Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Durelin]

Silence fell over the hall in waves as Trór and some others who had accompanied Lord Balin entered the hall. Their lord was not with them...there were so few of them, and their faces were so grim. Kórin swallowed Lys’ ale, and did not remember how it tasted. Kór’s harp was one of the last sounds to die in the Twenty-first Hall. He stood up from the stool he had been seated on, and gazed around.

Before he saw anything that could cause an entire celebration to cease, Kór heard those terrible words: “Balin has fallen.” The painful silence dragged on for several more moments, as everyone stood stunned and silently mourning, still determining how they should react, how they should vocalize their sadness, or what should be done. As sound slowly started to return to the hall, as weeping and angry questioning and words of despair filled the hall, Kór hurried to find his sister.

He found Kórin in a rather sorry state. She had returned to filling mugs, but now they were mostly for herself. She had started tipping back mug after mug at a startling rate almost immediately after the news arrived. Kór could only thank Mahal that his sister held her ale much better than he did…and that Kórin actually started to grow quieter beyond a certain limit.

She glanced at her brother, but did not acknowledge him as he approached.

“This isn’t going to make you feel any better Kórin,” Kór said sadly, then added in more of a murmur, “It’s not going to make anyone feel better.”

“Oh shutup and have a drink,” Kórin muttered. “Maybe it will make you less of a prude.”

Cradling his harp in his arms, Kór plopped down on the bench next to his sister. The body of their lord was carried through the hall, and nearly every dwarf in Khazad-dûm at that time crowded around and formed a great procession. The siblings sat quietly, watching.

“Balin dead, just like that, eh?” Kórin suddenly broke the silence between them. “I bet the orcs have finally come back for us,” she added surprisingly lucidly. Kór could not think of a way to reply. He leaned forward and grabbed a mug.

[Groin Redbeard]

Nali

Never before had Nali felt as helpless as he did when he laid the dead Balin upon his throne. There was no shame for those that wept for this man and Nali wept bitterly so that the tears stained his face, he wept like a mother over the prostrate body of a dead son. Only the comforting words of Loni could draw him away, although Loni himself felt remorse it had not drained all the strength from him.

“Come, my brother,” Loni said. “We must stay strong for the people’s sake.” His brother left Nali leaning against a pillar in the great hall before Loni left him to pay his own respects to Balin.

Nali felt tired, his sobs that racked his body had robbed him of strength. There was a dull nagging pain in his stomach and he left in search of food, he did not have to go far, delicious delicacies lay across the massive tables. He examined a piece of cold half eaten mutton before he cut off a piece and eagerly gnawed at it. It would have been a happy moment if Balin had been alive. He smiled for a moment as he envisioned the happy scene that would have been, but tears came into his eyes as the reality struck him that it was not to be. Nali slammed the piece of mutton on the table angrily, he felt new vigor enter him.

“This cannot be tolerated,” he muttered to himself. “Vengeance must be had for our king!”

Out of he corner of his eye Nali noticed that he was not alone. He glanced at across the table at a dwarf he had never seen before. The dwarf wore a dark brown beard, which had been tucked into his belt, and wore a ridiculous leather cap to protect him from the elements of the early winter weather.

“Who are you?” Nali asked, but not crossly or unfriendly.

“My name is Grór,” the dwarf began. “Ori sent me to find someone name Trór. Do you know where I can find him?”

“Grór, art thou from Erebor?”

“Yes, I was sent by King Dain to obtain news from this colony. Alas, I am afraid that the news is not a pleasant one.”

“Ori has told you then of our lords death?” Grór nodded his head. “Then come, my good Grór. The event of this evening has grieved me, but it has also reenergized me. Revenge will be had for our lord and such a matter must be brought forth to our new leader Trór, therefore follow me and I will show you where he is to be found.”


Nisa

Nisa had been one of the loudest of mourners for the dead king, her wails of lamentation echoed through the great cavern along with the other women. She proceeded in the long line leading up to Balin’s body, she kissed the stone on which the king laid on and offered a few words of silent praise of him. Trór stood proud stern next Balin.

“Trór,” she screamed, and threw her arms around him. “How is this to be endured, how are we to live without our leader?”

“Hush girl,” said Trór, gently removing her grasp. “We will survive this tragedy as we always have, if this colony falls because of the death of one leader, may eternal shame rest on our head! Go now, I will come soon.”

Nisa left him, but she still could not stop crying. She saw Adela standing a little ways in front of her standing alone, Nisa didn’t want to bother her but she felt as if she needed to be with someone in this hour of grief.

“Adela,” she called. “Adela, are you alright? You look pale.”


Trór

The long line of mourners proceeded without much event, only twice did he have need of fending off a couple dwarves who were clinging to the body of Balin. Presently, he asked for one of the guards to relieve him, and left in search of Nisa. As Trór exited the Chamber of Marzubul he saw Nali approaching with a stranger.

“Nali, by Durin’s beard, you look awful! Rest my friend do not wear yourself out.”

“I will rest when I choose, my friend. First I must introduce you to this dwarf with me: his name is Grór, a messenger from Erebor sent by King Dain.”

Trór was surprised, it had been a long while since the colony had heard news of King Dain. Grór bowed graciously to Trór, who returned the gesture with an even deeper bow.

“I only wish that I had pleasant news to give you.” Trór said. Grór fidgeted with his cap as Trór spoke, he was swallowing nervously and breathed in quick short gasps of breath. This made Trór comfortable, he often had an intimidating presence about himself, it made him feel confident that he wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

“My lord Trór,” Grór began, making another bow. “Ori has told me of the tragic news, I am sorry for your loss, Balin was a great dwarf, his death will be met with much sorrow in Erebor.”

My lord? Trór was startled by the words. Why did he say that? he wondered to himself, but decided to let it slide. Trór was about to answer when Grór interrupted him and started talking very excitedly.

“My lord,” Grór began again, it had begun to get on Trór’s nerves. “I have more bad news for you, a huge Orc army is approaching Khazad-dum as we speak!” Trór quickly grabbed the dwarf’s arm and firmly led him away from the crowd, such news was not to be made known public yet.

“An army?” Trór asked when they were alone.

“Yes, they should reach here by nightfall.”

“Then no doubt that the Orcs that killed Balin were an advance party, I suspected as much. But where is Oin? He would not leave us blind like this.” Trór spoke out-loud but it was more to himself, Grór perked up at the name Oin.

“Go,” Trór commanded the messenger. “Bring me Ori, and Oin if he has returned, I must find the other nobles. If what you say is true, you will have earned my undying gratitude and thanks, but this must be brought before a council. Summon what nobles you have met, as of yet, and tell them to head for the east gate, I will follow with the others.”

Grór nodded his head eagerly and sprang off as fast as he could towards the east gate, nearly tripping over himself several times. Nali and Trór watched with amusement at this, and chuckled to themselves, they had quite forgotten about Balin and the mourners for the time being.

“Clumsy little guy, isn’t he?” Nali commented.

“Hmm, but quite. Come Nali, let us find Frar and your brother, search for Kenan too, I would have his say on this crisis.”

[Thinlómien]

Ori had sent Gror away and stayed by the doors. The idea of going in and facing all the grieving people was still too much for him. He would not want to see all the silly women who had hardly known Balin wailing as if their husbands or children had just died. Men weren't as bad, but there would surely be some self-important busybodies who'd come to tell him how much his old friend had meant to them even if they hadn't even known him in the slightest. No, Ori did not want to see any of those pretending, exaggerating fools. He preferred to sit there, all by himself, and grieve in his own silent way. Maybe soon a friend would come, and he would be the only one to truly share the grief that was pressuring Ori's heart.

He gazed at the horizon, wondering how he would tell it to Óin. There was no good way of telling it, no way to make it hurt less. Ori wondered if Óin was happy not to have witnessed it, or whether he would have preferred to be there. To be there to see Balin smile one last time, to hear his last words, to see him look in the Kheled-zâram like he had always wanted to...

Ori could hardly see the horizon anymore, his vision was so clouded by tears. He let the tears run down his cheeks to his beard, didn't bother to wipe them. New ones would come to moist his eyes anyway.

There were footsteps behind him, and then someone speaking. "Master Ori?" It was the dwarf from Erebor, again.

Ori tried to hold his voice steady when he replied. "Yes?" It was more like a grunt than like a proper answer.

"Lord Trór summons you. There will be a council. Near here, by the East Gate."

Ori gave the man a cold stare behind the veil of tears. "Balin is the lord of Moria." As soon as he had said the words, he regretted them. Gror was wise enough not to say anything. Ori wiped his eyes and tried again.

"I apologise for my unrespectful words. You are right by calling Trór the lord since that is what he is now. And Mahal knows, I will follow him, even to the bitter end."

Gror nodded solemnly and there was a silence. Ori heard his own words echoing in his head. Bitter end? Where did that come from? Is that what's in front of us?

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

Onli

Onli's first reaction to Tror's words were horror and disbelief. No, that could not be! Their lord, Balin, dead? The Lord of Moria? But in the first moments, when the leader's motionless body was carried into the hall, he understood that all Tror just had said is true. Onli was watching the Dwarves who carried the body, and he was frowning. Their leader. Balin. Lord of Moria. The candle of his life snuffed out like that. And all that Onli was thinking of just a moment ago, the plans for meeting the leader, the plans for bright future, everything was gone. To Onli, it seemed as if suddenly the path he took, the one which promised to lead him to bright future glittering like gold, turned into a dark tunnel where there were no other ways to escape, not a single shaft of light to pierce the darkness. He was lost, his life was swallowed by darkness and fear and uncertainty of the future.

He was still too shaken to think. He knew he needed time to sort things out. What are they going to do? Who is the leader? He set out to seek for Vriti. Where had she gone to? He thought that perhaps petting his little furry friend would calm him down a little.

***

Óin

The sun was setting slowly and the shadows of the mountains were long and deep. The valley of Silverlode was all shrouded in shadow, but the tops of the rocks surrounding it were ablaze with red and orange colors, and if Óin had looked back, he would have seen the sky in the West looking like fire. But he did not turn back, his eyes were on the road before him, careful, seeking for any movement, for any trace of the Orcs that Gror warned him about. But the dale was empty and silent, except for the running river Silverlode which was seeking its way amidst the stones and short bushes without leaves. The wide plains that Óin could see further on opening wide seemed to be filled with last remains of the daylight, and further to the South, where the river bent and ran quickly over black pebbles, dark shadows of the trees rose. Óin nodded his head. There it was, where the land of the Elves lay, not further than a few miles; but if Gror was right, there it was also where the Orc army was coming from.

"Come on, Óin," the Dwarf muttered to himself. "Of all the directions you could pick you have to take this one. How many miles? Three, four?" He looked around carefully, silent for a while and listening. Water was running over the stones with constant soft bubbling. The dale lay in a shadow that was deepening by every moment.

"Be mindful of these little beasts, Óin, good lad," he said after a while, when he could not hear nor spot anything new. He set his foot into the shallow water where the stream was flowing gently into a wide flow over the stones, only to form again one strong river a furlong further. Even through his boots, Óin could feel the sudden rush of cold as he stepped into the freezing river.

"By Durin's beard," he shuddered. "Feel lucky you are not a fish, Óin. But now quick! If these beasts are there, you'd better find them soon and then run back home. Old Balin may already be expecting you."

Fast, he strode across the water-washed stones, then turned left to avoid a small stream that joined the Silverlode, coming from a cleft in the rock above his head. Carefully, he passed a narrow gap between two short rocks forming the walls of the valley, and after that, a wide space opened in front of him. A little bit to the right, the way alongside the river was climbing down towards the woods of Lórien; to his left, a barely visible path ran towards the valleys of Anduin amidst large boulders and stones.

Óin stopped once again and listened. He did not dare even to mutter to himself, not this time. Breathless, he stood like a stone for a short while.

And then he heard what he had been afraid of all the time: the sound of rushing feet, clinging of iron weapons and armor, harsh voices. Many there must have been, coming from either of the paths below, and they were getting closer.

Óin's face all of a sudden looked grave and his bright blue eyes seemed to dim. Intuitively, he reached for an arrow. "They are there," he hissed, and that was all he needed to say to himself. But it was clear the intruders were yet far away enough, but coming nearer very fast. Óin looked around, a bit hopefully. "If there had been a good place from where you could see them..." he muttered again, very soft.

"Looks like there is none," he concluded and turned again towards the two paths opening in front of him. He scratched in his short white beard by the arrow he was holding. "But which way to take now, what would you think, Óin? Them goblins will probably not come too close to the Elven wood, but how can you know? It is still many miles away."

He stood in thought for a while, but attentive for the sounds of approaching enemies, which were becoming more and more apparent. At last he moved.

"No, there is no use to go either way," he concluded. "If them beasts come from over there," he looked towards the right, "and you pick the other route, you are going to end up a king of fools, Óin, and not a scout. And the same the other way around," he looked to the left, "what if they cut your way back home. You could not deliver your news to old Balin, and most likely, them goblins will sniff you out and chase you, and you will have to retreat to..."

The Dwarf looked at the dark treeshapes standing out in the dusk to the south. His blue eyes gleamed, and he frowned.

"No, Óin, not that again," he mumbled. "You will probably escape the Orcs, but this time, there will be nobody to flow you down the Great River in a barrel."

As if he suddenly decided, he turned around. "No use, Óin, my lad," he said. "Too bad. You shall not wait for them here, but if you hurry, you may reach that high rock with the waterfall, and with luck, see them beasts coming from there. Yes, that is what you should do! Now hurry!"

And with these words, the Dwarf started running back from where he came along the Silverlode's channel, back into the heart of the mountains.