Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Durelin]

Kór stood surrounded by vaguely familiar faces, but he could not put a name to a single one – except Grór, to whom he had just been indirectly introduced. It was a strange feeling to Kór, the apparent calm around him, as Trór made his speech. He only half listened to the words, finding it hard to concentrate enough even for such a simple thing. He felt like he was trying to think from behind a cloud, staring idly at various dwarves around him. Many of them had already drawn their weapons – suddenly he felt he should have his axe in hand. He knew it was absurd, especially since he felt conscientious about drawing out his axe all of a sudden, wondering if now that he had waited until mid-speech he should wait until the battle began.

It was very strange indeed, that he had been standing here for so long, that there was this much preparation involved for what seemed to him to be a simple thing. It felt ceremonial, so plain and structured that it only frightened him more. Suddenly a great exploded from all around him, smothering him. He jumped, startled, and now was truly embarrassed so that for several moments he did not register what was being shouted.

Kór had trouble finding his voice, as if he had forgotten how to use it. The power of all the other voices was overwhelming. He remembered the face of the dwarf woman from behind her mug, and the depth of the grief she felt. He felt guilty, guilty for not grieving deeply, for not displaying ingrained loyalty in a battle cry. But there were other ways to demonstrate one’s character…

Kór found his voice the best way he knew how. It was weak at first, but it grew stronger, encouraged by others as it took root.

“Under the Mountain dark and tall
The King has come unto his hall!
His foe is dead, the Worm of Dread,
And ever so his foes shall fall.

The sword is sharp, the spear is long,
The arrow swift, the Gate is strong;
The heart is bold that looks on gold;
The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong…”

Kór wished dearly he was back home in Erebor, holding his harp as his father bellowed the song of victory.


It seemed a slow and drawn out process, all that lead up to the moment when the two walls collided, but the battle began abruptly and then it was all too fast for Kór. The dwarven ranks pushed forward as the goblins did, each side trying to hold their ground and cause the other to lose their hold. The few ranks ahead of him pushed forward no matter what, and every gap was filled in, with no thought for how that gap in the ranks came to be there.

Soon he was even closer to the front ranks. He found himself pushing forward, stepping over the body of one of his own comrades. He had not used a shield outside of training, but he found it natural to cover his body, and not to expose himself for a moment. As he found himself in the front ranks, he reached around and underneath his shield to strike, chopping at whatever he could reach. He struggled to hold his footing, until finally he pushed – or was pushed – forward over a fallen goblin, his boot falling directly on its head. He was glad he could not see a great deal in the night.

Thus it took him a moment to realize that there was a dwarf exposed ahead of the bulwarks, stranded amidst a sea of goblins though he was not far in. Kór pushed forward with greater strength, driven by an amount of desperation. “My lord!” he heard a shout from beside him, and he recognized the dwarf beside him as Grór and the endangered dwarf as Trór, one after the other. He was surprised Grór was still beside him, but pleased. Kór and Grór and the dwarves closest to them pushed their way slowly to their lord, as if they were forcing a wedge into the goblin ranks, hoping blindly that the rest of the line would follow them forward. Kór wanted dearly to look behind him, to make sure they were still protected and were not exposed themselves, but he knew he could not take his eyes off the enemy before him, lest he lose his footing and his life.

[Groin Redbeard]

It was a fight for his life. Trór's side hurt every time his axe brought swift death to an Orc. His axe was like a wave that blunged its cold height down onto flimsy, wavering, weeds. Yet, as the formidable surf, his powerful arms descended and then receded to fall again, but were slowly being choked by the carnage it wrought. Trór could hear nothing, his body was stricken so that he could not speak.

"If I die here, then I die well, indeed!"

Once again he raised his axe and directed it onto the shield of the largest Orc charging at him. As the blow glanced off the shield the Orc gave a dreadful yell; Trór thought that it might have been a victory shout, but all words sounded terrible in Orc language. Trór was quick to retaliate. Again his axe fell on the Orc's shield and continued until the shield was bent beyond use. The shield left the Orc's arm and came flying at Trór, who dodged it with great difficulty. Flinging itself with reckless rage, the Orc bore down merciless blows until Trór felt the full effects of his wound and fell.

The Orcs drew back to await the final blow that would seal their victory. Trór heard shouting, deep throated shouts: the dwarves had swarmed to his protection as they saw him fall. Trór took heart and with the last summoning of strength he struck his would be executer with the broad side of his axe, sending it hurdling back into its own ranks. Then Trór felt the presence of Grór and the coward Kór and lost all thought and knowledge of the moment.

~~~~~~~

Nali

The battle cry of Balin was still strong on the right flank. Nali’s arms grew tireless. Unharmed and jubilant, Nali helped drive the second wave of Orcs back across the ramparts with heavy loss. All was well with his warriors but rumors had reached them that the fight was strongest in the center and that Trór was dead. Nali persuaded the warriors to keep their thoughts focused on their own predicament, but now that a lull had reached his front all of their thoughts went were at the center.

“Find a runner and bring word of the fight in the center.” A runner was speedily sent on his way.

The Orcs charged again. The Orcs clawed to gain a footing but they were steadily checked by the dwarves. The carcasses of the dead Orcs were piled high on the ramparts and slipped as the Orcs groped for anything that they could use to pull themselves up. Nali put himself between a gap in the line and defended it with a tenacity that would surprise many of his age. Though Nali was a proud fighter, he wished that Onli would come soon. It would give him proof of the young dwarf’s loyalty and health: he hoped that Onli had not been killed.

Suddenly, Nali realized he made a mistake. His blow had been to hasty and fell harmlessly on a shield. Nali saw it coming: the shield was withdrawn and revealed a gleaming spear thrust at his chest. Instinctively, Nali sought to deflect the blow, but only half succeeded. A strong arm held the spear and it cleaved through his chainmail and into his arm propelling him backwards.

Nali did not scream or cry out for help; for a moment he wondered if he was dead. His eyes opened to see concerned faces kneeling over him.

“Do not move!” came a voice. Nali looked at his arm, alarmed at what he might see. The arm was bent in an unnatural manner and almost cut off. The sight of it made the pain come alive. He heard a sound like the strike of a hammer on an anvil and felt a sharp spasm of pain in his arm.

“Quickly, bear him to the halls!” Nali saw the officer who had greeted him at his arrival; his axe was red at the edge.

Strong arms picked him up and pressure put on his arm. The sky was dark, without a trace of dawn. Nali wondered if he would ever see the dawn; he wondered how Lóni and Trór were faring, and if his warriors could hold without him. Callous to what he might see, Nali twisted his head to see his arm. Red cloth now wrapped the stump which moments before had been his right arm.

[Thinlómien]

There was no reply, it felt as if no one was there. Had she imagined the cry of pain, or had it been herself? She felt a little dizzy - rum, grief and lack of sleep was evidently not a good combination. She took one step further and reached out to the darkness carefully. There was only thin air. She stopped breathing, there was no sound in the still darkness of the cave. She could not feel the presence of anyone. Am I going insane...?

Then there was a gentle cool breath of air on her face. She stepped back. "Who are you? Why have you put out the lights?" There was no reply, only the barely noticeable brush of something on her shoulder. A gentle brush, as if nudging her forwards. "Who are you? What do you want of me!" There was no reply but the echo of her words in the dark.

Suddenly, Vigdis could see a flickering fire somewhere ahead of her. She approached it carefully. In one of the lanterns, there was a tiny spark still burning. Its glow grew more steady when she came closer, and the warm light surrounded her when she reached to touch the lantern, it surrounded her almost as yellow as candlelight. She felt the brush on her shoulder again. She turned around. "Balin?" she asked quietly, afraid of her own voice and the echoes it might bring. The corridor remained silent and she could see nothing but darkness outside the small circle of the lantern light.

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

He stood back and held his column until the battle turned furious in front of him. Bidding farewell to his brother, he lead the warriors forwards.

“Take care of thy other eye—I would feign have thee see me when victory is won.”

“For Balin then! Farewell.”

Náli's last words made him indeed think more of himself than of his brother now. Lóni knew that Náli will be fine, he could get out of many tight spots before. He was the one to lead his company victoriously through the Battle of the Five Armies, standing by Trór's side in the great battle for the first time.

As he rushed forwards, Lóni thought how similar things were once again to that day. But now it was Lóni, and not Náli, who was to support Trór's back. But the sounds of battle, always so similar, seemed even more similar to that day to Lóni. The clash of arms, the shrieks of the goblins, dim and distant howling of the wolves. On the far left, somebody even shouted "Moria! Moria!" just like the Dwarves of Dáin did in that battle long ago.

The Dwarven host moved forwards and rushed into the black tide.

The gloom was almost like on that day, too. As if seeing it in front of himself, Lóni could recall it: the great bats were covering the skies - how lucky we are today, Lóni thought, that the vampire carrion-eaters are not here.

He could hear shrieks from the far right, as one of his fellow warriors fell to the ground and a vampire bat descended upon him.

The Dwarven axes shone in fierce anger. And for a brief moment Lóni could notice Trór in front of the ranks, just like he was on that day.

"Let go!" Lóni cried, rushing to the fallen, but his brother dragged him to the side. "He is dead. Come! We have to follow Trór."

How are you, Náli, Lóni thought. Now it is me who has to follow Trór. You are right, I should take care of my other eye... I need it to keep it on Trór.

"Moria! Moria!" the cries echoed. They clashed. Trór was amazing, swinging his axe and thrusting his spear. The goblins surrounded them. At that moment, Náli gave out a battle cry and rushed forth.

"What happened!" somebody cried.

Lóni saw it too. The black tide moved forth and swallowed Trór. The Dwarves in the first ranks rushed to his aid.

"Brother, watch out!"

Lóni realised he made a mistake. His blow had been too hasty and fell harmlessly on a shield. He could only see a blurry motion of an axe being swung towards him from his right side. Instinctively, Lóni sought to deflect the blow, but only half succeeded. He could feel the blade cutting the flesh on his face, before he managed to push it away. But the pain overwhelmed him, he could not see, he fell to his knees and awaited the final blow.

Lóni could not be completely sure what was going on ahead of the bulwarks, but it was obvious to him that the goblins are rushing to crush the vanguard, to crush what was left of Trór and those who were defending him. Yet there was no way Lóni himself could stop them now.

He heard a strange noise and then a gurgling sound which no doubt came from the goblin in front of him. He managed to force his eyes open and through the mist and blood blurring his vision, he could notice it: a hail of Elven arrows fell from above.

"Take arrows!" he cried, taking his own very old shortbow. "Stop them! Shoot them!"

He was not the only one in the line to carry a bow. The Dwarves around him, who were standing in the back, were armed with ranged weapons too and now they sent their hail of arrows into the ranks of the Orcs. It worked: the attackers were distracted from their attempt and forced to pull back. Lóni knew it could not last, but it might at least give Trór and those around him time to put themselves together.

[Groin Redbeard]

Shrieks filled the air, groans of the dying and wounded. The sounds echoed from wall to wall each time growing fainter but greater in numbers and complexity, creating an audible vision of terror. This was not a battle, this was a hospital.

The First Hall was littered with tables and litters; a few surgeons anxiously trying to help the wounded quickly before moving to another wounded warrior. Nisa was one of those attendants who followed the surgeons around; she had a gift with herbal remedies that cheated pain and quickened sleep. Her timid nature was forgotten now, she had been in places like this before, but never so large, yet, Nisa’s will did not break. Outside the battle was becoming fierce. It was louder than before and fewer bodies were being brought in. Victory was near, or defeat had already been sealed.

“Nali!” Nisa recognized the aged dwarf. Nali was brought in on the shoulders of four warriors, he was hastily set down and surgeon was hollered for.

“Why do you linger my brave warriors, fight while you still can.” With tears brimming, warriors returned to battle. Nisa knelt by Nali and held his good hand.

“My lord, lie still you have lost much blood.”

Nali calmed down for a few minutes, enough for Nisa to clean the wound. What a ghastly thing to happen to such an old and venerable dwarf. Is fate so cruel that it would allow Nali to die so unfavorably? What great sacrifices necessity calls of us. Nisa was angry: this isn’t fair, this is not just. Like flies to vaunting boys are we to the gods: they kill us off like flies.

Suddenly Nali began to breathe heavily. He opened his eyes, wild and delirious. Nisa felt very uncomfortable with Nali staring at her, no look of recognition could be read from his face.

“How did it go, Trór?” Nisa started at the abrupt question. Nali clearly must be delirious with the loss of so much blood. She began to stutter.

“I did not see much; the boys got their dander up and charged the rocks. Did fortune favor us?” Clearly, Nali was mistaking her for Trór; perhaps relaying one of those old encounters they had back in Erebor. Nisa nodded her head, she couldn’t speak.

“We took those rocks?” Nali’s face lit up, trying to raise himself up. Nisa just nodded again. He lay back on the cot and sighed.

“I have never seen a worse ground,” Nisa began crushing some herbs in a goblet filled with wine. Suddenly Nali seized her arm. “Thou wilst give my boys full credit for today’s accomplishment?” Nisa was truly frightened now at Nali’s state, she needed to get him to sleep. With shaking hands she forced the cup into Nali’s hands. He examined it for a moment and then gave a knowing smile.

“Aye we’ll drink on it then.” He drained the cup and fell into a content, yet feverish, sleep.

[Durelin]

Kór

They apparently had reached Trór just in time, or perhaps the dwarf lord felt he could let go now that there were friendly shields and axes to protect him. He fell unconscious into the midst of his rescuers, though not before dispatching another orc attacker. All the would-be rescue party could do for several moments was fend off the orcs who rushed at them, seeing an opportunity to pick off a small group distracted by their fallen comrade. But then there was a whistling overhead, and many of the dwarves instinctively crouched down to try to cover their heads as well as their bodies with their shield. But the whistling came from behind them, and arrows weeded out the orcs in the front lines.

Trór’s body was pulled quickly behind the wall of the Kór and Grór’s shields, and was dragged slowly through the snow back into the vanguard even as the other warriors continued to push forward. They could not raise up Trór’s body to carry it respectfully, no matter how much they wished to – for his own safety and for the entire army. They could not bear his unconscious form away for all to see that their lord was leaving the battlefield in less than victorious fashion.

As the rescue party pulled back into the dwarven ranks, ready warriors flooded around them to hold the ground from which they had retreated. Kór felt almost able to relax, but when he had a moment to turn around, he felt a new fear and apprehension. Regardless of how he felt about Trór, this was the Uzbad Khazaddûmu, and the heart of the soldiers if not yet the heart of the civilians. Kór had to wonder if Trór’s reign would indeed not even last a day.

Quickly Kór got to work with the others. While Grór took Trór by the legs, Kór helped ease the stress on Trór’s body by lifting him from underneath. At least four dwarves helped carry the Lord of Khazad-dûm off the battlefield. It was unceremonious, but they hoped to avoid any commotion over the fallen lord as well as get him aid as quickly as possible.

~*~

Kórin

Kórin could only listen to the women in the First Hall fretting for so long. As wounded dwarves began to trickle in early still in the battle, many bravely rolled up their sleeves and did everything they could to put the warriors back together. But some spent more time worrying, and voicing their worry, than Kórin could stand. These were the types who would spend all their time worrying and leave no time to do anything about it.

She had already donned her mail and carried her mace at her side, and had gone to the hospital in the First Hall to get news about the battle. Unfortunately she learned little, and was still steaming over how much time she had wasted as she made her way to the Dimrill Gate. Kórin soon joined the ranks of the rearguard, but attempted to make her way forward in the lines as quickly as she could without disrupting the formation. Many dwarves glanced at her, even while they did their best to ignore her, and before long an officer instructed Kórin to take her place in line and stay there. She was disgruntled, but obeyed and held her peace. She was here to be a soldier, and she realized she should act like one.

She could not help watching the wounded being carried back from the front lines, fearing that each body might be a familiar face. Of course, it was perhaps better that Kór be among the wounded carried away than the dead left on the field until victory was won or...

Kórin did catch a glimpse of her brother, and she felt relief well up in her, though her tenseness did not lessen. He was not being carried, but was bearing a dwarf along with several others. She could not see the wounded dwarf to know who he was, but she would not approach her brother. She would not break ranks, and it was enough to see him alive. What more was there to know?

[Groin Redbeard]

Everything was dark. Trór was walking in total darkness as conscience of himself as if he had been awake, but he knew that it was a dream. He was still dressed in his armor, his axe, black with his enemy's blood, his axe was still in his hand, but the pain in his side was gone.

Trór could sense something staring at him in the darkness. He moved forward cautiously, repetitively looking over his shoulder. His boots made a dull thud on the unseen floor and echoed all around him.

A voice broke the silence and it was not his own.

"Trór."

He froze at the mention of his name--afraid to move afraid to speak. Again, the same voice called to him, only this time louder. "Trór." He spun around expecting to come face to face with a gruesome spectre, but was still met with utter blackness.

“Friend or devil,” Trór, “I do not know into what vision or nightmare you have cast me under, but I will see your face. I command you to show yourself.”

Footsteps could be heard close by. Trór gripped his axe and braced himself for a terrifying encounter. However, instead of a wraith or demon, Trór was met by what looked to be an old Dwarf, but Trór knew that this was no ordinary Dwarf. The Dwarf wore a crown of pure silver, richly carved and decorated with jewels the like of which Trór had ever seen. Robes gracefully flowed in the Dwarf’s walk and were of the finest needle point. Trór knew he would never such crafts as these as long as he lived.

The Dwarf had a white beard that flowed down to his waist, his noise was sharp and his face was wrinkled. He stood tall and in reality was shorter than Trór, but the air of the Dwarf and the authority vested in his stare made Trór feel very small. The Dwarf’s stare far surpassed Trór’s worst glare and Trór quickly fell on his knees.

“Spirit I know that you are no devil come to taunt me. I know that I am dead and that I am now encountering the terrible unknown that all Dwarves face when they have died. Spare me, I pray you! What is it you will?”

Trór dared to look up at the spirit, somewhere he had seen this face before whether etched in stone or in person but he could not tell. The spirit bade him rise (which Trór readily did). Trór saw that they were standing within the walls of Khazad-dum itself, he was not dead--this was a vision! The spirit pointed to the end of the hall. Fire! there was a fire in the mines.

“What does this mean, spirit?” But the spirit said nothing. Instead, it gave Trór a very pitiful look and bowed its head (it looked to Trór as if it was crying). Suddenly, Trór could hear the din of a battle surrounding them. Once again he felt the pain in his side. The vision was gone.

The battle echoed in his ears. He could feel himself being lifted by strong arms and felt the swaying motion of his march. He still felt the pain in his ribs and wondered if he was bleeding. Trór's eyes were shut, his muscles stiff; unable to speak unable to move, but he was conscious.

Trór could hear his bearers talking to one another.

"Is he dead?"

"He breaths still. Let us wake him."

"Don't put him down!"

"Keep moving!" Trór recognized two of the voices for Kór and Grór.

With great effort, Trór conjured enough determination to speak.

“Put me down!”

“My lord,” spoke Gror, “The Uzbad Khazaddûmu lives!”

Trór opened his eyes and saw that he was within the gateway of the First Hall. Trór immediately thought of his vision and the fire in the mines. He wanted to jump up and run to great halls to see if they were burning, but he found that he was unable to stand without great pain. He looked over and saw wounded warriors lying all around him suddenly he remembered: the battle.

“Warriors, how goes the battle.” For a minute the thought of defeat had entered his mind.

“We still hold most of the defenses, my lord, but they might be overrun even as we speak. Shall the horns blow retreat?”

“Retreat?” A fire leapt back into Trór’s eyes. Gone was the memory of the vision. He only thought of the battle. “If our foes were a hundred times stronger I would not sound retreat! For us there is not retreat, only victory or defeat. Help me up. Give me a banner to lean on and I will stand in the gateway for our enemy to see. I am still Lord of Khazad-dum and I still live!”