helmet on his head and waited for Frar to commence the march.