Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Folwren]

Kénan had remained at the gates of Moria. He had not been close to Balin and therefore was not one of the party to go down with him. Yet he had followed them at a distance, but only to the gates. There he stood on the threshold under the mountain looking out on all that passed from a great distance. He did not see Balin fall, but he saw the routing of the orcs and their flight from the valley. His brows drew together, resembling a thundercloud gathering together before the storm.

He knew that in the inhabited halls above, the dwarves would be gathering for the great celebration of Durin’s Day. His two grandchildren would be there. He should be there with them, but his deep sense of loyalty to his lord, Balin, had induced him to follow.

Soon he realized that he had not followed far enough. In time, he saw the small group of dwarves drawing up the path below him, and they bore on their shoulders a body of one of their number.

Kénan stepped forward out of the shadow of the gatepost into the light of the dying sun. He heard the voices of the dwarves in lament. Then he recognized Balin to be the one they carried. He lifted his hand and pulled the hood away from his head, and thus bared, the gray head bent and he stepped back again to allow the body to pass.

[Durelin]

Kórin expertly filled mug after mug from large barrels of ale, pausing in her work only to take a drink of her own or to chat with a friend or friendly face. She paid no heed to whether or not she was refilling this dwarf’s mug for the fourth or fifth time, nor if the two mugs that dwarf carried were both for him or not. Today was Durin’s Day, and they were celebrating the fifth such day in Khazad-dûm, home and stronghold of their ancestors, reclaimed once again.

Kórin, who had never excelled at any craft she had been instructed in, largely because she had no interest in them, was among those who took up brewing (once again, for some) since Balin’s people had settled in and restored the Twenty-first Hall to a comfortable neighborhood. And most of them had been storing more than they had been offering for months, in anticipation of this day. For five years now dwarves once again dwelt in Khazad-dûm, relighting some – if only a fraction – of its forges.

The gathering area in the middle of the hall – a sort of town centre now – was filled with people, laughter, music, delectable smells, and the smoke of pipeweed. Kórin sang along with a nearby group who played on fiddles and flutes and sang:

“The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone,
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty Kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day...”

Kórin let the others continue without her when she caught sight of two familiar faces amongst the crowd, and called out to them, “Good day, Master and Missus Silverfist! Isn’t it your Tív and Tíva’s birthday today, too? What a party they’re gettin’! Tell ‘em I wish ‘em a good one! I don’t suppose I should offer them a full pint, but what about yourselves?”

~*~

Kór had not been back to get another ale from his sister after she had shoved one at him when he helped her roll barrels into the centre of the hall. He had barely touched his ale, as since then his hands had been busy upon his harp’s strings. He played mostly familiar tunes today that those celebrating could sing along to, such as songs about the Lonely Mountain – both the dragon’s coming and the return of the king under the mountain. It was hard to believe that it was five years ago now that there had been another such glorious return – and one that Kór himself had witnessed.

Kór heard some lively flutes and strings from across the hall, and when he heard them strike up the tune of Durin’s song he began to play along with them. Though only pieces of the words echoed to where he sat, garbled at this distance, he filled in the rest without thinking, running the words through his head as he played, absorbing their meaning and pouring that out through his fingers. It certainly felt that Durin was alive this day, and though he was not, Kór played to awaken him.

[Kitanna]

Iari tugged at Kéni's sleeve, dragging him along to the feast. She hated the thought that they might be late for Durin's Day celebration. All that wonderful food not being eaten, just sitting there, or worse it could all be gone and only the worst was left. It would be a travesty

"Hurry, hurry," She pulled harder, but now Kéni was resisting. His feet were planted in the ground, refusing another step. "We're going to be late."

"We will be fine. The food will still be there and there will be plenty for us, even if we're late. We should have waited at home for Grandpa anyway."

"He said he would meet us there. Now come on!" Iari was pulling harder, but her older brother had weight and height on her. Kéni took Iari by the arm and hoisted her up, slinging her over one shoulder.

"Because of your impatience we are returning home. I am sure Grandpa will bring us something to eat when the celebration is over."

"No, no!" Iari cried, beating her fists on Kéni's back as he started walking. It was unfair. Just because he was older did not mean he had any right to deprive young Iari of the Durin's Day celebration feast. The day before Kéni had been as excited as she and now he was carrying her back to their home and missing all the fun.

Kéni laughed as his sister beat her tiny fists into his back. He drew closer to the feast and knew it was time to settle Iari. What would their neighbors think if he brought her in screaming and abusing him? "Best be quiet or no one will give you anything." Kéni placed Iari down and pointed her toward the feast.

Her eyes lighted and she clapped with joy. Kéni took her by the hand, leading her toward the food.

[Groin Redbeard]

She was left alone for some time with her thoughts, humming to herself and slowly turning the roast. But her thoughts were disturbed by the patter of little feet and the excited shouts of little voices. She smiled to herself and went on with her duty. Presently she felt the little hands suddenly seize her and begin to tickle, she jumped in pretend surprise and then turned on the little Tiv and Tiva and began to chase them around the makeshift kitchen catching one up in her arms and then the other. The little kids laughed with her as she carried them back to her stool.

"My my, you kids are getting heavy. I wonder, could it be that today is your birthday?"

"Yes yes, it is!" the children shouted excitedly.

"Then that calls for gifts, but they must be special gifts for today is Durin's Day and it is not every year that you may celebrate you birthday then."

The Kids held their breath as Nisa reached under her stool and lifted up two packages of stoat skins and handed it to the children she looked on with delight as they opened the pouches and displayed the contents in the light of the fire. One of the packages contained a some wooden figures in the shape of a bird with a sharp beak, they examined it for some time but soon had to ask her what they were.

"These," she explained holding the two figures in her hands, "are raven callers. It was said that in the days of old our folk could speak to the ravens of the hills and call on them for aid. Alas, all too few of us know the language today, even my cousin has endevoured to learn it and failled, but with these you mearly have to blow in this end and a ravens call will pertrude out of it, watch." Nisa placed one to her lips and blew, a sharp caw rang out across the hall and the Tiv and Tiva immediately began blowing on them.

Tiv was handeling an object in the second pouch, they were richly adorned belts of gold studded leather. Tiv's was dark green and sparked when shown in the light; it was adorned with a small jewel on the front. Tiva's was of light blue, but hers did not shine in the light, but instead sparkled and glowed when in the dark, a special kind of "magic worked by Bain who she had purchased them from. Both of the artifacts were well wrought and valuble possetions, but she was a wealthy dwarf and spared no expense on this special day.

However, though the children were pleased with their gifts and thanked her over and over for them she was filled with an emptiness. She had not yet fulfilled her duty and produced an offspring. Nisa wondered how happy Tiv and Tiva's parents were, and how richly they had been blessed to have two little darlings such as these.

"Now you two," she said after the children had fastened their new belts on and stored their raven callers in a pouch, "you best be getting back to your parents. I still have work to do and lord Balin will be back soon."

[Lilly]

Tív and Tíva

The twins were agog at the gifts Nîsa had given them. Tíva buckled her new blue belt about her waist and twirled about, cocking her head this way and that as she tried to catch a glimpse of herself on the side of one of the bigger cooking pots.

‘Oh, I am pretty.......so puh-rit-teeeee!’ She skipped back to Nîsa and flung her arms about the woman as far as they would reach. ‘Thank you so much, Nîsa – I love it!!’ She skipped away again to stand in the dark shadows at the end of the hall, where her belt glimmered out about her.

Tív’s attention was focused on the raven-call. He recalled times outside the caverns with his father, when they’d gone to chop firewood in the forests that carpeted the mountain sides. High in the branches of the tall firs he’d seen the large black birds gliding from one tree’s branches to another and calling out in the still air. Their hoarse, croaking Kaughs and the variations of that call echoing across the little valleys. It was almost as if they spoke, Tiv had thought. His father, noting they boy’s interest in the ravens, had told him stories of how many of the older Dwarves he’d know as a boy insisted there was indeed meaning in those various sounds.

If a raven caws above your head - you will have company
If she says GRAW!” it will be unexpected company
If she says “GEEWAN!” it will be unwelcome company
If she says “BEECAH!” it will be a lover come to call
If she says “GRACE!” it will be someone coming to collect a debt

Tív grinned at Nîsa and blew a series of calls. He was soon joined by his sister, and as soon had tried on his own belt.

When Nîsa let them know in her gentle way that she had best return to her business of turning the roasts for the feast, they put away their calls and bid her good-bye. ‘Thank you!’ they called aloud again, waving their hands at her as they made their way back into the crowd.

-----------------------------

Lys and Vitr try Kórin’s brew

‘You have the right of it,’ Lys said, accepting a mug of foaming ale from Kórin. ‘It is the twins’ birthday She took a small sip and rolled it about in her mouth. ‘Very tasty!’ She furrowed her brow, catching a taste of something unfamiliar. ‘What is that? Something new you’ve added this year.’ She cocked a brow at Kórin. ‘A secret, I suppose?’ she asked, smiling. ‘Well, whatever it is, I think it definitely deserves further investigation.’ She downed the remainder of her mug-full and held it out for a refill.

Noting the sly grin tipping up the edges of Vitr’s mouth, Lys winked at him. ‘Come now, husband mine! Kórin’s offered a taste of her newest brew.’ She tipped her chin toward her own barrel. ‘Let’s give her a taste of mine.’ She nodded at Kórin. ‘You’ll want to try Vitr’s spirits, too. Smooth, but with quite a kick to it!’

[Groin Redbeard]

Something died with Tror as he saw balin's eyes close for the last time. It was nothing new to him, he had seen dwarves die before, even important dwarves such as Balin yet he did not cry for them. As best he could, Tror held back the flood of tears that wished to brake his dam of pride that held them back. This was not the way for a beloved leader to die: killed by an assasin's arrow, and with him the dream that he held. It was Balin dream burned with a fire of its own when he was around other people, it was he who could inspire the populace to do great things, would his dream die with him?

Tror no longer felt like crying, he wanted to fight, he wanted to hit something to vent his frusteration out on an object. His eyes fixed on the arrow that pierced the dwarf lords back, Balin hadn't even worn his armour that day.

"Take it out," he growled in a low voice at Loni (it was he who was holding Balin), "take it out, take the shaft out!" he said in a loud voice after Loni looked up at him confused.

Loni did as he was told, Nali took his robe off and wrapped the dead lord in it. Even in death Balin was a kingly sight.

"Come my friends," said Tror in a gentler voice, "we must not linger. The people will be expecting the return of their lord."

Together Tror,Loni, Frar, and Nali lifted the dead lord on their shoulders. Tror had excluded Ori from this task on purpose, the death of his dear friend had only moments ago happened and the grief might still be too great. Slowly the dwarves walked in step up the rocky slope back to the Eastern-Gate. Tror was never any good with words, yet he sang a durge in a deep voice.

[Himaran]

"Ghaah!"

Dalin winced in pain, letting his hammer clatter to the stone floor. Grimacing, the dwarf tugged off his thick leather gloves and tossed them aside before examining his sore thumb. The damage appeared minor, though shades of deep purple blue and significant swelling had already begun to set in. He shook it furiously, sucked on it briefly, then shook it some more, silently cursing his misfortune. It had been simply ages since his last mishap in the forge; and while crafting something as simple as a pickaxe for one of the miners! Dalin couldn't decide if he was more perturbed by his lack of concentration or the pain itself.

The pain, however, soon faded, leaving the dwarf to brood on his error alone. It seemed as if he had been distracted all day; not even in the forge, a sanctuary of sorts to Dalin, was he left unaffected. Picking up the culprit hammer, he gripped the handle tightly, raised it up, let it hang for a fleeting second, and brought it crashing down against the searing red metal. Again, and again, he swung his craftman's tool in a gleaming arc. He oft likened the path of the hammer to that of his own life; it had a purpose, a mission, a point of conception and a destination. Again, and again, and -- a dull splintering noise jerked Dalin back to reality, a reality in which he had not only missed his target again but succeeded in shattering the base of his hammer in two.

This time, Dalin broke into a loud and profane rant.

Hurling the remnants of his hammer against the forge wall, the dwarf let out a bellow of frustration and collapsed to ground in defeat. What was wrong with him? All day he had struggled to concentrate on his work, let alone socialize with his brethren. What bothered the skilled craftsman even more was the gradual realization that he knew exactly what was bothering him: the dwarf was homesick. Moria seemed darker and gloomier than in past days; a strange sense of staleness had infected its massive halls and chambers. Far too often for his liking, Dalin had begun to catch himself daydreaming of the sunny slopes of Erebor. Rumors of growing orc numbers in and around the region did little to ease his discomfort. Perhaps it was time for a change.

Standing slowly, Dalin glanced around the room to make sure no one was there to witness his outburst. Thankfully, the forge was otherwise deserted. Strange that he was the only one...

... the Celebration!

[Ilya]

"What a waste of time!" Adela huffed, topping off the pan with the last bit of redcurrant jam. The celebration sounded and resounded against the walls, and by the time the pies were done, she reckoned most who might enjoy them would be rather too spirited to do so. "Should have started earlier," she mumbled, tucking a stray piece hair back behind her ear. As she ladled jam into the open mouth of the dough, it quivered like a piece of wounded flesh. Adela sighed, stoking the fire. Why was it her thoughts of late had touch of darkness in them? She glanced up at couple of the other maids chatting with one of the Ladies and then chuckled quietly, shaking her head. In the process the strand of her hair came loose again, limp from the close contact she'd had with the smoke of the fires since before dawn.

The music began. Adela smiled, closed her eyes for a moment, and pictured the kitchens emptying, leaving her alone with the music, a little put aside piece of meat, and glowing embers of the fire to warm her. The solitude of the dark flagstones, to lean on their strength and let her thoughts cease, would be the reward for all the hustle and bustle of the day. Adela didn't put much other stock in the boasts of the miners, but like any dwarf she could sense the voices of the stones. No small feat that the stone of Khazad Dum had tempered her somewhat these last five years, and she liked waiting for what, if anything, it might say back.

Pushing another pie into another oven, she paused for a moment, feeling a cool updraft strike her back and suddenly being aware of the sheer space in the air around her. Small though the settlement was, the 21st hall still seemed altogether too crowded between the boisterous voices of her fellow dwarves and the somber, brooding stones. And something else, she thought. An echo of an echo she could not name.

Adela shook her head, more hair flying free of the bonds that held it. "An echo of an echo indeed!" She huffed over to where the lasts of the meat was roasting. Most had already been carried into the hall, although the choicest cuts still waited for Lord Balin to return. "There's better trade in raspberries than rhymes, and always take a flagon over fate," she recited a mannish saying, looked about, and then popped a slice of one of the honeyed apples that had been set aside in her mouth. The Lord Balin was not a begrudging fellow, she reasoned. Or else, there are some things he just wouldn't count. She gave a leg a good turn as she finished chewing, the noise from the hall rising higher, as an arrow in flight. Odd, but the apple didn't taste very sweet.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Wind was blowing through the pass, coming down from the heights of the Misty Mountains, rushing down the Dimrill Stair, hurrying around the streams of Silverlode and following it, down, to where the young river gathered water from other streams, as they rushed down into the dale. The wind turned around the few scattered rocks, spread through all the length of the valley, as if some giant's child left them here after play. It flew then further, as far as the sharp edge of a waterfall, which suddenly stood in the river's way, as another stream joined her flow. The wind rushed into the crooked fir-trees about it, made them shiver, and it flapped the old and dirty travel-cloak of the Dwarf who stood by them, looking far into the valley below him. He was old, his short beard and long hair being already white, though his blue eyes watching carefully from under the brown hood were bright and vivid. In his left hand, he was holding a short bow, though all his arrows remained peacefully in the quiver he carried on his back.

The mountains were casting long shadows and the sun and the moon over the Dwarf's head were performing a heavenly theatre, but he did not pay any attention to them. He was observing carefully the dale, surrounded by steep cliffs, with only a few bushes and small trees vegetating in there. He stood motionless amidst the fir trees; for a casual watcher, it would have been easy to overlook him in his worn-out brown cloak. The nearby waterfall was bubbling loudly, making it impossible for the Dwarf to hear any other sounds, but the watcher himself was protected by it from being overheard. When he at last moved and stepped forward to climb down the path of slippery green rocks beside Silverlode's channel, his steps were deafened by the voice of the running water.

As he went down, two times he almost slipped on the wet surface. For the third time, he managed to catch his balance only in the last moment. "By Durin's beard," he said, being grateful that both his voice and the sound of his stumbling before were drowned out by the loud stream. "You should take more care, Óin, good lad. Otherwise you may end up breaking some of your bones and who's going to pick you up?"

As the Dwarf continued down the dale, more carefully, as now the rocky gorge was narrowing a little, and also the noise of the waterfall was getting softer, he continued to mutter to himself under his breath, just so not to be louder than the river's bubbling voice.

"Of course I have to take care," he mumbled, as he went on, "but who is going to take a look around the place, if not me? They are all - mining, baking, wining, dining, but nobody thinks about taking a routine survey of the mountains. Of course, of course. It's Durin's Day," now he at last lifted his eyes to take a look at the skis. As if realising with shock what panorama is hanging above him, the Dwarf stood silent for a while. Only then he shook his head, but still being unable to move his eyes away from the heavenly theatre, he stood still.

"It's Durin's Day," he repeated slowly, "but they do not think about some good routine check. At least the main road down here, around the streams of Kibil-nâla... even old Balin got careless, as he became the Lord of Moria." Óin shook his head and made a snarling noise, perhaps a laugh, perhaps not. He finally managed to get his eyes away from the scenery of the skies and looked down at the dale below him. "Of course I am not complaining," he said. "It is good to have a breath of some fresh air once in a while, and now-"

He stopped in the middle of the sentence. His eyes opened wide, as he was gazing into the widening valley below him. The green walls, washed by the running stream gave way and then, the icy cold water continued its way between scarred slopes and following down in foaming curves and leaps amidst the rocks. And there, amidst the rocks, something was moving! The Dwarf now saw it clearly.

"Óin, good lad," he said softly, with his mouth open wide, "you are out on a survey and remain gazing at the Moon and the Sun like some kind of an Elf, and here you have somebody walking all happy right under your nose! Hide somewhere, quick!"

He immediately obeyed his own order. Jumping to the side, he crouched behind the nearest boulder, just as possible it was in the narrow gorge. The icy water was washing his boots and once in a while, a cold shower sprinkled on him.

"Durin's beard, Óin," he mumbled. "You should have picked a better place to hide. But what! You won't climb back there to the fir-trees unnoticed, so do your best and stay put!"

The incomer took a little while before he managed to climb into the place where Óin was hiding, but he did not seem to notice him, until he was just a short distance, not longer than a bowshot, from him. Óin jumped to his feet, preparing his bow, but when he saw who the incomer was, he let his hand reaching for an arrow to lower again.

"By Durin's beard!" he cried in surprise. "It's a Dwarf!" Then he realised that he is no longer alone, and fell silent in a bit of embarassement. But only for a moment.

"Oh, hail to you, fellow kinsman," he said, lifting his empty hand in greeting. "I hope I did not startle you." He observed the incomer curiously. It was a very young Dwarf, lot shorter than Óin, but of a strong build, and his face under the long brown beard seemed pleasant on first sight.

"My name is Óin, of the tribe of Durin, from Khazad-dûm the realm of Balin, my cousin and our lord. And who might you be," he finally looked the newcomer into eyes, with a firm expression as if he had finally evaluated the Dwarf and decided to form a basic opinion on him, "and what brings you to the gates of Moria? Is it that you are bringing any news from our cousins from the North?"