Fall of the North RPG

[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s eyes peeled open hesitantly, the lids apparently unwilling to lift themselves off the swollen orbs beneath. He blinked and felt again, the surge of reality rushing up to meet him. The sting of a wound on his forehead came into focus, and the stink of recently dried blood wafted odiously into his flared nostrils. He instinctively moved his now un-gauntleted hand to his brow, feeling the thin crust of dry crimson plastered to the rent skin there. There was some wet blood still simmering in the wound. With a pained breath, he arched his back, shifting numb legs beneath him so that the ruffled sheet beneath him was kicked aside.

“Captain?”

The voice was Belegorn’s, and it stabbed Belegorn sharply. Hírvegil winced, gritting his teeth and slapped his palm against his brow as it throbbed once and then again steadily for a few seconds. His eyes managed to focus as he turned his heavy head towards his lieutenant. “What?” he groaned, twisting his mouth about around his tongue and screwing up his face to accommodate the words, “What is it?” As the fuzzy vision presented to him became clear and acute, he saw Belegorn nearing him, scooting closer on a rickety stool. Overhead was the willowy fabric of his tent’s drooping flat roof. He rubbed his eyes firmly, working bony fists into the red-rimmed sockets, trying to beat out the pain in his head, as Belegorn spoke.

“How do you feel?” asked the lieutenant patiently. Feeling a little better, Hírvegil tossed off a glib response. “Like I’ve been drinking all night.” He said. Then, after looking down at the quiet earth for a moment, he glanced up at Belegorn quizzically. “Have I been drinking all night?” The lieutenant grinned half-heartedly, but did not laugh. Instead, he simply shook his head with minimal briskness and replied.

“No, you fell from your horse. Thank Oromë you were not trampled.” He gestured, indicating the wound on Hírvegil’s forehead. Hírvegil continued to look at him, blinking erratically, with a questioning look on his face. “Trampled?” he mumbled, mostly to himself, and then his eyes brightened – a revelation. “Ah, yes, I remember.” Again his mood changed suddenly to one of urgent distraction, “Belegorn,” he whispered sharply, holding his breath, “were we victorious?” The answer was obvious, but Belegorn indulged him.

“Yes, but our charge was ill-planned. More men were lost then needed to be...including,” his tone became solemn, and Hírvegil shifted unreadily, "some of the Elves". Hirvegil looked stricken, his face losing a hint of its still vague color. Seriously, he spoke. “How many?” asked the Captain, his own voice becoming slow and steady. Like a well-oiled machine, Belegorn rattled off casualty numbers from memory. “Two Elves, fourteen of ours dead, three mortals gravely injured, and many more with minor wounds. Luckily the maids of the camp volunteered to tend to them, though little real tending or medical attention was needed. The loss was unfortunate and, dare I say, it unnecessary." He paused, letting Hírvegil absorb the information.

"Which Elves were slain," questioned the captain gravely. Belegorn instinctively lowered his head, the words flowing from between seemingly closed lips. "Gaeredhel and Rosgollo, the two guards of one of the Mithlondhrim emissaries." Hírvegil looked at him, his eyes dim and unseeing, like those of one blind. "How have the Eldar taken this?" His question was darkly made. Belegorn's reply was one of semi-dejected confusion. "They are, as usual, enigmatic. Obviously they mourn his loss, but I do not know their post-mortem rites for comrades in arms, so I cannot speculate."

After a moment of pondering, Hírvegil questioned his second again. “How long was I-”

“Less than a day, Captain.” Belegorn deftly interjected, anticipating what his captain would say, “I hope you feel better. I must say,” he paused again, an uncomfortable lump welled up in his usually stern and resolute throat, “you were…strange, yesterday; not yourself.” He said this all with great uneasiness, but his tense shoulders sagged with relief as Hírvegil’s downturned head nodded. “No,” he acknowledged, “I was not. Your honesty is always refreshing, Belegorn, but we cannot dwell on that now. We must make haste to the Ered Luin.” With a little more spring in his step, though a still feverish one, he rose. Belegorn, though, bade him remain seated wordlessly.

“Captain,” he said, “I must advise that we wait a day. This ordeal has left many tired, traumatized, injured. It may not be sensible to push the Elves on after losing two of their company. It will be hard to resume our appointed course.” Hírvegil, though, did not heed his good advice, shooting a watered-down glare of arrogance and familiar Dúnedain hubris at the lieutenant. “Since when,” he intoned, “have the Dúnedain bowed to such petty challenges? We will journey on before the sun reaches…” he trailed off, realizing, to his mild dismay, that he did not know what time it was. “Belegorn, where is the sun now?”

“It has just risen on a new day.”

“Very well.” Continued the captain haughtily, rising to his full height, “We must not be felled by this loss, and the Elves will have to perservere beyond it. We shall ride out before noon.”

[Kransha]

The ride to the Blue Mountains was just about as somber as the ride to the Hills of Evendim. It was much longer, but just as uneventful as the first. It dragged on, but, though the year was progressing steadily out of winter, ascending to lands farther north brought heavier snowfall. Valleys became glaciated, plains bore no more tufts or patches of refreshing greenery, trees became bare, and the sky seemed locked in some mockery of dusk, a wintry haze descended on the lands and the traveling company of wanderers.

I was some weeks before they passed from rough plains to rolling hills, and then into rocky straits of land, rivers of snow beneath great tides of ice-stained rock. Earthen crags of stone jutted up occasionally, giving way to deeper canyons and high rising land bridges that forded the chasms. Mountains loomed, overwhelming the shadows of sloping hills, and snowy white became deep grey and shaded black of the high rock spires shooting from mountainsides, cliff faces, and the towering peaks. The overall altitude of the land varied dramatically, so much that looking up or down might become nauseating. Before the last ranks of the Dúnedain stood one of the largest ranges of mountain peaks in all of Middle-Earth, to their eyes at least.

Hírvegil’s mood remained contemplative and dark, even as signs of civilization presented itself. Dúnedain watchmen from the first troop had been stationed in posts on the manmade roadways leading through columned passes, which stretched, looped, wound, and intertwined into the depths of the cavernous ridges, beneath the mountains. Light faded around them, but it remained and soon increased in the Dúnedain hearts. The Elves, though, were more reclusive then before, perhaps in the face of their loss. As long arches of stone closed off the vague sight of sunlight above, dancing shadows pattered like wolves around them and the black roads descended deeper and deeper, but torches of guardsmen welcomed them, some new and some old, those of the Dwarves who had marked the entrances to their caverns centuries ago.

Roads delved into the earth, into moist caves first, then through narrow, twisting tunnels in which the columns of men and women had to be packed tightly and thin out into slivers of lines that wound downward, snaking through the spiraling corriders. As the whole train spread into the lower areas, corriders became collonades, widened in width and height. The torches illuminated less of rooms as they grew more expansive. The geometric designs seemed to ripple over walls and rectangular pillars that stretched seemlessly upward to hold up ceilings that might as well have been the very sky itself, considering their massive lengths. The numbers of Dúnedain guardsmen increased, and soldiers began to populate the areas that the second train of Dúnedain entered into. Many filed into the ranks to speak with officers and gain relayed information about what had occured on their journey so they could bring it back to the king. Soon enough, the Dúnedain had been herded into more well lit areas, where they were greeted with a small concourse of counselors, soldiers, and courtiers who had earlier arrived.

Talk ran rampant quickly, with so many things to talk of. Both groups, upon arriving in the Ered Luin, were low on food and supplies. No one was starving yet, and all were eating healthily, but supplies could not hold out indeffinately, and the Dúnedain needed some new food source. The cavernous rocks of the Ered Luin did not seem like the best place for farming or herding livestock. Another favored topic of conversation was the skirmish that had cost the lives of the two Elves, Gaeredhel and Rosgollo, though most officers avoided touching on this subject so as to be politically correct, as well as simply to be polite. Many things were talked of, but the most popular subject was the one at hand. The King was taking counsel with his inner circle, about to address the people for the second time in as many months.

Soon the situation became a duplicate of what had occurred at the North Downs fortress. Uncontrolled masses, lessened since their last assembly, filed into the largest of the room, escorted on their borders by now unarmored guards who kept their ranks, unsteady and swelling, in check. They eventually amassed in the atrium, the most tremendous of the preliminary rooms. It was not as grand as some of the long-winded cavernous halls and great rooms that lay beneath, but it was grand all the same, high and long, a gargantuan chamber with a vaulted roof unseen by the naked eye, high above the cracked floor. Upturned furniture carved of rough and course stone lay strewn at random throughout the room, which was soon cleared aside by laborers to make room for a granite tablet that was suitable as a platform, which was pushed slowly to one side of the chamber and centered. The Dúnedain clumped around the platform, chatting expectantly, admiring or loathing their surroundings, and engaging in numerous discussions of the bizarre circumstances.

All fell silent when a lone figure swept up onto the newly erected platform. It was King Arvedui.

A feeling of repetition swept through the room as well with his arrival. This was almost mimicry of what had occurred at the North Downs’ and it made room for an uncomfortable air in the vast chamber, which spread like wave through every last Dúnadan. With somber voice but kingly manner and a majestic gait, King Arvedui of Fornost, monarch of Arnor, addressed his people for the second time, breaking apart the deathly silence like a rusty blade.

“My people;” his voice boomed, “my people who have come with me through great hardships; my people who have endured the fall of their fair city, assault and assailment from all sides, death, toil, and darkness: the grace of the Valar has seen us this far safely. Your bravery has led us here, to more darkness, but in the darkness light can be found! We may have lost friends and family, but we have stroven onward victoriously, swept across a great distance, and are now safe for a time. We must now relieve ourselves of blades and shields, and take up the pickaxe and the hoe, for it is time for us to live again.”

“We may be dwelling here, under these damask roofs, ‘neath pillars of mighty Dwarven stone, for a long time. We cannot farm or make a living as once we did in fields lush beneath the sun, but we can still live! The Dwarves who lived her in elder days kept great catacombs brimming with wealth and supplies for their rampant wars. We must find their coffers; find their reserves, so that we may survive where they did not. The caves around, above, and below us may well be home to dark beasts, those left by those past days, but they will not deter us. So now, I, your king, give you orders.”

“Separate into groups, all of you, and be not segregated by petty whims. Let soldiers, men, women, and children all stand and be counted, for all shall be needed. But let these concourses not be great, no more than ten or twenty perhaps, and be of watchful eyes, all, for you shall disperse into the catacombs of the deep. For reasons of solidarity, let our friends, the Eldar-kin, go together, but with a fellow of rank to escort them, and others. They have lost friends, so I am told, but have remained with us throughout, and deserve our thanks and reverence. Do not fear the depths, Dúnedain, for the depths hold nothing insurmountable. Now, my friends, be off into the caves, and bring back with you whatever you find to this, our new camp – our new home. Hope and luck to you all, by Manwë’s thunder and the light of Varda find your way!”

And he walked off of the platform.

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

Some minutes later, the room was abuzz with talk again, and the officers were separating into their respective groups. Hírvegil, though, retreated unceremoniously from the din, heading with others off into some of the offshooting cubicles, dank, dusky chambers that rimmed the vaulted atrium. Belegorn and other commissioned ranks edged through the tightly packed crowd (significantly less than it had been at the North Downs) and diffused slowly into the same side chambers. Belegorn found his Captain sitting and taking deep, chest-heaving breaths on a frigid stone stool with a shattered corner and a broken limb. He looked even more tired than usual, if such a thing was possible. Hopefully, Belegorn moved towards the Captain and spoke to him with hasty words passing between his lips.

“Captain,” he said, “Shall I form some groups among our company? I will assign an officer to the Elves as the King commanded and you may oversee-” Hírvegil interrupted him with a raised, flattened hand, as he sagged in his battered seat. He spoke in an almost mournful tone, saying words that sounded as grave as death. “Belegorn,” he uttered soberly, “I am not going on any of the expedition groups. I am staying here.”

For nearly a whole minute, Belegorn gaped at him until finally stammering, “But why, sir?”

Hirvegil sighed deeply at this question he’d expected, pulling his hand across his brow and using his broad index finger to analyze the bruise left by his forehead wound. “I do not feel well,” he paused almost after each word, leaning back on nothing, his silence drowning out the din of officers’ loud discourse, “and when I say this I do not mean that I am merely ill. I do not feel like myself. I must rest. Please, Belegorn,” he sounded almost pleading, a strange emotion coming from the staunch Captain of the Rearguard, “do not question me this once. I have received permission from the King’s lords to remain behind.”

“Indeed he has.” The vulture’s voice cut in.

Belegorn swiveled about to see a familiar, pale face – Mellonar. The white-faced shade of a politician hovered behind the Lieutenant, who glared at him, but a simmering grin peeled over Hírvegil’s face instead of the expected scowl. The counselor moved closer, swooping down like the carrion-fowl he was so often likened to, his shadow slim and bent over as it was cast out over the broken stones of the floor. “Ah, Mellonar, you old fiend,” spat Hírvegil with a grim cough, “I thought, or rather, I hoped you had perished on the journey from the Downs. But, your visage does at least remind me of home.”

“Likewise, Captain.” Grinned the lord, licking his colorless, pursed lips and brushing a single loose strand of greasy hair from his face, “I see you are not in good spirits. Your haphazard victory at Lake Nenuial may account for that. I fear my long-time friend is losing himself in this mad time, but you:” he turned, gliding on his slithering robes, towards the lieutenant, who did not flinch openly as Hírvegil did, “You are a specimen indeed, unlike your commander. Word of your accomplishments this season reach many ears, Lieutenant Belegorn of the Rearguard. Even a wise old counselor like myself has seen the promise in you. This is why I caved to your superior’s request – yes, it was I” he interjected into the sentence with a biting in his voice directed at Hírvegil, a usual caustic addition, “–I wanted to see your skills at the helm. You shall lead the group containing the Elves.” Belegorn looked a bit flummoxed by this, and Mellonar’s snaky grin widened, the leathery edges of his mouth curling upward. “Also,” he continued with cold reserve, “take this boy I have heard of, Faerim,” he said the name (like he said all names) with disdain, “and his family, who aided the Elves. They will feel more assured with mortals they know of nearby. Also, I delegate to you the counselor Mitharan, who seemed so eager to go off with you and your braggart captain to the ends of the earth, and any others who the Elves associated with.”

Hírvegil cut him off seriously, ignoring the sardonic nature of his foe. “There was one, Belegorn. A woman called Renedwen. Take her as well.” Mellonar’s lip curled, his ire aroused, but he nodded. “Yes, that will do. What a motley crew you’ll make; splendid. I would wish you luck, lieutenant, but I am sure your captain has given it to you already, and his wishes far outweigh anything I might give you. Good day, Belegorn, Hírvegil. May “Manwë’s thunder” see that you do not fall prey to the creatures of the caves, or whatever terrible things decide to gnaw on your ankles.” He cackled merrily under his breath, “Farewell.” With that, he spun like a bird in mid-air and maneuvered gracefully out of the room, his feet never touching the ground.

As Mellonar disappeared, Belegorn shook his head and turned away; preparing to leave and assemble the group, but an unsteady hand on his pauldron stopped him. His head turned slightly to see the wavering arm of his captain and hear his quiet words. “Good luck, Belegorn.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

[Novnarwen]

Mid-day was slowly passing and the rays of the sun shone more weakly as the minutes passed. The sky was dark blue, covered with light, white clouds and the weather was warm and pleasant. One could think that on a day like this, people would be out and about, enjoying the last bits of the sun before it would disappear behind the mountain tops. Surprisingly enough, no one could be spotted anywhere. Inside a cave of average size however, in the Ered Luins, there was indeed life. Usually, it would be silent in the caverns at this time of day, but for some odd reason there was particularly much noise....

“Wwwwhat’s he dddoin’ heeere?” The question formulated was directed towards a big figure, clad in green scales, which lay huddled up against the stone wall.

“Shh! He’s asleep!” Riva, also known as the Old Hag, said fiercely.

The tone in her voice reflected the amount of power she now possessed. Being the only one of the trolls in Stuttering Stuga’s clique that could cook decent food, she had gained respect. It was not the sort of respect Stuga had, but Riva didn’t mind. She wasn’t a typical leader. She was in fact more than pleased with the position she had managed to hold on to for so many years, and with the lack of competition to get her position in the clique, it seemed that she would be the chef amongst them until the end of her days. Luckily for her, this was to her advantage; Stuttering Stuga had ordered everyone to take good care of her, to make sure she didn’t die. Or rather, Stuga had figured that this would suit them all perfectly well, if her death could be delayed yet another couple of years. She would cook, and they would eat. Amongst the trolls there hadn’t been much resistance, but a few problems had indeed arisen with the decision of offering Riva all what she wanted and needed to secure her wellbeing. However, the massive leader had made sure it would never happen again, by giving the trolls accounted for a few hits with the largest club he possessed, and they had thus far kept their mouths shut, and had not dared speak of the special services offered to her.

For a moment all of the trolls stood silently watching the figure that lay on the stone floor, fast asleep.

Even though deeply offended by the Old Hag’s rash and reprimanding words, Stuttering Stuga kept his mask. He needed her, everyone did. He couldn’t just beat her for her disobedience like he did with the rest of the scum surrounding him; it would simply make the others wonder why they had taken him seriously when telling them not to hurt Riva. No, beating her now, in front of the others, would be in nobody’s favour, especially not his. With this he realised that he was almost thrilled by his own resolution, which had led to the stunningly brilliant conclusion of not beating her, and he giggled in excitement.

“So, yer letting him stay?” Riva, the Old Hag, asked, seeming almost pleased with herself. She had obviously been convinced by Stuga’s satisfying grin, and had no idea that it was something else that made him smile.

“Weweah non mmmwy geeen scaldesss tttbat Bett, be Eeevpllelled, bbbis gggoin ttpo blleeve.”

“What he intended to say, is that he swears on his green scales that Frett, The Expelled, is going to leave . . .

“Bthisss ibntttan”

“He adds . . ‘this instant!’”

**

And the reader may wonder who of the trolls said what, and what actually one of them said. It is difficult to tell, as one can only guess what a highly, frustrated troll would say and how he or she would sound like. Well, let’s go a bit backwards.

After Riva had started believing that the figure huddled up in the corner was being allowed to stay, it was Stuttering Stuga who spoke. He, too frustrated by Riva’s misconception to talk in an orderly manner, had answered in the best way possible. Naturally, a stuttering, frustrated troll can’t be any good, and so the words spoken had come out in an exceptionally odd way. The other trolls surrounding him had of course not understood a single word, well, except for Grawa.

Grawa thinks he is a remarkably smart troll. It is maybe true; he is at least smarter than the other trolls in the clique; he is the only one who understands what Stuttering Stuga says, regardless of how he says it. In that way, Grawa is without a doubt the best translator ever known to the ‘Troll(an)’-kind. And if that’s not enough, Grawa has also the great pleasure of being Stuga’s favourite cousin, but it ought to be mentioned though, that Grawa is to be sure the only cousin Stuga has.

**

Anyway, after having translated, Stuga nodded to his cousin, and nudged him hard in the ribs. It was a sign of gratitude of having such a great cousin, who actually understood him. It was a sign of satisfaction. By the look of Grawa, one could see that the extra attention paid to him by his cousin had meant something, and without noticing it himself, he turned slightly pink.

“WHAT?!? Please! It’s enough. Poor Frett! He’s starvin’. He just came. He’d been wanderin’ in the caves for days without findin’ food! He’d almost turned himself into stone by walkin’ in the sunlight! Give ‘im a chance!”

It was at this time, when Riva, The Old Hag, had raised her voice to the absolute that Frett, The Expelled, woke up from his deep sleep. Looking upwards, he let his gaze wander; his big, bleary eyes shone ghostly in the dim cave. Noticing that everyone stared at him, he rose instantly, bewildered. He moved his head in an awful pace, from left to right and right to left. It seemed that the silence that had fallen over the clique of trolls seemed to confuse the poor Frett. What was happening? Were they mad? Was his mother, Riva, going to let him stay? Rolling his eyes, he stood looking at Stuttering Stuga. Twice my size, he told himself. No, more. More, much more than twice my size. Four maybe? Yes, that must be it. Can I take him? I can jump… jump at him.. Oooh, he reminds me of one of those, huge, fire-breathing, hard scaled... monsters!!! He blinked, letting his big, weary eyelids rest for a moment before he opened his eyes again. But I can do it.

**

Before we continue, it is important to say that Frett can't really do anything. Not anything at all. This is why he was expelled from this hopeless group of trolls in the first place. It was due to the fact of his clumsiness, his insane clumsiness, that drove everyone else insane, except from his mother, Riva, who of course like all other mothers love their children regardless of their abilities (or disabilities). Of course, as every other problem, Frett's case was taken to the Troll Council (which only Stuttering Stuga is a member of) and, unfortunately for Frett, the case was stamped as hopeless. In fact, the case was just as hopeless as Frett himself. So, in order to keep the good quality that the other trolls in the clique possessed, and not let the group be set back only because one didn’t function normally, Frett was expelled from the group; thus the title. It was decided that Frett was never to show his clumsy face again. He was only allowed small portions of food, which his dear mother Riva made him. But other than that, no one was to keep in contact with the fellow, which wasn’t really a problem at all. The other trolls were perfectly fine with letting Frett walk, as useless as he was.

Stuga’s solution to the problem, chasing after Frett with a club, making him promise to disappear and threatening to eat him alive, worked for quite some time. Frett was even renamed to Frett, ‘The Expelled – On Probation’ for a while, but the clumsy fellow had to ruin it all. Today was actually the third time this week he had shown his clumsy-presence in the caves, and Stuga was naturally starting to lose his patience.

**

Without a warning, Frett sprang into the air, but in doing so, he stumbled, not unexpectedly, in his own feet and landed right in front of Stuttering Stuga. Without hesitating, the large troll grasped Frett, The Expelled, around the neck and held him tightly. “Beengiguh,” he growled. Suddenly, Stuttering Stuga set up a great pace, and started walking. His great feet made the earth shake, and in mere desperation of the situation that had occurred, The ‘Beautiful’ Uruva called out;” Where you takin’ him?!?”

“Enough,” Grawa said, silently.

“Uh?”

“Enough. Stuttering Stuga’s had enough.”

“WRAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! He’s goin’ to kill ‘im!” The Old Hag made a grimace before she started running after Stuga, who had only just disappeared from their view. Judging from the thundering sound in the caves, all of the other trolls followed.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn tilted his head back and regarded the ceiling of the underground hall in awe. He raised his torch in a vain attempt to illuminate the ceiling but quickly recognized the futility of his insignificant act. Unless a towering scaffold was erected and a wide brimmed cauldron of flaming oil placed on it, there was no way he could scrutinize the dwavern rock carvings with adequate lighting.

Great were the crafts of the masters of stone, thought Belegorn admiringly as he continued to view the inspiring works of art above him, turning his head this way and that like a tourist in a strange but wonderful place.

“Magnificent!” The wide-eyed man remarked aloud idly to himself, “Simply magnificent!”

A shrill and youthful voice chirped excitingly,

“My lord Lieutenant! The exploration party has been assembled. Twenty men strong as ordered ssarrr!”

Belegorn shuddered as the nasal voice cracked at the last noun. He looked towards its source, eyes squinting and mildly irritated by one as audacious as to interrupt his private moment of awe and contemplation. The messenger turned out to be a red-cropped, pimpled faced youth, short and skinny. He looked at belegorn in a pleased manner and smiled cheekily. But this boy wasn’t any errand boy of the moment, scampering to deliver a message to the most ferocious man in the vicinity for a token or two. This was a boy clad in an ill-fitting leather hauberk and brandishing a blunt twin-edged blade. The youth saw that Belegorn was eyeing him and his crooked grin drew even wider.

“We should leave now sir!” The youngster exclaimed with unbridled, unnatural glee.

Belegorn was less enthusiastic. First things first,

“Egad! How old are you boy? What are you doing with a sword? Don’t you have other toys to play with?”

The boy recoiled as if caught in surprise by a poisonous snake. He quickly recovered his composure and replied haughtily, “The name’s Nevhith, son of Torgar! I will be turning fourteen next spring, sir. And this… This is no toy! I was invited into the king’s army this morning and this is my weapon. I will kill orcs with it! Hah!”

He swung his sword menacingly through the air to emphasize his point before adopting a stance that he thought would exemplify his battle-readiness. Belegorn thought he looked like a frog, armed with an extra large tooth-pick…

‘********************


Belegorn waked slowly pass the assembled men, scrutinizing each face intently. The soldiers were adorned in light chain mail shirts and heavy cloaks. Aside from their swords and daggers, they would be carrying no other weapon for what they were about to embark on was a mission of exploration and not battle. Possibilities of encounters with the enemy were slight, or so claimed by the king’s agents who planned this bizarre mission.

Whoever heard of food hunts in an underground series of deserted caves?

As Belegorn brushed pass each face, he could smell the odor of dried perspiration and multitudes of bandaged wounds gone funky. The men stared passively ahead, well drilled in ways of military ceremony and discipline, but the lieutenant knew only too well that they were all dying to scratch themselves in the most awkward of places. Nevhith son of Torgar grinned, Belegorn ignored him. All the men of the severely reduced Rearguard were already injured in one way or another and these few together with some militia volunteers were the remaining ones capable of and bearing arms. Not the most pleasing to the eye, but they would have to do.

Resigned to fate, rather than being pleased, Belegorn cleared his throat dramatically and addressed the troops,

“Men! This mission comes from the King himself! We are to venture into the lower levels of this dwarven stronghold and to seek out whatever resources that are of use to us and appropriate them. But leave any sarcophagus or burial ground alone! The last things I want are stunted specters chasing us!”

Belegorn paused for effect but no one took the bait, his attempt at humor failed miserably. He droned on,

“The caves and tunnels are dark and slippery so watch your footing. Torches to spare are limited so stick close to one another and look out for more on the mission.”

Finished with his address, Belegorn ordered eight of the men in the front row to pry open the metal doors that led to the destination of their supposed objectives. The men grunted and strained before the twin doors finally creaked and moaned before parting. A cold draft blew into the hall and torches flicked.

Belegorn was the first to enter.

[alaklondewen]

The last few weeks had passed by as quickly as the ground had passed under the hooves of Ereglin's mount. The Elf did not remember much of the dreary, monotonous days, as a fog had continued to cloud his mind. Part of the problem came from the poison to which he had been exposed (it took a couple of days after his rescue for its effects to wear away), but mostly he was grief-stricken. The death of both of his young guards had been a terrible blow to Ereglin. It had been their duty to protect him…he knew this, but they had not lived long enough to truly enjoy the beauties that were bestowed on Middle Earth. This thought is what hurt him most, and he felt responsible for their demise. Rationally, he knew better, but his heart still bore the guilt.

The arrival of the refuges to Ered Luin had yet to raise his spirits. In fact, the Dwarven stronghold (however vast) felt oppressive to Ereglin. The stone was cold, and even though many torches were lit to illuminate the area…it was a far cry from the sun’s rays on a warm day. The Councilor wondered at the strangeness in the Dwarves’ concept of beauty. What a pity? He thought.

A pity? Ereglin was surprised when another thought answered his. It was Bethiril, who stood at his side as they readied themselves to be forced down the passages of the mines in search of food.

The Lindon emissary looked at her momentarily before cracking a smile. There are no windows.

The Imladris emissary’s melodious laugh pierced the tense air and brought several curious glances toward the Elves. Ereglin sighed. He had not heard laughter in too long a time, and it felt good to smile again. Although it did not last, as the Dunedain soldiers began moving the group along.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril was recovering slowly from the whole experience with the Orcs, although she had concern for Ereglin, the emissary from Lindon. After all, he had lost both his guards to their Orcish captors. A pity they had to die when they shouldn’t have. But Bethiril knew there was no turning back the slow yet ever-ticking hands of time.

What a pity. Bethiril started when she heard a reply. Perhaps the Sindar had read her mind. Yet when she looked at him, the emissary was looking not at her, but at the dark Dwarven hold.

A pity? Bethiril answered as she stopped beside him.

There are no windows. Bethiril could not help laughing aloud. After all the troubles this journey had brought them—to him especially—he still had mirth in his heart to joke. She saw Ereglin smile, an ominous spell broken.

The group began to move again. Bethiril wanted to find her fellow Noldo, but before they parted, she answered. But what would you need a window for? To gaze at the wonderful Dwarven architecture? She heard Ereglin chuckle as she walked to the back of the group. He perhaps understands my cause better than anyone here, she thought. A pity two Elves had to die to pay the price for that understanding.

[Nuranar]

Lissi hated the caves with a passion. She had lived all her life in the city, but the times she'd loved best had been out on the land around it. Even this wretched, fearful refugee life had a strange wonder to it: the fascination of wandering, of an ever-changing landscape, of being enclosed by nothing. Most of the people seemed to fear it, afraid of the very space and emptiness that soothed her. They liked the solid security of thick walls. Much good those did back in Fornost! she thought in disgust.

Space, freedom, the ability to see! Lissi didn't want to hide behind walls, she wanted to see what was coming and prepare - or go out and meet it on her own terms. But in these horrible holes in the ground, everything was changed. Everywhere the thick, soft darkness pressed in. A wandering torch might keep it at bay for a little space, but it was always there in the corners, ready to conquer again. The very size of the place worked against them: An army could hide in any of these massive halls, protected by the ominous dark. And they were to divide their forces (and get lost, most likely) and look for supplies? Brilliant, indeed! Lissi thought bitterly.

Casually, she glanced around. If anyone else felt her apprehensions, they were concealing it with great skill. Was she just paranoid? At least no one looked happy about what they were doing. No - take that back. That kid in uniform was far too excited. He would be a danger, to himself if not the whole group.

Despite the bitterness, her mind was trying to plan ahead. There was little she could do to organize their party; the soldiers should handle that, and even if they were incompetent they would not welcome her interference. Carthor could handle himself; he had already recovered his own arms and taken back the bladed stave she had brought from their house. He had not once mentioned rejoining the ranks, however. Instead, he spent most of his time with Lissi, riding beside her and trying to talk. Lissi did not want to repulse him, but she had been hurt so badly in the past she was afraid to open up to him. For now, theirs was an easy, warm, but superficial relationship.

Faerim - well, Faerim was still grieving for the Elves who had died. Her eldest son seemed so mature and so capable that she had come close to forgetting how young he really was. These were desperately hard times for anyone, but particularly for such a young man. Old enough to know his duty and able to carry it out, he lacked the knowledge and steadiness of greater maturity. And his affections, as much as he might have argued the point, still had the warmth and generosity of childhood. He was only just learning how much it could hurt to care for people. There was strength in him, though. Lissi knew he would be ready for whatever came.

And there was Brander. Lissi's gaze slid over to him, sitting silently against the wall near her. He had never been very communicative, but instinctively she knew how terribly it must hurt him, to be blind in this situation. Not only was he unable to help defend the group, he was a liability: Someone else had to take care of him especially. Lissi could not imagine how she would feel in Brander's place. She had done her best, though, teaching him to ride well, to understand what his horse was doing, even to follow her without being lead, using his ears and trusting his horse. But he had never responded or even thanked her. She knew Carthor's disappointment in him had deeply hurt Brander. He had certainly resisted all of Carthor's repentant overtures. Perhaps he was angry at her, too. Lissi shook her head. Perhaps he was forgetting - he wasn't the only one Carthor had hurt. But whatever happened, she had to take care of him. The club Faerim had brought back was still in their gear somewhere.

Their gear - Lissi hopped up quickly, then bent to Brander. "Come on, Brander," she said, smiling so he could hear the friendliness in her voice. "We need to get some things out of our gear." Her son rose carefully, holding an elbow away from his side. "Of course," he said. Lissi took the arm easily, thus able to guide him without trouble. They had worked out the system some little time ago, and it worked well.

Carthor was sharpening his sword not too far from their piled-up saddles and small heap of saddlebags and packs. Lissi knelt and rummaged through it, her hand pausing as it touched something smooth and cold, then moving on to find the club. "Here," she said, pressing it into Brander's hand. "Do you remember this?"

He smiled - very slightly, but it was there. "I do."

"You may need it, I think. Why don't you ask Faerim to show you how to use it? You might be able to work out some signals, too. He'll be better at that than me." She called Faerim over and left the two of them together.

Swiftly then she selected the most essential articles from the rest and filled the smallest pack. Last of all she slid out the short sword Faerim had given her. Finding a long strap among their gear, she cut it to size. With that and some narrower pieces of leather she rigged a makeshirt but effective swordbelt.

Swiftly Lissi stood to her feet and shook out her travel-stained skirts, then buckled the belted sword around her waist. She was glancing toward the boys when she surprised the look on Carthor's face. He was still sitting there, but grinning in surprise and admiration. And the gleam in his eye was reflected from no lantern. Lissi raised an eyebrow and winked coquettishly. Then she turned and walked away toward their sons, swishing her skirts.