Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Arry]

Vitr raised his brow as Lys tipped back yet another mug of ale – one from her own cask this time. He wondered if she’d restocked their medicine box, if there were a good supply of white willow bark to put a damper on the raging headache he could see brewing on the horizon of the coming day.

Ah, let her have her fun, man. he chided himself, reining in the inclination to warn her off drinking so much so fast. She’d been a little down of late, or so he thought. Though when asked she’d said it was just some little chill she couldn’t seem to shake.

That worried him some; it wasn’t like her. His own Gran had had a bit of the ‘sight’, or so his mother called it . . . the knack of seeing into shadows, somehow knowing when something hurtful were coming. The one time, though, she’d had a chill as she described it, it was a dogged feeling of doom that she could not shake nor pinpoint as to its cause. ‘Feels like some cold wind from somewhere’s blowing cross my neck.’ In her last days Gran had talked about her heart going pitter-pat in her chest for no reason along with the wicked chill that raised the hairs at the nape of her neck and crept down her spine. ‘Some big, old hairy legged rock beetle just skittered over my grave,’ she’d say with a flick of her hand as if to pass it off as nothing.

It hadn’t been nothing, though. Death had come for her . . .

Vitr shrugged his shoulders in an effort to throw off his unpleasant thoughts. This was a day of celebration, he reminded himself. Durin’s Day and the day of his son and daughter’s birth.

As he raised his own mug with the others, Vitr put his free hand at the small of his wife’s back, wanting to make concrete the affection he felt for her. He only sipped at the brew, looking often at her face from the corners of his eyes. A smile curved his lips. Her cheeks were quite pink, from the heat of the crowded hall, he thought, as well as the ale she’d drunk, and no doubt from the sheer pleasure of being out and about with no tasks to be taken care of. Her brown eyes glittered merrily it seemed in the highly lit room, and as merry was her laugh at something someone had said. There against her near cheek lay a coppery tendril of hair having escaped from her thick, neat braid he noted, resisting the impulse to draw it back behind her ear. Seventeen years together, he smiled and, so far, more filled with sweetness than with sorrow.

By chance, or mayhap some uncanny design, a small, stray breeze curled its chilly finger down the collar of his tunic. Perhaps from one of the ventilation shafts that drew the outside air into the caverns. He shivered, taking his hand from Lys’ back to rub at the nape of his neck.

‘Mahal, be between us and harm,’ he murmured quickly, an old oath of protection coming readily to his lips. ‘And protect us from all baneful foes and their workings.’

And as quickly, his arm went round about his wife’s waist, drawing her close against him. His gaze flew round the room, seeking out the figures of his son and daughter.

[Lilly]

‘What are you looking for?’ Lys leaned against Vitr’s side for support as she stretched up on tip-toe to see where his gaze wandered. She could feel how tense he held his body, as if there were something quite unwelcome coming.

Shoulders and heads and arms raised in toasts, in greetings obscured her view at times. But for the most part, all she noted as she looked about were the smiling faces of people happy and at ease. ‘Is there something happening? Something I should know about?’ Lys tugged on the sleeve of his tunic. Some little fear began to niggle at the back of her mind.

‘Vitr!! It’s not Tív and Tíva?!’

Relief flooded in as her daughter’s voice called out to her, followed close on by Tív’s gleeful shout to Vitr. ‘Mami! Papi!’ they cried out. ‘Look at what Nîsa’s given us!!’

[Thinlómien]

"Would you mind staying here to break the news to Oin? He knows you better and it will be a comfort to be with a friend when he hears of what was done. I must go and give an accounting to the colony."

"I will see to it," he said quietly, inclining his head a little. He wondered if he should have added "my lord" since Tror would now become the head of the colony. Ori had never had to call Balin "my lord" - he had tried it a few times, but his old friend had forbidden such behaviour, saying it was silly and unrespectful to their long history together. Even when becoming a high lord among his people, Balin had kept his warm and down-to-earth approach to people without losing his lordly dignity that commanded respect.

Ori wiped the corner of his eye with his sleeve. There would be time for mourning, but it was not right now. He would have to stay composed to see the practical things well done and to break the news to Óin. It was his duty.

He turned to look at the direction Tror had pointed at. He knew immediately that it was not his old friend who was coming.

Who could be out on a day like this, unannounced? Not anyone with respectful purposes, Ori concluded grimly and gripped his axe. He said nothing to the guards at the door but started walking towards the newcomer determinedly.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was acting recklessly, that he was not being himself, but he walked on and called out: "Who are you and what do you think you are doing out on a day like this?"

The newcomer hesitated a little but kept coming towards Ori. When he was closer he shouted in reply: "I bring a message from King Dáin. My name is Gror." Ori lowered his axe, gritting his teeth.

They met and Gror nodded at the older dwarf.

Ori said nothing.

Gror's look grew sligthly uncertain. "I am to talk with Lord Balin," he said.

"Lord Balin is dead. He fell this very day when he went to look in Kheled-zaram," Ori said.