# The Mighty Few



## Ghorim (Feb 13, 2005)

((This is a tale that has been unfolding on MERPG for a while now. It takes place in the Fourth Age, some years after the recapture of Khazad-dum by the dwarves. I'm planning on re-posting it in installments here. Any comments/suggestions welcome via PM.))

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“You humans can beg, right?”

Bertrand shut his eyes tightly, trying to block away the scene that lay before him. The sights were easy enough to escape, but he could not force his other senses to ignore the feel of the muddy ground on his hands and knees, the cold sting of the rain upon his back, the nauseating stench of death, and above all else, the dominating presence of his assailants. They were all about him, he could tell even without looking. Their leader spoke again, in a dry rasp that carried just over the pounding downpour.

“You're little more than dogs, after all. Mutts who learned how to stand on their hind legs and build cities, covering the land like a disease. You breed, then destroy, then breed once more. It's quite impressive, really… your efficiency, I mean. Your folk were once a minority in these lands, but now look at you! You rule all that you survey, and lay it all to waste. So surely, surely you can muster a few whimpers for us?”

Bertrand said nothing, only continued feebly trying to convince himself that he was somewhere else, that none of this was happening to him. There was a pause, with only the sound of rain and distant thunder filling the small clearing. The leader's voice came again, more impatient this time, impossible to ignore.

“Do not leave us without entertainment, merchant! Can you not speak? Or roll over?” 

Again, Bertrand dared not to speak or even move from his prone position.

“Perhaps you can play dead, then.”

Then the horrible noise came, the sound of armor plates rubbing against each other as the leader took a menacing step forward. Bertrand opened his eyes wide, as tears poured forth from them in terror. They mixed instantly with the heavy rain, washing away from his face as if they had never been shed. Now, though the merchant could hardly see in the pitch black night, he sensed his desolate surroundings all too clearly. To his right, the ruins of his ransacked cart, the bodies of his employees lying dead in the mud. All about him, the forms of their killers, shadows upon shadow in the impenetrable darkness. 

“Please…” Bertrand sobbed, raising his head slightly.

“So you can beg after all,” the familiar voice chuckled, and it was joined by snickers from the others. “Allow me to guess… you have a wife and children?”

“No,” said the merchant, shaking his head slowly. “No, I live alone. This business is all that I have…”

“Ahhh… so you have chosen not to spread the infection of humanity? For that I commend you.”

A silence followed, one so terrible and overbearing that Bertrand himself broke it despite his fear.

“W-what… what are you going to do to m-me?”

“Tell me, human… have you any experience in violent robbery?”

“No, no, sir… I've never stolen anything in my life, much less killed someone for it…”

“An honest man! I'm beginning to like this one.”

The group laughed once again, a terrible, discordant sound that filled Bertrand's ears.

“Well, you see, the tradition among us thieves and bandits is to kill every member of our victim party… save one. Do you know why that is, human?”

Bertrand spoke hesitantly, “So that… so that the survivor can tell the tale of the… the attack to others?”

“And he's a smart one, too!” Uproarious laughter from the group followed. “Very good, merchant. Methinks you missed your life calling as a bandit. But run along now. Go back to your village and tell everyone about this night. Tell them that Somik sends his greetings!”

Bertrand rose slowly, still fearing a deathblow at any moment. He anticipated the sound of the weapon slicing through the air, could practically feel the blade pierce his belly, the warm contents spewing forth upon the cold ground. Yet the terrible blow didn't come. Bertrand had now regained his feet, having never allowed his gaze to waver from the bandits. It was strange… from down on the ground, his assailants had appeared to tower over him. Yet now he realized that he was taller than all of them. The leader hissed at him.

“Away, away! Before I decide to forsake tradition!”

Bertrand took the message, and turned to run back towards his home. He hurriedly stumbled along the muddy path, still weeping to himself. As he went, he took one last look over his shoulder. The attackers were still standing as they had been, as motionless as statues. There would have been no way for Bertrand to identify them, had fate not intervened: a lightning bolt lit up the sky briefly, just long enough for the merchant to catch the bandits' faces. Their eyes were cold, their faces blank. However, the only attributes that Bertrand really saw were their long beards, stocky builds, and large axes. Unmistakably, they were all dwarves.


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## Ghorim (Feb 15, 2005)

*Drali*

Drali was… well, where was Drali? The hall in which he stood was vaguely familiar to him, yet he did not know in which direction to proceed. He stood at a crossway of sorts, with four distinct paths visible to him. The path ahead of him ascended steeply into darkness, the one behind him did the opposite, dropping off sharply into a black abyss, and the corridor to his right proceeded straight ahead into the shadows. The way to his left, meanwhile, was barred by a pile of stones. Drali scratched his head, turning this way and that, unable to decide.

“You are lost,” spoke a voice from behind him, startling the usually unflappable dwarf and causing him to spin about. 

She was a maiden, of his race, truly beautiful to behold. She seemed to emit a soft light of her own in the dim hall. Her eyes stared deep into his. She smiled.

“You could… er… aye, you could say that,” said Drali with a nod, somewhat at a loss for words.

“Then follow me. I shall show you the way.” 

With that, she turned toward the left path, and approached the rock pile with light, even steps. Drali blinked.

“But… I can't go that way.”

“Why not?” she turned back to face him.

“It's…” Drali threw his arm out in the direction of the rocks in a wild gesture, “it's blocked!”

“There are times when the path that appears impossible to tread is the only one that can be taken.”

Drali stood completely still for a moment, just trying to wrap his head around that sentence. Then he laughed aloud.

“That has to be the silliest thing that I've ever heard!”

The maiden's eyes narrowed, and suddenly her entire demeanor seemed to change to one of confrontational animosity.

“It is not silly, you ass! It is very profound! Now follow me!”

In a flash she approached him, and of all the ways she could have chosen to bring him along, she had to grab and yank on his beard! Drali winced. 

“Stop,” he tried to shout, but it came out only as a murmur. 

“Stop…” his voice grew quieter. The halls faded, the maiden dimmed, until only her eyes remained. Soon everything was black, yet the pain of Drali's beard being yanked upon still remained with him. In fact, he realized with a start, someone was still pulling at it! His eyes were opening… he was waking… he was at home, in Khazad-dum. A dream, he thought, no wonder that maiden was so strange… I was talking to myself. 

Another sharp tug broke Drali's internal musings apart. His eyes focused, making out his attacker: Dram, his son. 

“Wake up, Papa! Please!” 

“I'm up, I'm up,” grumbled Drali, propping himself up on an elbow and rubbing his eyes. “Why are you tugging on my whiskers, eh? Couldn't you just shake me a little bit?”

“I tried that already. You wouldn't wake up.”

“Oh. Well, did you flick me on the nose?” Drali smiled a bit. He did not enjoy being roused from his slumbers. In fact, most of the time he would loudly curse and even occasionally attack anyone who dared interrupt his repose. However, Drali only lost his temper with his children after the most grievous offenses on their part. Having been raised by a father with a persistently short fuse, Drali saw to it that he kept his infamous rage in check around his family.

“I didn't try that,” said Dram quietly.

“Well do that next time,” said Drali with a chuckle. “My nose is my weak spot. Ask any fellow in my division and he'll tell you that I'm extra sensitive in that region.”

“Okay,” said the lad with a sharp nod.

“Now what are you waking me up for?” asked Drali, rising to a sitting position.

“I… I had a bad dream,” said Dram, lowering his gaze with obvious shame. Even at his young age he knew that it was bad to admit any weakness to an elder.

“Is that all?” Drali smirked. “Tell you what… you go wait for me in the main room. Once I'm freshened up a bit I'll join you and you can tell me all about it.”

Dram nodded, and scampered out of his parents' bedroom. Drali stood slowly and shut the door. All he wanted to do was change into some fresh clothes for the day ahead. As he changed, his gaze fell upon the sleeping form of his wife, Pela. Like him, she was a deep sleeper, and the conversation between father and son had not stirred her. In the dim light she looked especially frail and delicate, an attribute which most female dwarves lacked. 

Drali recalled that it was Pela's fragility that had drawn him to her in the first place. When he was yet a sergeant in the Sixth Division, Drali's skills with his axe had drawn him a small legion of female admirers. They would always make time in their schedule of chores to watch Drali spar with other members of his division. He was always aware of their presence, but tried to ignore them. One day, however, after disposing of an opponent, Drali turned to the small group and waved. The gesture was made on a whim, but only served to deepen their attraction to him. Drali's comrades took full note of his fan club, and ribbed him about it at every opportunity. Drali simply laughed their jests off, asserting that he would never allow any woman to chain him down. Yet he continued to tease his female onlookers, sometimes waving to them, other times offering winks and smirks that would send their hearts aflutter. Gradually, Drali forgot that he was merely teasing. He began to approach them directly, talking to them, sharing their company long after training was complete. For the most part, they were a group of loud, forceful women who fought vigorously to attract and maintain his attentions. Of course, Drali and his then-massive ego enjoyed such contests over his favor.

There was one female, however, who did not resemble the others. She always accompanied them without fail, but rarely spoke, and always kept her gaze on the ground. This one was smaller than the rest, as well, both in terms of physical size and personality. Yet though she seemed to try the least to win Drali's attention, the young soldier found himself heavily drawn to her. He made every attempt to bring her into conversation, and even more importantly, to laugh. Drali always enjoyed coaxing laughs out of others, whether it be his family, his comrades in arms, or these women. Yet when her slight frame became possessed with laughter, the feeling of elation that Drali received was incomparable to anything else. He loved the way that her whole body shook, the way her eyes lit up, the way that she tried to keep the laugh in with her thin left hand, only to have it spill out of her lips, uncontrolled. Drali enjoyed the sight of her laughing so much, he would spend significant amounts of time each night before sleep thinking of new jokes to amuse her with. Yet with Pela, there always had been something more to Drali than just the enjoyment of making her happy. She was so small, like a delicate flower. Drali felt a fierce desire to protect her, to prevent the harsher elements of the world from causing her to wilt. The other women he cast aside without a second thought. She was the one for him.

Their courtship was brief, and their marriage a quiet affair. Still, word spread quickly: the wild, fire-bearded Drali had been tamed by the meekest of all women. Many did not believe it to be possible, but soon found to their astonishment how real the marriage was. The couple bought a small house together, and soon Pela was pregnant. They were blessed with not one but two children, a boy and a girl. Twins were quite uncommon among dwarves, and the birthing was also a widely-discussed affair. The midwives were astounded that so small a woman as Pela could deliver two children into the world at once and survive, but to Drali this occurrence was no surprise. His wife was made of stronger stuff than most people gave her credit for. Shortly after the births, Drali's comrades took him out to a tavern to celebrate. In a lewd (and drunken) moment Drali attributed the rare occasion of twin births to the incomparable strength of his male essence. 

Pela allowed her husband to handle the naming of their two children. In the dwarvish tradition of naming newborns after the deceased, Drali selected the names of Dram for the boy and Ala for the girl. These two monikers resembled those of Gram and Alymar, two of Drali's superior officers who had been slain in past battles. Since Drali had severed his ties to his biological father even before he joined the army, those two veterans had served as two of the most valuable mentors in his life. For their guidance he was grateful, and so he paid tribute to them through the names of his children.


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## Ghorim (Feb 15, 2005)

*Drali, Part 2*

Now Drali was dressed, and had even put on a few pieces of his armor. He ventured out into the main room of his household. All and all, it was a small structure, with a modest master bedroom, an alcove for the children, and a general room for sitting, eating, and other forms of recreation. Even as a captain in the army, Drali could not afford much better. Wages were always an issue for married soldiers, even though they were all entitled to special bonuses for starting up a family. At present, Dram sat nervously upon the couch, the most prominent and impressive piece of furniture in the room. It had been a wedding gift for Drali and Pela from the bride's parents. 

“Make room!” said Drali as he marched over. Dram scooted over to the right side of the couch, and his father sat beside him. “Now, this nightmare of yours… what happened in it?”

“Well,” began Dram tentatively. “I was all alone in the house. I didn't know where you or Mama or Ala were… and then… and then…” The boy fell silent, unable to continue.

“Come, now,” said Drali softly, pulling his son's chin up so that their gazes met. “Finish the tale.”

“A bunch of orcs came through the doors, and the windows, and they…”

The boy's story was interrupted by his father's roaring laughter. Dram blinked.

“W-what's so funny?”

“You're all spooked over a bunch of orcs? Let me tell ya something, lad… orcs are nothing to be afraid of. They're the most incompetent, bumbling race of oafs that ever existed! You could probably take out a whole gang of them on your own.”

“Really…?” Dram looked at his father inquisitively.

“No lie! Besides, the defenses of Khazad-dum would stop those scum before they got within even a giant's length of this house.”

“But… but what if they sneaked past the defenses?” asked Dram, still not convinced.

“Then your old man would be right here to protect ya. I'd never let any Greenskin touch even a hair on my boy.” Drali smiled and patted his son on the shoulder. “Now enough of this talk about nightmares! Let's go for a walk, what say? It'll be morn soon enough. We might as well see if we can find some breakfast at the market.”

“Awww… that's a girl's job,” said Dram disdainfully.

Drali smirked. “Let me teach ya something, lad. Girls like it a bunch when 
you do their job for them every once in a while. Makes 'em a whole lot easier to deal with.”

“Girls are stupid,” declared Dram, folding his arms forcefully.

“I thought even worse of them when I was your age,” said Drali wistfully. 

“But how about this: you help me with a boy's job, and then we'll do the girl's job together.”

“What's the boy's job?” asked Dram, looking up with some interest.

“Help me put on the rest of my armor.”

Dram practically leapt off the couch. There was little that the lad enjoyed more than helping his father with his armor. Drali chuckled, commending himself for a job well done. Within a short while, Drali was armored up, and the father and son went out on their walk.


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## Ghorim (Feb 16, 2005)

*Grolin*

Grolin looked up from his breakfast at his son Ghim across the table. The lad was occupied with his meal at the moment, and didn't notice his father's gaze. The elder dwarf would have gotten away with the look had he turned back to his food. He couldn't, however, remove his eyes from his child, now grown up, now enlisted in the army, now doing all that the father once did, trying to fit in with his unit. Rarely did the lad eat with his parents any more, instead he dined in a mess hall with other soldiers. This visit was a special occasion. Perhaps that was why Grolin could not look away, or maybe he was simply trying to figure his son out.

Eventually Ghim's eyes lifted from his dish, meeting with his father's. The lad's gaze was utterly impenetrable. 

“Aye?” with but one word he could sting his father. His voice had that particular tone to it: annoyance tempered by disinterest. Grolin scowled a bit. Why this distance between them? Ghim was his own flesh and blood, yet Grolin still couldn't connect with him. The table seemed to stretch, propelling his son further and further out of reach. 

“I'm… excuse me, Ghim. My mind was drifting.”

“He hasn't woken up yet,” explained Sari, wife and mother, as she returned to the table from refilling her plate. “Your father should be getting more rest instead of working himself into a stupor every night.”

“My duties call for long hours,” said Grolin simply. Indeed, he was many things to his Lord Bailer: bodyguard, general, and adviser. Frequently he would have to stay out late, either working with the Royal Guard, training a class of young soldiers, or attending a meeting of Lord Bailer's councilors to discuss pressing issues that affected the mines. A realization struck Grolin: perhaps that was why this situation with Ghim had come about. All this while he had had his priorities in disarray. He had placed duty before family, and this rift between himself and Ghim was his reward.

“Hmm, well…” spoke Sari with a mouth full of mutton, “if Lord Bailer were smart he'd know that you can't run the mines for him without enough sleep.”

Grolin smiled gently. “I can assure you, Sari, of two things. Firstly, I am 
getting adequate rest, and secondly, Lord Bailer is quite firmly in charge of 
these mines. I simply help where I can.”

“Modest, as always,” said the wife to the husband with a smile.

The son glanced between his parents. There was no longer anything on his plate to distract his attention. He put down his fork, and rose to his feet.

“I'd best be leaving… my morning training session's starting soon.”

Ghim then took his helmet, which had been resting on the table at his right side throughout the meal. Grolin watched his son place it upon his head. The lad stood full-grown, a lad no longer. The father froze for a moment as he took in this sight. Say something, before he leaves you!

“Of course…” A pause. “Good luck today, son.”

Ghim took up his axe, previously propped up against the table.

“My thanks, father.”

Grolin searched those three words for any deeper meaning. Were they genuine? He couldn't tell. Sari rose to give her son a hug. Aye… she was close to Ghim. Grolin lowered his gaze from this loving gesture. She could embrace and cherish her progeny naturally, but between the father and son there was always a stilted sense of estrangement. How could Grolin overcome that?

Ghim left. The door closed behind him.

Sari cleared the table, while Grolin sat in silence. After a time he willed his tongue to form words.

“How do you get through to Ghim?”

“Hmm?” Sari glanced up from the plates and utensils.

“To me, the lad is impenetrable. But you break through his defenses without an effort. Why does he allow you in, and not me?”

Sari smiled softly.

“You know how lads are with their fathers…” she paused, remembering that Grolin had never known his father. “Well, you remember how my brothers were with my father. To my mother they were perfectly behaved, but with father they always made it harder. So badly he wanted them all to become little copies of himself… blacksmiths who would settle down and form large families. But he didn't realize that they were their own selves, that their wishes might just run counter to his. He was short-sighted, I suppose…”

Grolin scowled. “Was I that way to Ghim? He made the choice to become a soldier on his own. I never attempted to sway his hand on that matter.”

Sari nodded. “I agree. But now that he's in his army, he's got that reputation of yours hanging over his head. Perhaps he knows Grolin the legend better than Grolin the father.”

Grolin's scowl deepened. “Aye… and I fear that I'm to blame for that. Had I only spent more time with the two of you, rather than devoting it to the service of Lord Bailer, things would not be as they are. This chasm that lies between Ghim and me…”

Sari moved to her husband and placed a stabilizing hand upon his shoulder. 

“You want to fill it. But did you ever think that maybe Ghim feels the same way? Perhaps he wants just as much to connect with you, and is just as much in the dark as to how to go about doing it.” She paused briefly. “One thing I know is that he admires you greatly, Grolin.”

Grolin glanced up, taking in her encouraging gaze.

“Too often, Grolin, you place everything upon your own shoulders. This task may be too much for you to handle, but if you work with Ghim, together you two can get to know each other better.”

Grolin nodded. Was he entirely convinced by his wife's kind words? 

“Perhaps.”

Sari patted her husband's shoulder gently and then left him to return to her work.


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## Ghorim (Feb 16, 2005)

*Grolin, Part 2*

Grolin sat alone for a time, examining his own state of mind, trying to sort out his own musings. These attempts proved futile, however. All of his intricate stacks of thought came crashing down upon themselves with the knock that came on his door. Grolin stood and motioned to Sari, wordlessly telling her that he would answer this caller himself. The opened portal revealed the graying features of Drukin, Khazad-dum's official ambassador to outside lands. The aging official bowed hastily and spoke.

“Sir Headsplitter,” he began, calling Grolin by his surname, “Lord Bailer requests your presence immediately. There is something of a crisis brewing in some of the nearby mannish villages.”

These words caught Grolin off guard. It did not necessarily surprise him that there was unrest in the villages, for he knew well that men often quarreled amongst themselves, even in these times of relative peace. What puzzled him was why Lord Bailer, a strict isolationist, had decided to take any interest in what was happening outside of the mines. The only explanation that Grolin could generate was that this crisis would have some adverse effect on outside trade with Khazad-dum. If an external problem somehow hit Lord Bailer's coffers, he would certainly take action to correct it. 

Grolin inclined his head slightly. “I shall accompany you to him, then.” He turned back to his wife, calling, “I'm off to work!”

Sari leaned on the meal table and smiled wryly. “I can only guess that since you're leaving so early in the morning, you'll be able to get off at a decent hour?”

Grolin shook his head. “I can make no promises on this matter.”

“Promise, then, that you'll ask Lord Bailer for a leave!”

“As soon as we fix this latest leak, I shall do just that.”

Sari nodded and smiled. “Then go off! Work diligently, and quickly!”

Grolin smiled slightly. “I shall.”

He gave her one last wave, before closing the door and following Drukin toward Lord Bailer's throne chamber. The mines were just waking up, the lanterns that provided Khazad-dum with dim illumination lighting up one by one all about its residential areas. A few merchants and other tradesmen were about, getting an early jump on their daily errands. Many recognized Grolin, the head general of Khazad-dum's formidable army, and stopped to bow. He returned their polite gestures with nods of acknowledgment and greetings. Though he resided at the head of the mines' social hierarchy, Grolin knew enough to honor and respect the contributions of Khazad-dum's backbone.

As they progressed, Grolin turned to the ambassador at his side.

“What, then, has occurred in the villages, Drukin?”

The elder dwarf shook his head. “A horrendous business… there's been a series of attacks on civilians in the mannish territories just east of here. Merciless slaughters in every case. No one knew who or what was responsible for the longest while. In the latest ambush, however, the villains let one of their victims go to spread word of their identity.”

Grolin shook his head in disgust. “What are we dealing with, then? Orcs? Other men?”

Drukin turned his face to Grolin now, and in it the general saw a terrible sort of sorrow that gave him a chill. 

The ambassador lifted the one word from his lips with a tremendous effort, as his wizened features seemed to sag even lower as he spoke it. “Khazad.”

Grolin's mouth fell slightly agape, and Drukin nodded softly to confirm the truth of what he had just spoken. The general turned away, his mind already hard at labor on the matter. The street before him became inconsequential, and now he could no longer pay attention to those who bowed as he passed. A sense of revulsion overtook him. To think that members of his own race could lower themselves in such a way, to debase their proud heritage with such cowardly acts of violence! 

Grolin was immediately seized by a desire to find and punish the curs that had committed such horrid crimes. His step quickened as they approached Lord Bailer's throne room. His heart beat with steadfast determination to see this task carried out. The pair of guards outside of the chamber recognized Grolin and Drukin as they approached, and pulled open the massive double doors to allow their entrance. Grolin knelt on the crimson carpet before the seated Lord Bailer, bowed his head, and spoke.

“I am here, my Lord Bailer, to see your will carried out on this matter. Sir Drukin here has given me a general overview of the situation that confronts us. I should like to make it known that I wish to personally oversee the handling of this problem from start to finish.”

Now Grolin raised his head, and that old soldierly fire, a blaze that had perhaps been partially extinguished by years without battle, without a singular, overriding cause in his life, burned anew in Grolin's eyes. He awaited his Lord's word with a fevered anticipation.


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## Ghorim (Feb 18, 2005)

*The Assignment*

Lord Bailer, Master of Khazad-dum, was a ruler of respectable lineage, pragmatic policy, and stern demeanor. His rule had been characterized by a surge in domestic economic growth, coupled with a no-nonsense approach in trading with the outside world. It was hardly a heroic legacy, but one that Bailer nonetheless sought painstakingly to preserve. He knew full well that his reign was in its twilight, and that soon he would succumb to age, as was nature’s decree. To his right stood his son and heir Dalar, a blessing from Mahal that came to the Lord of Khazad-dum late in his life. He was young yet, impulsive, idealistic. With each passing day, however, he learned more, became more sensible to the way things worked. Soon enough, he would be prepared to take the throne.

But Lord Bailer’s attention rested solely on the present. This latest crisis from outside of his prosperous mines threatened his prized legacy, as well as that peace of mind that ought to be entitled to a venerable ruler such as himself in his final years upon the throne. How could those humans hold him responsible for those brigands? The mere thought that he should have to intervene in this mess infuriated the dwarf lord to no end. However, if anyone could put out this blaze before it spread to the Lord Bailer’s treasury, it was his most trusted general Grolin Headsplitter, the soldier whose meteoric rise had astounded Lord Bailer, and whose mental capacity and axemanship were unparalleled amongst his people. Upon him Bailer now gazed from his exquisitely crafted throne, and somehow just the sight of Grolin, with a belly full of fire and a determined gaze put the Lord’s worries temporarily to rest. 

The Lord Bailer shifted slowly in his seat, and in gravelly tones he spoke, “I called you here, Master Headsplitter, with the sole intent of appointing you in charge of handling this matter. Rest assured of that.” 

From his kneeling position, Grolin nodded.

“Rise now, Headsplitter, and I shall tell you further of the events that have transpired outside of these hallowed walls.”

Obediently, the general rose to his feet. The rustle of his armor echoed throughout the stone chamber. 

“Just before dawn this morning, the guards at the East Gate received an ambassador from an alliance of mannish villages that lie along the Anduin River. He demanded an official to speak with, and so I dispatched Sir Drukin here to handle him. With heated words, and more than a few personal threats to our fine ambassador, he spoke of the slaughter of his folk at the hands of a traveling gang of Khazad, and demanded that our mines do something to call these attacks off. Our ambassador, of course, did the correct thing and said that these criminals are not our salaried servants, and that we have no responsibility for their actions.” 

“However, this man would not be placated. In his narrow mind, he links their criminal lusts to us by our shared race alone, and demands that we clean up a mess that is not of our making. He does so under a threat of the termination of our trade contracts with the villages that he represents. You, Headsplitter, of course know how valuable these contracts are to us.” 
His mere mention of the importance of the contracts at stake seemed to raise the ire of Lord Bailer all the more.

“I want these bandits crushed, do you understand me?”

These were the words that Grolin wished to hear. He nodded sharply.

“I shall show them no mercy, my Lord, as they have afforded none to their victims. Allow me but the opportunity to further confer with Sir Drukin on the particulars of this matter, and I shall return to you with a force fit to destroy these brigands. I shall work with haste.”

The Lord Bailer nodded. “So be it. The both of you are dismissed.”

Outside of the throne chamber, Grolin interrogated Khazad-dum’s ambassador. 

“This man… what is he called?”

“He gave his name as Edmund, sir.”

“And is he as irate as Lord Bailer suggested?”

“I fear that our Lord could not adequately paint the picture of this man’s fury, since he was not present at the time. This Edmund could barely keep himself restrained.”

Grolin nodded, and for a moment processed his thoughts.

“You said earlier that the bandits let one of their victims go. Did the ambassador give any details on this survivor?”

Drukin paused and then shook his head. “Only that he was a merchant of some sort, sir.”

“I shall need to speak with him. Now… are there any clues as to the whereabouts of these brigands? Have the men in the area taken any measures to wiping this group out themselves?”

“The ambassador did not tell me these things, sir. He told the tale in the tersest of manners, moving quickly from the facts to a string of threats levied at myself, our realm, and our race.”

Grolin grimaced. With the Elves all but gone, Middle Earth was now under the defense of the men and the dwarves alone. Granted, the Dark forces no longer possessed their former strength, but Grolin knew that the forces of the Light remained internally torn following the War of the Ring. The men still fought incessantly with one another, driven at all times by their lust for power. The dwarves, on the other hand, maintained an ironclad unity within their race, but under Lord Bailer’s leadership had grown increasingly cold to the race of Man. Grolin had hope that this policy might change under Bailer’s son Dalar, but he could not entirely count on that as Khazad-dum’s Lord continued to work on molding his son in his own image. 

In the meantime, this series of attacks by dwarves on mannish civilians could seriously and perhaps irreversibly upset the fragile ties that the two races had with one another. Though it might be a small group of his folk committing these heinous crimes, Grolin still knew that the people of these villages, having likely never encountered dwarves in any other context, would come to harbor great hate for all Khazad. Word could easily spread of these events, generating widespread distrust of dwarves, and exacerbating any preexisting prejudices. Faced with such resentment from the outside, Lord Bailer might simply break off all ties with the mannish realms, and pressure the leaders of the other dwarvish colonies to do the same. The two races would then each be isolated, the men weakened still further by their internal fragmentation and the dwarves hindered by their dwindling population. Alone, each race would become susceptible to attack from the forces of Darkness. It was a worst-case scenario to be certain, but Grolin fully believed that it could all come to pass. Therefore, it became imperative that he crush this group of bandits quickly and work to restore what trust that he could from the people in the region. With all of this in mind, he spoke to Drukin.

“Sir Drukin… I would request that you go back out there and try to calm this fellow as best you can. Tell him that Khazad-dum’s head general is at work assembling a force to handle this problem, and that I hold great sympathy toward the plight of his people. He should know that we Khazad also have standards of behavior, and that these criminals have completely failed in living up to our principles.”

Drukin scowled. “I could tell him these things, certainly… but I doubt that he shall be convinced of them. His mind is clouded, and I doubt that I could so easily dispel such thick mists of hatred.”

Grolin allowed himself a slight smile. “That is why you are known as the Tongue of Khazad-dum, Sir Drukin. You more than any other of our folk have the capacity to articulate our convictions, and convince others of their sincerity.”

Drukin also smiled faintly. “I should think that if things continue to worsen between us and the men, I would gladly forfeit the title to you, sir. I may be blessed with a fine tongue, but I at times lack the nerves to handle my duties.”

“I have full confidence in you on this matter,” said Grolin. “Now go and handle your end. I shall take care of mine, be certain.”

Drukin nodded, and the two parted ways. Grolin, so talented in juggling his many thoughts, had already formulated a short list of soldiers whom he wished to enlist for this mission. The first on his mind was his old friend and comrade, the firebeard Drali. To his home the general hastened without pause.


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## Ghorim (Feb 23, 2005)

*Recruiting Drali*

Grolin caught Drali and his family in the midst of their morning meal. His friend’s wife answered the door. Even though she knew the general well enough, Pela gave the most timid of greetings, lowering her head and curtseying deeply.

“General Headsplitter… what a pleasant surprise that you should visit our humble dwelling.”

Once again, Grolin was struck by the contrast between Drali and his wife. He simply shook his head in response to her welcome.

“I fear that it is in fact a most unpleasant business that brings me to your home this morning. I must speak with your husband immediately.”

Pela’s eyes widened as she moved out of the general’s way, allowing him entrance. “What has happened?”

“Nothing that affects you or your family directly… not yet, at least.”

Pela fell silent, and just in time, as her husband came marching up from the breakfast table with a welcoming roar to his old comrade.

“Well, well! So the General still has time for his old friends after all!” Drali grasped his friend’s shoulders and shook them thoroughly. “‘Bout time you visited, Grolin. I was beginning to forget what you looked like!”

Grolin could only muster a faint smile beneath his beard. Apparently Drali hadn’t heard a word of his conversation with Pela, nor did he notice the grave expression on Grolin’s face. Perhaps he did, but chose not to allow it to affect his jovial mood. Grolin wouldn’t be surprised either way. Drali’s morale was hard to shake. 

From their first days in the service together, Drali had always had the more dominating personality. He came into the army with the perfect pedigree, the son of a general, and having been honing his considerable physical talents long before the rest of his age group had so much as picked up an axe. Great things were expected of him. Grolin, on the other hand, was the son of a common infantryman, and a dead one at that. Still worse, he had been born premature, and was considerably scrawny by the standards of his people. Though Grolin became the target of much abuse in his youth training group, Drali took pity on him and stood up for the runt of the unit. And when he told the others to leave Grolin alone, his bright red beard bristling and his eyes ablaze, the other young soldiers obeyed. By no means did Drali have to do this kindness for Grolin. But Drali felt compelled to defend the young dwarf, for he believed that Grolin was incapable of defending himself. Thus began their friendship, and their roles in it were well-defined. Drali was the defender and leader, Grolin the protected follower.

The two grew, and the situation changed. Grolin’s mental sharpness soon proved to be an invaluable asset, allowing him to outsmart his more brawny but generally dimwitted comrades in spars. He discovered that his light frame was in fact something of a blessing, as it granted him more quickness and agility than most members of his race. He devoted himself to self-improvement, training rigorously even after daily exercises were over. Meanwhile, Drali’s progress sputtered. He shunned any kind of form in battle, and his unorthodox style drew disdain from his superior officers. He trained sporadically, sometimes all-out and beyond any reasonable boundary, at other times not at all, becoming complacent in his abilities and settling into indolence. All the while, Drali could see Grolin rising up from beneath him, his skills growing sharper by the day. Yet Drali never believed that Grolin could surpass him. He still saw Grolin as a young runt who needed protection.

However, when their first campaigns came, it became clear that Grolin had gained an edge on his friend. Though Drali more than held his own in combat by virtue of his inborn gifts, Grolin gained more renown for his maturity on the battlefield. In battle, he displayed the poise of a veteran, and though he was hardly as physically dominating as Drali, he still effectively dispatched his foes through the use of quick, well-placed attacks. Once, when Grolin’s squadron leader was felled by the enemy, he took control of the situation and led his comrades on a charge straight through a weak point in the enemy’s line. Drali was part of that group, and was shocked to see his supposedly inferior friend ordering him about. For all of his charisma and command in the barracks, Drali could not effectively run a group of soldiers in battle. Too often he looked out for his own interests on the battlefield, unable to comprehend the bigger picture of the conflict.

Though Drali’s respect for Grolin soared following the campaigns, he could not help but remain bitter as he watched Grolin climb the chain of command. At the beginning of his career he had dreamt of claiming all of the honors and glory that Grolin was now receiving. Drali was the general’s son, the one earmarked for greatness. Now this commoner had surged past him, and though Drali struggled valiantly he could not catch up. Grolin became a member of the prestigious Royal Guard of Khazad-dum, while Drali came out of the campaigns as only a sergeant. Their friendship strained under these conditions, but still remained intact. Time passed, and Drali’s resentment lessened as he matured. When Drali married and started his family, he took pointers from Grolin, who had a head start on him in that department. The two became close once more, often drinking together in the evenings and swapping stories. But even now, as Drali greeted Grolin at the entrance to his home, the general could sense that lingering essence of bitterness. 

“Well, well! So the General still has time for his old friends after all!” 

The words hung in Grolin’s head, along with the envious resentment that simmered gently just beneath them.

Grolin spoke quietly. “I wish it was but a friendly visit that I was making, Drali. But it is rather necessity that demands that I speak with you immediately.”

Drali tempered his jovial countenance only slightly. “Necessity, eh? Old Bailer got you on an errand that you need help with?”

“Aye, Lord Bailer has dispatched me on an assignment, but it is no mere errand. The situation that faces us is of a grave and dangerous sort.” Grolin noted that Drali’s family was still in earshot. “Perhaps it would be better if we were to discuss this outside…”

But alas, it was too late. The twins Dram and Ala, no longer distracted by their breakfast, came rushing up to their father’s best friend.

“Uncle Grolin!” they cried in unison, before promptly attaching themselves tightly to the general’s midsection.

Grolin groaned slightly and staggered back a bit from the sudden impact. He was not nearly as good with children as his friend. 

“Aren’t two uncles enough for them? Why do they need a third?”

Drali was almost guffawing too hard to answer. “You’re their honorary uncle, Grolin! And that’s a position far more prestigious than a mere everyday uncle!”

Grolin grunted, hardly in the right mood for this sort of affectionate treatment. “I’m flattered. But could you please call them off?”

Drali’s grin widened and he gave a mock salute. “Aye, sir!” 

Over to the children he went, grabbing each by the shoulder and giving a tug. “All right now, you two! Leave your poor Uncle Grolin alone and go help your mother with the dishes. Do it or I'll tan your hides!” And behind the last command he put just enough muster to sound convincing, but remained gentle enough not to seem overly-threatening. With this perfect balance to their orders, the children couldn’t help but nod and obey, detaching from the general and running off to assist their mother, waving a fond farewell to their honorary uncle as they went. For but a moment, Grolin forgot the matter at hand and marveled at Drali’s way with his children.

“Outside, then!” said Drali, snapping the general back to attention. Grolin nodded, and they walked out the door, shutting it behind them.


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## Ghorim (Feb 23, 2005)

*Recruiting Drali, Part 2*

As quickly as he could, Grolin outlined the situation to his friend. By the time he was finished, Drali’s face was deeply flushed to match the color of his beard. His outrage barely contained, he spoke.

“So Lord Bailer’s sending you out to grind these scum into the ground, eh?”
Grolin nodded.

“Well you don’t have to bother asking if I’m in. Cleaving the necks of these beardless sons-of-Greenskins will be a pleasure.”

Drali’s enthusiasm gave Grolin a smile. “Your participation was never in doubt in my mind.”

Drali cracked his knuckles. “So how many soldiers are you getting together for this operation?”

“Eight, you and myself included,” said Grolin.

“Well now, you know what I have to ask… are my brothers among the other six?”

“I would like to have your brother Darin along with us.”

“And what of Dolim?” asked Drali, referring to the younger of his two little brothers.

Grolin shook his head. “He’s not nearly mature enough yet.”

“Oh come now!” roared Drali. “Not even nearly mature enough? He’s got the poise of a soldier twice his age!”

Grolin’s brows lowered sharply into a compact ‘V’ shape. “Do not quibble with me on this matter, Drali. You may wish to turn this into a family outing, but I am choosing the members of this party based on very specific qualifications. Not only will we be doing battle with these brigands, but we will also be at odds with the villagers themselves. The members of this group must be able to handle themselves with dignity at all times, so as not to further worsen the distrust and hatred that these people have for us. Dolim has your temper, Drali, do not deny that. If a villager were to say something demeaning to him, could you guarantee me that he would not strike back, with foolish words or even with an attack? I want only soldiers that I know well enough to trust. Do you understand me?”

There was a time when Drali would have argued the point further, secure in his belief that he could get Grolin to agree to anything that he wanted. But now Drali knew his place, and understood that he couldn’t budge Grolin an inch on this matter. He nodded silently.

“Good. Fetch your brother Darin, then, and meet me at the crossbow range after that. If we move quickly, two other members of our party should be practicing there when we arrive. In the meantime, I shall pick up someone else to join our group.”

Drali gave a wry smile. “So you’re not telling me who else we’ll be working with, eh?”

Grolin smiled back. “You’ll know soon enough. Besides, I should think that the suspense of not knowing the identity of the others would cause you to move just a bit faster than you normally would, so that you might find out sooner.”

Drali chuckled. “You know me far too well! I’ll meet you at the range, then. You’d better not be late.”

Grolin shook his head. “I won’t have any problem convincing this one to join us, so don’t expect to wait.”

Drali nodded sharply, and the two parted ways.


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## Ghorim (Feb 27, 2005)

*Meet Rhur & Darin*

Rhur was comfortable. He had advanced as far as he could in the army, earned the respect and admiration of his fellow soldiers with his skill and dedication, and now made a healthy wage as the second-in-command of the Royal Guard. In short, he was going through a mid-life crisis. 

Never before in his life had he simply been adrift. He always had a destination, a goal to work toward. Though he was born a son of privilege, he was an idealistic lad, and chose to become a soldier, shocking and angering his father. Rhur had never wanted to rest on the prestige of his blood, living out his life without earning its benefits on his own. So he set to toiling in the army, always aiming for something better than what he had. Certainly, his offensive gifts helped in this quest. His fighting style was elaborate, relying heavily upon deceptive movements and rapid speed changes. Out-maneuvering his opponents and then out-muscling them, Rhur quickly gained renown, and as a lad became the youngest sergeant in his unit. It was the first of what would be many promotions for him.

Now he had achieved that elusive target of complete fulfillment, and was horrified to discover that he had nowhere left to go. Certainly, there was always that outside possibility of replacing Grolin Headsplitter atop the chain of command in Khazad-dum… but no, Rhur couldn't do that. He didn't want to. He was no leader, no great strategist. He came from a noble bloodline, true, but he did not have that extra spark necessary to take command of an army so vast. This was Rhur's limitation, and he accepted it. Besides, he held Grolin in great esteem. The fellow deserved his rank, and Rhur would do nothing to snatch it away.

But what was left to him, then? Training. Routine. They would be the death of him, he realized now. A paralysis set in when he thought about this subject, as his mind was stricken by what lay ahead for him. That morning in the Royal Guard barracks, Rhur blocked out such thoughts as he stretched in preparation for his daily exercises. He squatted, axe held over his head. He stretched his arms back as far as his rotator cuffs would allow. 

“One thing at a time, Rhur… you can cope with these thoughts when the time comes to rest. For now, you must concentrate on the tasks before you.” 

And Rhur would have done that, dutifully, without complaint, had his commander Grolin not approached him that morning. The story he told was quick and to the point. Rhur absorbed it silently, his aged features twisting into the scowl the more he heard. And yet deep within himself, he stirred with excitement. Here it was, come to him once more: purpose. Grolin asked, and Rhur replied with a grim smile splitting his beard. 

“I would serve by your side with honor, sir.”

“Good… I had little doubt that you would come aboard. Follow me, then.”

And so Rhur did, with a newfound bounce to his step.

---

Drali entered his brother's unit's barracks and was immediately assaulted with a slew of sights, sounds, and even smells that brought him back to his first formative years in the service. It was a noisy place as the soldiers prepared for the day, the air filled with insults and boasts and friendly banter. Part of Drali missed being so young, and the aura of invincibility that came with it. He remembered surveying his future possibilities as a young lad, seeing them fan out before him in all different directions, racing toward tomorrow without hesitance nor fear. Now he more or less knew the path that he had to travel. It was finite in scope, and passed through just as many valleys as it did peaks.

Most of the soldiers there knew Drali, and greeted him as he passed. Drali, who was very good with names, greeted them right back, and thus his journey to Darin's bunk was somewhat delayed. Eventually he arrived, and found his brother seated on his bed, already geared up for the day ahead.

“Good morning, there!” said Drali with a grin.

“You always make a scene when you visit,” said Darin dryly.

“I can't help it if I'm popular around here,” said Drali. 

He did so jovially, yet at the same time Darin's grim expression gave him pause. He looked upon his younger brother, in many ways his mirror image and yet his complete opposite. Where Drali's father had failed with his first son, he had succeeded with his second. He pushed Drali too hard to live up to his legacy, and Drali in turn rebelled, turning away from his father's incessant calls for rigid discipline and adherence to duty. With Darin, however, their father had crafted a version of himself in miniature. The perfect soldier, a vessel for orders, who cared only for the greater unit and naught for himself… that was Darin. Their opposing personalities tested their brotherhood, but the death of their father in battle brought the two of them back together. In cooperation with their mother they raised their younger brother Dolim, a lad born fatherless. In him they instilled the best that each of them had to offer. And so things were repaired. 

Darin scratched his fire-red beard, which was of a near-identical hue as Drali's. He almost smiled.

“True enough. You pander to these fellows more than I'd like, but it's their own fault for falling for it. What brings you here today, then?”

“Nasty business, actually,” said Drali, his grin fading. Now it was his turn to tell the story that shamed his folk, and he did so as best he could.

Darin's face was impassive as ever, but he was no less affected by the tale than any of the others who had heard it. He spoke tersely. 

“I'm in.”

Drali's grin returned. “That's the spirit! Now let's tell your captain where you're headed. I'm sure he'll be proud to hear that one of his lieutenants has been tapped for such a special assignment.”

Once that business was through, the two brothers left for Khazad-dum's shooting range.


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## Ghorim (Mar 3, 2005)

*Meet Forin & Hakin*

The thunder of bolts striking their wooden targets filled the chamber, echoing off of the cold stone walls, the noise bouncing back to offend the ears of those practicing there. An entire unit of crossbowmen was making use of the targeting range on that morning, and the cacophony was inescapable… to nearly all, at least. The most experienced shooters in this group could effectively block out the sound through a steel-eyed focus on their targets. 

The crossbowman Forin was among this select group. A thousand thoughts he had on things outside of this task before him; a thousand thoughts he silenced. He was crouched, his head cocked to the side, one eye shut, staring down the center of the distant target. Unconsciously he stuck out his tongue. All was silent in his little world. His finger inched toward the trigger. He was a statue, suppressing any shakes that might throw off his aim. Now the moment came… the bolt and target aligned… time to…

“Hail, Forin!”

The roar burst in through his cocoon. Admirably, Forin absorbed the shock quite well, but twitched just enough as he fired to throw his aim off. The bolt drove into the target, well high and to the right of its center. Forin, once the picture of dispassionate calm, rose in a storm of fury, turning about to see who had thrown him off. Of course, he didn't have to guess. He knew the owner of the voice. Drali! That fire-bearded numbskull! Seeing that signature crooked smirk on Drali's mug incensed Forin all the more. He and Drali had a history. And while anyone who ever met Drali could be said to have something of a history with him, his record with Forin was especially colorful. Their personalities were a poor match for one another, and while serving together in a campaign they had turned on each other, having to be separated on several occasions. Time had allowed that old wound to fester, rather than heal.

Forin marched right up to Drali, seething. He didn't even notice the three other soldiers who were with him. 

“Had you thrown me off any more I could have shot someone! Do you realize that?” Forin roared, the tip of his nose mere inches from Drali's.

“I had faith in your abilities, Forin,” replied Drali coolly. “I knew that nothing was going to throw you that far off target. Besides, we didn't know where you were in this crowd here, so I thought that I'd just call you out. Relax, why don't ya?”

Forin's eyes widened, but before he could sputter out a retort, Grolin's steady hand fell upon his shoulder. Forin blinked, and as if awakening from a trance beheld Grolin for the first time.

“Err… General Headsplitter! Hail, sir…” Forin took a few steps back from Drali as he spoke. “What… why do you wish to speak with me?”

Grolin spoke steadily, his expression frozen in a grim look. “I would like a word with both you and Master Hakin. Have you seen him about the range today?”

Forin's brows lowered, and his reply seemed to be more directed at Drali than the general. “Of course I've seen him. I should think that he would be easier to pick out of this crowd than myself!”

“Where is he?” asked Grolin, ignoring Forin's bluster for the moment. 

“The far east end,” replied Forin, pointing in the proper direction. 

“Rhur,” said Grolin, “fetch Hakin and meet us outside the chamber. I'd like to be able to hear myself think again.”

And indeed, after a brief pause to examine what had Forin so hot under the collar, the rest of the crossbowmen had resumed firing on their targets, and the chamber was once again filled with noise. 

“Aye, sir,” said Rhur obediently. “But… eh… what does this Hakin look like?”

“He'll be the one with the throwing axes,” said Grolin simply, before leading the others out into the adjoining hallway.


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## Ghorim (Mar 3, 2005)

*Meet Forin & Hakin, Part 2*

Rhur joined them in short order with Hakin in tow. The latter had his throwing axes tucked away in his belt, and had removed his helmet for his audience with the general. Now revealed was his abnormally short hair, cropped close to the skull, unlike the long locks that dwarvish warriors usually wore. Once a means of rebellion, Hakin had turned this unusual look into a symbol of his discipline and piety. Grolin knew the fellow well, having observed his progress up the ranks and his more stunning development as an individual with great interest. Hakin bowed before Grolin, and from his neck dangled a pendant inscribed with the dwarvish runes for 'Mahal,' the Creator. His devotion to that Vala had disciplined him in a way that no commanding officer could manage.

“Rise, Master Hakin. I must be quick in telling you and Master Forin about the matter at hand. There will be time to catch our breath later, but for now we must race toward a departure. You see, there have been reports…”

“Sir…” Rhur interrupted his commander, eliciting quizzical looks from Grolin and the other four dwarves. “Allow me, if you will, to tell the tale. You should not be expected to recite it every time. It wears on one, I should think.”

Grolin paused for a moment to consider Rhur's words. Gradually their meaning became apparent to him. Indeed, the shame and dishonor that these brigands had brought upon the Khazad was something that Grolin and his comrades would have to share, especially when they would soon have to stand before those villagers, already condemned by their race. So it was that the general nodded to Rhur.

“If you would like to do so, proceed.”

The aged dwarf nodded slowly, and then as dutifully as he could, told the tale of the bandits. Once he was done, he lowered his head and shut his eyes, falling silent. The story and the knowledge it contained had taken its toll on him. 

Indeed, all of those present were silent for a time before Grolin spoke. “What say you two, then? We shall need your range in the battles to come.”

Hakin spoke first. “The children of Mahal have strayed from their intended path in the past, I know. But unarmed villagers!” He shook his head in wonder. “That is a new low for us. It is clearly greed, that great bane of our people, that drives them.”

“It would not surprise me,” nodded Grolin.

“It seems that I have been granted the opportunity to assist in punishing these monsters for their crimes… I shall not turn it down.”

Hakin took a small step back, in essence conceding the floor to Forin, who stood holding his crossbow in a skeptical silence.

“Is it really our business, sir?” said Forin. “Why can't these humans take care of this threat themselves?”

“I intend to find out what measures they have taken to combat these bandits as soon as I can, Forin,” said Grolin. “I feel, however, that there is a moral duty incumbent upon us to assist in wiping these villains out. They have forsaken our most fundamental principles, and we must take it upon ourselves to enforce the laws that have guided our folk throughout the ages. If they continue to kill unpunished by us, then these values cease to have any meaning.”

Forin scowled a bit. “Aye, but…”

Grolin spoke before the crossbowman could continue. “So you agree?”

Forin paused, then nodded.

“And you will join us?”

“Of course!” said Forin somewhat defensively. “But we should make sure that we get some help from these humans.”

“I'd have to agree,” interjected Drali suddenly. “Perhaps they'd rather see us Khazad kill each other rather than risk their own soldiers to put a stop to the brigands.”

Forin, astonished that Drali had just agreed with him, could only nod silently in assent.

Grolin spoke evenly in response. “It is up to them how much aid, if any, they provide us. I am not optimistic on that front, personally. However, I am prepared to wage battle on the bandits, even if the humans do nothing to help. Now… I ask… are the rest of you prepared to do the same?”

Rhur and Hakin quickly agreed, and after a short while Drali nodded. Darin, who had not uttered a word in some time, simply followed his brother's lead on this matter. Forin, now isolated from the others, capitulated grudgingly. 

“I shall do all that I can to secure some form of assistance from the villagers,” Grolin assured him. “Now… we must split up for the moment. You should all go and say farewell to whomever it needs to be said to. Forin and Hakin… simply tell your commanders that the General of Khazad-dum has called you to his side for a quest. They should not impede your departure upon hearing that.”

“Unless they think that you're liars,” said Drali with a light smirk, drawing a low growl from Forin. 

“Enough!” said Grolin sharply, nipping this brewing squabble in the bud. “No one is questioning any one else's character here. We are all going to get along well together on this mission and work as one. Am I understood?”

Drali nodded.

“Forin?”

Forin nodded.

“Good. We'll all meet in front of Lord Bailer's throne chamber. I shall present the lot of you to him and ask for our supplies. Now hurry off… all save you, Rhur. We still have two more members to recruit, and I would like you to handle one of them.”

As the others went off in their separate directions, Rhur stood still before Grolin and nodded. “Simply name him and I shall bring him aboard, sir.”

“Thalwin.” 

Rhur blinked in surprise. “Thalwin, sir? But surely you know that he's…”

“Aye, I'm well aware. I think that you have the best chance of convincing him to join.”

Rhur shook his head. “He's a stubborn one… it'll be a struggle.”

“Then struggle with him,” said Grolin.

“Of course, sir… I would like to ask a question on another matter, however.”

“Ask quickly.”

“Why have you decided to put Drali and Forin back together again? You of all people should know that they don't handle each other's company well.”

“I need their individual abilities, Rhur. I cannot put it any other way. They will quarrel, that is for certain. But they are both more mature than you might think. In time, and with some help, each should come to tolerate the other.”

“I certainly hope that you're right, sir. In a group as small as eight, a division between but two members of the unit can wreak havoc.”

Grolin nodded. “You and I shall both keep vigilant on that matter. But enough… we must continue to work hastily.”

Rhur, responding to this statement, gave a nod and a salute in a single motion, before turning on his heel and marching off down the hallway, heading south. Grolin smiled a bit at this show of strict obedience, before going in the opposite direction in search of the group's seventh member, a captain by the name of Ghorim.


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## Ghorim (Mar 5, 2005)

*Ghorim*

The general knew where Ghorim's barracks were. He was another fellow with whom Grolin had never served, but knew much about. A great deal of soldiers throughout the mines knew about Ghorim. It certainly didn't hurt that he had a famous father: Garan, the first captain of Khazad-dum's Royal Guard. It was he whom Grolin succeeded as Lord Bailer's right hand. The joke was that since their names were so similar in sound, old Bailer never noticed that his top adviser and general had changed. Grolin, of course, knew better. It pained Lord Bailer greatly when his old friend Garan retired. And it pained Garan's son just as much, if not more…

Grolin found the barracks empty, and after asking some of the neighboring units where Ghorim's division had gone, they replied that he had taken his troops to the training chamber in the Third Deep. There Grolin found them, jogging laps along the outside of the chamber in their full armor, with Ghorim at their head. They must not have been jogging long… the unit was still in a relatively tight pack as they rounded the far end of the chamber. 

As they turned the corner, Ghorim spied the general, and after barking at his second-in-command to take over, marched over to the chamber entrance. The entire way, his gaze and Grolin's were locked. The general saw nothing in the captain's eyes. They were clouded, concealing any sort of emotion. Within, however, Ghorim festered with apprehension. Were he not obligated to speak with his general, he would not have left his men. He would have preferred the dreariness of a morning jog to this mandatory conversation with Khazad-dum's top officer. It seemed a great time before the two were standing near enough to each other for Ghorim to initiate the exchange.

“Good morning, sir. You've come to check in on my unit, I suppose?”

“It's more than that, Captain,” said Grolin. The two were both guarding their feelings from the other, with perfectly impassive demeanors presented. Within each mind maneuvers were taken, guesses made… the common question: what is he thinking?

“Something has come up, sir?”

Again Grolin told the tale, and its truth stung him more than ever. 

“I want you to join me in combating these murderers.”

In telling the story Grolin had been frank, so Ghorim returned the favor and cast aside his icy veneer for the moment. 

“Is this a favor, General Headsplitter? Do you wish me to feast upon crumbs from your table?”

Grolin's response was delivered sharply. “I believe that you have the demeanor necessary to handle this mission, Ghorim. I am not one to over-recruit unnecessarily when going out on an assignment so important to our people and Arda as a whole. You have something to contribute. I am granting no favors in my selection of this group. I am rewarding those who have earned my respect and esteem. Now, since you have chosen to be so blunt with me, I shall do the same. Are you joining, or shall I find a replacement?”

For a moment, Ghorim seemed to bite his tongue. He tried to hide from Grolin's increasingly intense gaze, and succeeded in his restraint everywhere but in his face, where his features cracked one by one to betray him. In Ghorim's eyes his emotions spilled out in a blaze, plumes of frustration rising and swirling about. His brows lowered, his eyes squinted. Every facial muscle tensed. Even his beard was of no help… his discomfort was apparent.

Finally, he could take no more, and acquiesced, bowing low before the general. “I shall join.”

Grolin did not so much as shift his stance at this display. He watched Ghorim rise, the fire within his eyes now extinguished. Though they hardly knew each other, Grolin and Ghorim too had a history. It was a past that would have to be resolved before too long.


----------



## Ghorim (Mar 7, 2005)

*Old Soldiers*

Rhur found Thalwin seated on a bench, watching his class of youngsters spar with one another. Thalwin didn't seem to notice him at first, and Rhur took the time to examine the features of his old friend, whom he had not seen in some time. Rhur had worried that perhaps time was beginning to catch up with Thalwin, who was now retired, now babysitting lads with mere fuzz on their cheeks, teaching them how to wield axes properly. The dim torchlight of the chamber gave the scene a dreamlike appearance, with the sage old dwarf sitting perfectly still as he observed the youngsters, with so much energy that it seemed to explode out of them in sudden, awkward motions with their wooden axes. 

Thalwin was not slouched, he sat erect; his eyes were not dulled, they were active, scanning up and down the field as he seemed to follow all of the miniature duels at once. These things pleased Rhur. Though out of the service, Thalwin was not wasting away.

“Hail,” said Rhur, moving up to beside the bench now.

“I was wondering when you'd introduce yourself!” said Thalwin gruffly. “Thought you might stand there all day. Have a seat!” He moved to his left, giving Rhur space to sit. Never did his eyes leave the soldiers-in-training.

Rhur, somewhat surprised at his friend's perceptiveness, sat slowly. For a moment, he said nothing, not wanting to distract Thalwin overly much. They were a quaint sight, those two… a pair of old soldiers whose time had passed them by, one still in his armor, the other having moved on into civilian life. Thalwin still trained, however, still dealt with combat every day since he stepped down from the Royal Guard. He was pleased with his position in life now, though he didn't always show it.

“Dram!” shouted Thalwin at one of the lads. “Keep your axe up! How are you going to defend your head if you've got your weapon riding low like that?”

“Aye, sir!” came the response, and the boy adjusted on the fly, continuing his spar with a corrected stance.

“You've got 'em running like clockwork,” said Rhur quietly, chuckling a bit.

“These little ones need the discipline,” said Thalwin. “Their fathers send them to me all rough around the edges, wild and rambunctious, hardly able to stand still when at attention… it's up to me to mold them into something that the army can use.”

“An important job…” said Rhur. He felt good for Thalwin. Yet wasn't he also jealous? Here his friend was, with his purpose all hammered out, living his life the way he wanted to. Where had Rhur gone wrong in his? But Rhur had to push those thoughts aside… after this business with the brigands, he would sort his life in these mines out. After a pause, Rhur spoke again, quietly.

“I've come to…”

Thalwin didn't seem to hear Rhur, and spoke on top of him. “These kids… I've realized something… they take the mines for granted. D'ya know that all of these lads were born after we recaptured Khazad-dum? Born here, raised here… it's just home to them. Now graybeards like you and me… we see things differently. We had to fight for them, didn't we? Took 'em back one chamber at a time, we did! But folks don't remember that any more. Only on the anniversary do they really talk about it, give us our little celebration. So Khazad-dum may be our home now, but I for one don't think of it that way. I hate this place just as much as I love it. It took a lot of good friends from me before we had it back under control…” Thalwin almost sounded sentimental, but that moment was brief. “Dram! Axe up!”

Rhur paused once more, and spoke in reply. “Aye… I feel the same way.”

He looked up, his eyes tracing along the intricately designed ceiling of the chamber that they were in. He thought of the smiths who must have toiled for months and years upon it when Khazad-dum was first fashioned. Their ghosts hung in the support beams, drifted through the arches, along with the spirits of countless others, slain by the horrid things that had dwelt there for so long. Rhur paid his debt to them by not forgetting their sacrifice. But what Thalwin said was true… people forget. In time, those ghosts would be forgotten. In time, the Khazad's numbers would dwindle, and they would disappear from these mines. Who would remember them? Who would remember Rhur? 

These thoughts were harder to shake off. 

“Thalwin… there's something I must tell you. And I need your full attention for it.”

“Oh! Well… why didn't you say so? Take a load off, lads!” Thalwin shouted to his class, and almost in unison they stopped fighting and plopped down on the stone floor. Some of them lay down on their backs to rest, others talked to their neighbor.

Thalwin turned to face Rhur directly. “So what is it, then?”

Rhur took a deep breath and the told the story. It was harder the second time. 

Thalwin shook his head sadly. “Terrible… terrible. So Grolin's taking you along with him, I take it?”

“He wants you to come too.”

“Me?” Thalwin scoffed. “Well the answer's 'no,' in that case!”

“Well think about it, at least!” said Rhur with a deep scowl.

“Why should I? I'm happy here with my class. My days of fighting are done. I'm comfortable.”

“Grolin would very much like you to be part of this group. He still thinks you're fit to go, and I'm inclined to agree with him.”

“Well, I'm flattered. But he can have his pick of any able-bodied soldier in the mines. What does he want an ex-infantryman like me for?”

“You're the best defensive fighter these mines have ever seen, for one.'

“Mmm hmm,” Thalwin nodded, never one to deny his talents.

“You'd bring experience to the group. We have several younger members, from what I've seen so far. I can't handle 'em all on my own. But you and me… we can keep 'em in check together.”

“If that's your problem, then tell Grolin to get a fellow your age who's still active in the infantry.”

Rhur scowled. “You aren't even taking this seriously. Does not the fact that members of our folk are slaying innocents stir your heart to action?”

Thalwin paused. “It does anger me… it does. That is not how Khazad behave. And somebody does need to teach them a lesson. But I don't feel the need to get involved. Why should I? I have everything I could ever want here. I said it before… I'm comfortable.”

Hearing these words again sparked Rhur's temper. “Comfortable? All that means is that you've grown complacent. You believe you've achieved all that you can achieve, aye? But you are yet strong enough to bear arms! And here our commander is prepared to give you an opportunity to go out into battle once more and use your gifts to dispel evil from this world… and yet you turn him down? Are you afraid that you might fail?”

Thalwin's eyes widened and then narrowed suddenly. “How dare you question my honor!”

“Your words leave me no other recourse, Thalwin.”

In a sudden fury, the old dwarf grabbed Rhur's beard and pulled him closer. “I do not hide from anything, do you understand?”

Rhur's eyes lit up. “That's the spirit!”

Thalwin's enraged expression suddenly turned confused before his features creased once more in anger. “You're trying to trick me, aren't you?”

“Whatever works,” Rhur, though his chin was stinging, forced a grin as he spoke.

“You're putting our friendship on the line for this cause…?”

“I'm committed to it.”

“You're mad.”

“Aye or nae, Thalwin?”

“I…” Thalwin paused, unable to continue the thought and thus state a decision. His eyes wandered to the group of students, and with some alarm noted that they were all staring at him and Rhur. His grip loosened on Rhur's beard. 

Rhur realized that perhaps he had taken the wrong route. Though he too had noticed the gazes of the students, he paid them no mind as he spoke. “This goes beyond you, Thalwin… or me. This concerns our entire folk. Right now those villagers are calling us worse things than just cowards, do you understand? The honor of the Khazad rides on how we handle these bandits. You have the chance to help redeem our race in the eyes of the humans.”

Thalwin released Rhur's whiskers now completely and smirked. “You've got a clumsy way of going about these things, Rhur. But what you have just said is likely true. This event I would consider the greatest problem our folk have faced since we took back the mines. And while I am remiss to leave what I have here… I would not wish to miss the chance to assist. I trust Grolin's judgment in this matter… his faith in my abilities is not misplaced.”


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## Ghorim (Mar 7, 2005)

*Old Soldiers, Part 2*

Thalwin turned back to the group of youngsters. “You boys are dismissed for the day.”

The group, astonished at its good fortune, let out a tremendous cheer.

Thalwin stood, waving his arms. “Quiet! As of now, I'm going on an emergency leave of absence. I know that you'll all miss me, or so I'd like to think. However, tomorrow you will have a replacement instructor, and he will put you through a double session to make up for missed time today. You shall treat him with the same respect that you give me. Understood?”

The boys nodded, eager to scatter and begin the leisurely activities of a free day, too young to care about what tomorrow had in store for them. 

“Good! Now get out of here!”

The lads obeyed this order without delay. Rhur stood beside his friend. 

“You're a born leader.”

“Of children, aye,” said Thalwin before turning to face Rhur. “Now… when are we headed out to settle this matter?”

“General Headsplitter is itching for an immediate departure. We're to be presented to Lord Bailer as soon as possible.”

Thalwin nodded, his wrinkled features set in deep concentration. “I need time to get a replacement for my class. And I ought fetch my armor and axe…”

Rhur chortled. “You kept them?”

Thalwin scoffed with a frown, as if it could not be any other way. “Of course!”

Nodding, Rhur picked up him axe from where it lay upon the ground. “I shall see you next outside of Lord Bailer's throne room, then.”

“Aye. Until then.”

Thalwin was set to leave, but Rhur spoke as his friend turned. “It's good to have you aboard.”

The retired dwarf stopped briefly, with a faint smile. “Well… with the expert way in which you presented it, one could hardly say that I had a choice in the matter, aye?”

Rhur laughed. “True enough! I'm a persuasive fellow. But we both have things that we must do… we shall meet again shortly.”

“I shall make haste,” said Thalwin, before heading off. 

Rhur watched him go for but a moment, and then set his boots to marching… he needed to fetch a few things of his from the Royal Guard quarters and say farewell to a few of his comrades there. Otherwise, he had no one else to say goodbye to.


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## Ghorim (Mar 8, 2005)

*The House of Aldom*

Drali returned to his home with a hurried stride, his thoughts flying through his skull, criss-crossing and colliding with one another. He was eager. How long had it been since he had last seen action? His domestic life, while satisfying on its own terms, could never fully measure up to the thrill of battle, and now with the news of this assignment his slumbering lust for the blood of foes stirred, compelling him forward. But before he could embrace this fierce warrior side of his spirit once again, Drali had to maintain a lid on his excitement and remain a responsible father as he said goodbye to his wife and children. 

He entered his house to a concerned look from Pela, who was seated at the table with their daughter.

“Where have you been, husband? You simply left and did not return.”

She stood and walked to him, with Ala trailing close behind her mother. In response, Drali simply smiled and grasped his wife's right shoulder gently once she grew close enough, his other hand lovingly caressing her light facial hair.

“Not to worry, dear. Your husband's been called off for a mission.”

“A mission?” Pela gingerly removed her husband's hand from her chin. “What has prompted this?”

Drali began what was to be a carefully-worded response, when his son Dram suddenly burst in through the door, his excitement unrestrained.

“I got off class today!”

Drali paused briefly, looking over his shoulder at his son with a smile. 

“Dram… glad that you could join us. Now I can tell the whole family about my upcoming adventure.”

“Adventure?” Dram's eyes caught fire, and Drali knew that he had the lad's entire attention. 

In describing the mission to his family, Drali was sure to downplay the potential danger as much as possible.

“Your Uncle Grolin has caught wind of some naughty lads who have been misbehaving, stirring up trouble in the lands outside the mines. So he's talking your father along with him to give these boys a good spanking.”

Dram and Ala seemed happily convinced with this explanation, but the way Pela's features creased Drali could tell that she wanted the full story. Unfortunately, there simply wasn't any time. 

“It won't take too long, don't worry. I'll be back before you know it!” 

Drali grabbed his twin children up, one in each arm, for a big goodbye hug. They giggled madly, a sound that gave Drali infinite pleasure. However, seeing his wife's frown as he walked about the room with the little ones in tow somewhat tempered Drali's happiness. Eventually, he put Dram and Ala down, approached Pela, and practically grabbed her for a deep kiss, to which she seemed to somewhat reluctantly consent.

Drali released his lips from hers and gave a charismatic grin. “I'll be seeing you soon.”

As he walked out the door, Drali hoped that would be enough to satiate Pela. Hearing her quick footsteps behind him, he realized that he had underestimated her once again. She shut the door behind them, with a hastened explanation to the children that their parents needed a moment to talk. Drali stopped dead and slumped slightly, his back still turned to Pela as her narrowed eyes shot daggers into him. From their front landing he looked out on the mines, which were now fully stirred to life. He took in the sight and sound of their bustle from afar.

“That was a delightful fairy tale you told back there, Drali,” she said. And whenever she called her husband by name, he knew that he was in bad standing with her. “I'd like to hear the truth now.”

Drali turned about slowly. “I did not lie. What we're dealing with here are children at heart. They failed in their lives, never matured, and now to make themselves feel powerful they're going after civilians in the countryside.”

“So these 'children' are armed and deadly, then?”

“Not for the likes of the group that Grolin has assembled. We will make short work of them Pela, I assure you.”

“And what if you have misjudged their abilities?” Pela's voice dropped to a sharp whisper now, for she worried that the children might be listening from within. “What if something happens to you? You never mentioned to our children that you might not come back. Am I left to explain that to them should it happen?”

Drali grimaced slightly at her anger, but quickly a smile returned to his face. “It won't. I swear to it.”

Pela's gentle face twisted into a look of anguish, and she seemed on the verge of tears. “You cannot make an oath on this! You do not know what lies ahead!”

Drali paused, and approached her again. He reached for Pela, but she moved away. “No…”

“Pela…” Drali reached again, and this time he managed to draw her in. The kiss he gave her then was far less showy and dramatic than the one that he had given her a few moments ago, but this one felt infinitely more meaningful and satisfying to both of them. At length they separated.

Drali moved back and quietly spoke. “I shall not abandon you. My foes are driven by greed and a desire for power. I fight for something more precious. They shall fall swiftly beneath my axe and those of my comrades. And then I shall follow the setting sun west, and return to you.”

He bowed deeply before Pela, his beard reaching down to the ground.

“Farewell, my love.”

With one last reassuring glance to her, he turned about and left. Pela made no attempt to stop him. Here was the trade-off for a husband that made her feel so special and beloved. He had matured for her, but Drali was still prone to following his own whims. So she was left to wait and cling to her hopes. She watched him march off down the street, before turning to go back inside.

---

“Whaddaya mean I can't come?!” 

Dolim was on his feet now, his features enflamed as he reacted to the news from his older brother Darin. 

“You two can't just leave me here!”

Darin hardly flinched, his will a thick steel that would not be so easily tempered by his younger sibling's raging fire. He had foreseen this reaction from the moment that Drali had instructed him to bid Dolim a fond farewell. Darin had known that there would be no fondness between them, however, as soon as he told Dolim that he would have to stay behind. 

Darin's discipline, Dolim's rage… both were heirlooms from their since departed father Aldom. Those two contradictory sides of the dead dwarf lived on his sons, and now they faced off against each other once again, as they had so many times within Aldom when he yet lived. The result was the same.

“Still your temper,” said Darin sharply, and with a shove sent his flustered brother back onto his bunk. For a moment they stared each other down in the otherwise empty barracks. From Dolim's eyes, Darin seemed to tower high above him. He had never met his father, but in his imagination, Dolim had always envisioned him as Darin appeared now.

“You are not ready for the challenges that we shall face outside of these mines. I think you know this, though I doubt that you shall ever admit it,” Darin spoke sternly. “We have no room in our group for lads your age. This mission is too important to be botched up by novice mistakes.”

“I will not fail you!” shouted Dolim.

“How can you say that? You have no combat experience. We would have to constantly be looking out for you. You would be a liability.”

Dolim lowered his head and bit back tears, his aggressive front dissolving beneath Darin's words, words that he could not combat. He was all churning emotion, not yet mature enough to get his feelings under control. At this pitiful sight, Darin's expression softened. Perhaps Drali's more forgiving nature had rubbed off on him somewhat.

“Drali wants you to help Pela with our nephew and niece. You and I both know that dealing with those two is far more stressful than anything that could occur on the battlefield.”

Was that a joke from Darin? Dolim, his face still contorted with sadness and frustration, managed a laugh, more from surprise than anything else.

Darin placed a gauntleted hand upon his brother's shoulder. “When the campaign to recapture Khazad-dum came… I wanted to participate in it. But I was too young at the time… they wouldn't let me into the army. I had to watch Drali march off to the mines not knowing if he would come back. I felt angry… I wanted to chase off after him and fight by his side. But the truth of the matter is… I would have perished in that campaign had I come along. I was not ready.”

Dolim lifted his head slowly, and took in Darin's face, which showed as much compassion as he could manage. 

“Your time will come, Dolim. Do not worry for your brothers. While we are away, fulfill your obligations to the army and to Pela with unwavering discipline. That is all that you can do.”

Dolim nodded. 

“Goodbye, Dolim.”

“Goodbye, Darin.”

Out Darin marched. Dolim sat alone in silence for a time, his gaze on the floorboards. Slowly the motivation built up inside him, and finally he reached down beneath his bunk and took up his helmet and axe. His comrades were well on their way to the training chamber by now. He would have to run to catch up with them. With a burst of speed, he was out the door.


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## Ghorim (Mar 13, 2005)

*Meeting Before the Doors*

Gradually, Grolin’s vision assembled itself before the imposing entrance to Lord Bailer’s chamber. 

First came Hakin, so rigid in his religious discipline and yet simultaneously so open and affable when before others. His frequent communions with that which was eternal and ideal had not led him into seclusion from his fellow Khazad. He did not see their flaws as so damning, for even Mahal Himself had erred in his secret creation of the dwarves. They were a race born from a transgression, and so all of their shortcomings had to be put into perspective. Hakin’s face had a rare attribute to it for a dwarf; it bore a mark of gentle compassion and often deep contemplation, though he was just as capable of focusing on the matter at hand as his comrades. He greeted the guards who stood before him, informing them that they could expect seven more soldiers to come soon, including General Grolin himself.

Next came Forin, with a fresh quiver of bolts for his crossbow strapped across his back. He also came armed with his short-range weapons of choice, a twin pair of maces. Now temporarily removed from Drali’s grating presence, he seemed much at ease, perhaps even displaying a tinge of excitement at this entirely unexpected development. How surreal it was! But a short time ago he had been locked into his daily routine of practice, yet how swiftly this assignment had snatched him up and borne him away from the shooting range toward a true adventure. He and Hakin, who knew each other well from frequent target practice together, took to talking about the journey to come, somewhat guardedly sharing their expectations.

“Probably won’t be much of a trip, aye?” said Forin, adjusting the strap on his quiver. “I doubt I’ll have to waste many bolts on these scum…”

Hakin shook his head. “We simply have no way of knowing at this point, my friend. Not even our leader General Headsplitter seems to know much about what we are up against. Regardless of the enemy’s numbers, we ought not to get over-confident. They will likely resort to a vast array of dishonorable tactics in their attempts to wipe us out.”

“No doubts there,” said Forin.

Darin soon arrived to join them, bearing his usual stony countenance. Hakin and Forin greeted him warmly, and with a brusque manner he acknowledged them. The two continued to talk, with Hakin making a few attempts to bring Darin into the conversation, though he seemed to prefer allowing them to converse without him. He maintained this distance not from any particular dislike for either of the two, for he knew the both of them fairly well and held them in high esteem. Darin simply felt more comfortable in the role of the observer. So he listened closely to their exchange, but did not participate. 

When Drali approached, they heard him coming from what must have been several hundred yards away, so mighty and noisy was the sound of his march. 

“Hail!” his boisterous roar reverberated throughout the hall leading up to Bailer’s throne room, giving all in the area pause to stop and take in his striding form. Darin and Hakin both smiled lightly at his appearance, while Forin’s lips tugged in the opposite direction.

“So you’ve started the party without me, eh?” laughed Drali as he neared the trio of soldiers. His gaze then went to the two guards who stood before the throne doors. “Are my friends keeping you two fellas entertained?”
The two infantrymen seemed rather surprised that the firebeard was addressing them directly, and the one on the left replied for them both. 

“Aye… sounds like some sort of exciting adventure is afoot.”

Drali grinned. “Oh, most assuredly! I don’t know if I’m allowed to give you two the details about it… high command is touchy about this sort of thing, you know… but suffice to say that it should be quite the ride! Sorry that you two can’t come along… looks like you could both use an adventure or two.”

The fellow on the left shrugged. “Eh… we’re just fulfilling our duties.”

“And struggling to stay awake doing it, aye?”

Both of the guards snickered. “Can’t deny it.”

“Ha… I can relate! We soldiers all have to start with these miserable guard shifts. Name’s Drali, by the way.”

And so Drali continued to chatter with the two guards. Partly he did it to fulfill his seemingly insatiable hunger for banter and conversation, but mostly Drali was making a point of staying out of Forin’s way. Though he normally enjoyed egging on the moody crossbowman, Drali decided that for now, with their presentation to Lord Bailer imminent, he ought not to stir things up. Forin, annoyed by what he saw as Drali’s childish demeanor, scowled a bit more in his direction before turning back to his conversation with Hakin.


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## Ghorim (Mar 13, 2005)

*Meeting Before the Doors, Part 2*

Rhur arrived in short order, and the others had scarcely finished greeting him when the general himself arrived. Trailing just behind was the seventh member of their group, Ghorim son of Garan. He did not appear at all comfortable.

Drali attempted to rectify that. “Ah ha! Ghorim, isn’t it? Welcome to our group, good sir.”

These words hardly loosened Ghorim up. He gave something of a stiff nod to Drali, and searched the group for a familiar face. Most of these fellows had served together at one point or another, that he knew. Ghorim was the outsider, the only soldier present who originally hailed from Erebor. Oddly enough, the only fellow in the group whom he truly knew was Darin. As the group seemed to collectively size him up, Ghorim felt compelled to say something, perhaps so that he might be distracted from the gazes of the others.

“Darin,” he said with a nervous air that he seemed unable to shake. 

“Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

Darin nodded. “Not since that tournament.”

“Aye,” said Ghorim, gradually making his way over to his old acquaintance. 

“The tournament…”

“You were an excellent opponent.”

“Well… same to you… obviously…”

The conversation was going nowhere, Ghorim knew this fact from the start. The moment of silence that followed his last words seemed to stretch on to an indeterminable length. He and Darin stared at one another. A single bead of sweat descended the left side of Ghorim’s forehead.
Drali, not surprisingly, was the one to break the unbearable silence. “So where’s our last member, General?”

“On his way, I should think,” replied Grolin, giving a glance to Rhur.

“He had some errands to complete, sir,” said Rhur. “It could be awhile.”

“Or perhaps not,” said Forin, who was peering down the lengthy hallway with his sharp crossbowman’s eyes.

The others followed his gaze, and soon could make out an armored form stumping their way. Slowly but evenly the figure approached them, and quickly it became recognizable to most of them.

“Well well!” said Drali with a smirk. “Out of a comfortable retirement, no less!”

“It wasn’t easy dragging him out,” noted Rhur. “We had quite a struggle over it, in fact.” He and Grolin exchanged knowing looks.

“I can hear you all talking about me, you know!” grumbled old Thalwin as he neared. “My hearing’s just as good as it once was.”

The entire group took in the old axe-master, pleasantly surprised to see him arrive, but none more so than Ghorim. Thalwin had been a good friend of his father’s, and was a frequent visitor at their home back in Erebor. It could be said that Ghorim was the old teacher’s first student, for Thalwin had often given him pointers on his axe work while Ghorim was just learning how to use his weapon.

Thalwin came to a halt before the group, looking quite noble bedecked in the deep crimson armor of Khazad-dum’s Royal Guard, with his long white beard well-plaited and tucked into his belt. Rhur approached him with a wide smile.

“Well! How does it feel to be back in uniform, friend?”

“If you must know, the armor’s heavier than I remember.”

Rhur and several of the others chuckled. “And the axe?”

“Oh… that’s not a problem,” said Thalwin, hefting up his weapon. “I’ve been keeping in practice with it!”

“Is that so?” said Rhur with a wily smirk. Suddenly, the grin disappeared, and Rhur brought his own axe up in a blur, taking a menacing step toward Thalwin. Just as quickly, Thalwin fell back and locked into his signature defensive stance, which after all these years was still technically perfect. For a few moments, the two old soldiers faced each other down, wearing their painted-on battle faces. All too quickly, however, Rhur’s façade cracked and he burst out laughing. He lowered his axe and approached Thalwin happily, giving his friend a good-natured slug on the shoulder. Thalwin, naturally, returned the favor. 

Rhur turned to the others, jerking his thumb toward Thalwin.

“He doesn’t lie, this one!”

The others laughed jovially at these antics, and from this din arose the sharp handclaps of General Headsplitter. Without words, he silenced the others and brought them to rigid attention. 

“A fine display, the both of you,” spoke the General with a light smile, though even this pleased expression seemed weighted down by the grave matters that oppressed his thoughts. Still, he seemed genuinely happy in that moment, as he took but a short time to reflect on the collection of talent that he had managed to assemble before him.

“This was the group that I wanted from the start,” he said quietly. “That you all consented to come aboard, and in such short order, is a testament to the strength of the convictions that we all share on this matter. We shall need that unity and dedication for what is to come. This experience that we are about to embark upon shall drain us all individually… but if we can rely on one another for support, we shall be able to weather any challenge. I have high expectations for all of you, and I shall speak of that more before we depart. For now… we need but Lord Bailer’s approval. I need not instruct any of you on how to behave in his presence. Follow me.”

And with that, the general turned about, nodding to the two guards to open the doors. As the massive portal split and parted before them, Grolin’s seven followers contemplated the grim visage of their leader, and the enormity of what lay ahead for them began to sink in. That jovial spirit which had just enveloped them quickly dissipated, and with expressions to match Grolin’s they marched behind him, halting before the Lord of Khazad-dum and kneeling in a neat row behind the general, who stepped forward to speak on their behalf.


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## Ghorim (Mar 27, 2005)

*Departure*

Grolin delivered his speech to Lord Bailer with great control and poise, but barely obscured by this outward formality was a roiling passion, a ravenous hunger to depart. He introduced his seven choices to the Lord of Khazad-dum quickly, with each sentence from his mouth coming out like a quick and accurate strike. In truth, Lord Bailer may have very well had some doubts in Grolin's chosen group, which included only one other member of Khazad-dum's elite Royal Guard, as well as a retiree and a host of low-level, mostly unproven officers, but before the general's verbal assault he could do little but approve of the selection and requisition supplies for the group of eight. Bailer also complied with Grolin's request to have his wife and son summoned to the East Gate so that he might bid them farewell. Lord Bailer did little of his own accord save wish Grolin and his team a clipped “good luck,” and send them on their way. Things were now in his general's hands.

The supplies came shortly to the group as they waited once again outside of Lord Bailer's chamber, and now fully equipped with packs and bedrolls on their backs, Grolin and his group marched for the East Gate. As a unit they trekked through some of the busiest markets of the mines, eliciting many second looks as they passed. Whispers followed in their wake as merchants and customers alike tried to make sense of the sight. They were wearing traveling packs, were they not? If this were true, where could General Headsplitter and his troops possibly be headed? The mines, starved for some piece of exciting news ever since the dwarves had retaken them, now had something to work with. The story of the General's imminent departure spread rapidly, with rumors of varying legitimacy getting grafted on to the simple report. 

As speculation soared about them on all sides, the eight soldiers continued their march, their dark armored forms wading through the stunning reds and vivid yellows of the dwarvish markets. Distant music could be heard as the soldiers marched. They presented a daunting unified front, causing even the most stubborn market patrons to make way for the soldiers. Eight pairs of eyes gazed evenly ahead, their sights set on the future. Eight faces bore the weight of an entire people in their folds and creases. Those who caught glimpses of the soldiers from the front knew immediately the importance of their mission, if nothing else.

When the soldiers arrived at the East Gate, their leader found his family waiting for him. He approached them, and both the wife and son saw a drastically altered figure in Grolin. He was burdened, haunted and pursued by something that they could not see nor comprehend. But even given that superficial sense of fatigue, they could see Grolin's mind racing past them, set alight by a fervor that they had never seen in him before. Their farewell was brief. Grolin's only promise was that he would spend more time with them upon his return… if he returned. There was nothing for them to say but goodbye, and they left him to his mission, his driving obsession.

Grolin then turned to his followers, who had stood and watched patiently during the familial exchange. The general had one last speech in him before they left.

“Ever since we took these mines back, what have we concerned ourselves with?” Grolin asked, and surveyed the seven soldiers before him in the ensuing silence. “Meaningless power struggles within our units… the pursuit of higher ranks and higher salaries for ourselves… petty personal rivalries…” 

Simultaneously Forin and Drali were indicted beneath Grolin's fearsome gaze, though his comments applied to all within the unit, including the general himself.

“Now, at long last, we once again have an overriding cause of genuine import, one that can bind us all together under the common banner of our proud race. From the moment we exit this gate, we are all ambassadors to our people. We march together into the hot fires of hatred, but we must not break. Our every move shall be scrutinized by the humans… so be mindful of your manners at all times. Do I make myself clear?”

The others nodded, and after a pause Grolin moved past them, ordering the guards to open the East Gate. The mammoth doors dwarfed even the grand entrance to Lord Bailer's chambers, and they parted most gradually, with a great grinding sound as the two ornately decorated doors scraped against the stone floor. Though it was cloudy outside, a great flood of light shot into the cold chamber, forcing squints and raised hands from many of those gathered within. Grolin, however, was not fazed. The others saw his solid figure outlined in that great spectacle of brightness, and for a moment he appeared far beyond them, an immortal form disappearing into the white. But soon their eyes adjusted, and they followed him through that portal to the outside world, an alien landscape that lacked the comfort and homeliness of their underground chambers. They gazed off to the horizon, disoriented by the sheer expanse of what lay before them. There was no ceiling, no walls, no limitations to the land. They felt suddenly small and lost, looking over the rolling plains and patches of forest that lay to the East of the Misty Mountains.


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## Ghorim (Mar 27, 2005)

*Departure, Part Two*

Grolin alone had his gaze on the setting that lay immediately before them, so it was only he who took in the apologetic expression on Drukin's face, the two dour guards who stood rigidly on either side of the gate's exterior, and just ahead of him, the approaching human with a belly of fire. Drukin, evidently, had failed to calm the mannish ambassador down. Grolin steeled himself for what was to come, removing his helmet and laying down his axe before extending his hand to the man Edmund as he neared. Grolin's eyes scanned over the human's features. He was an older fellow, with a certain distinguished air about him, though that element of his personality seemed to have been perverted by his all-consuming rage. Up top he was balding, with salt and pepper hair on the sides and a thick mustache that served only to highlight the deep scowl that his lips had taken on. He folded his arms across his chest as he looked over the eight dwarvish soldiers, not so much as acknowledging the general's outstretched hand. In a sudden twitch, the right side of his mouth shot up into a sneer.

“So this is all that they offer us!”

Grolin lowered his hand slowly and replaced his helmet on his head, anticipating that he was in for a difficult encounter.

Edmund now trained his eyes on the general before him. “And who might you be? The mighty general that this urchin here has been talking about?”

Grolin felt that blow to Drukin's pride as it was delivered, and though he took great exception to the man's rudeness, the general responded in a cordial though somewhat detached tone. He had to make the mental adjustment to the common speak used by humans, for it had been quite awhile indeed since he had needed to use it. Given his position, however, Grolin was well-versed in the language, and his eloquence was hardly lacking as he spoke in accented tones.

“I am indeed Grolin Headsplitter, general of Khazad-dum's infantry forces. Word reached me but a short time ago of the terrible crimes that have been committed against your people. I instructed our ambassador Drukin to inform you of my shock and anger at these attacks, and the great sadness that I have for what has befallen your fine folk, but I should think that hearing such words secondhand would hardly be enough to ease your frustrations. Let me say now to your face, then, how appalled…”

“Appalled!” Edmund cut Grolin off with a sharp laugh. “So appalled that you cobble together this pathetic group of foot soldiers to assist us in our hour of need? How valuable you think the lives of your folk are when compared to those of men! I hardly consider this a great gesture, though I've little doubt that you would like to paint it to me as such.” 

Grolin's teeth clenched tightly together, and behind him he could hear the shifting sounds of his troops as they struggled to rein themselves in. Within all eight minds their racial pride burned strong, and soldierly discipline was the only method at their disposal to tame this raging flame.

Grolin took his time in responding. “I chose this group myself, sir, and I kept it small for a reason. From what I have heard, the attacks by these bandits have been of a most cowardly sort. They strike, and then retreat into the darkness. Were I to command a full division in hunting them down, they would likely chip away at our numbers with small ambushes, and the casualties that we would suffer would be of a far greater number. For indeed, I value the lives of my folk greatly. But I place no higher worth on them than I do on the lives of humans, despite what you might think.”

Edmund was not about to be talked down to by a creature so small, and he took a few steps toward the general, straightening his posture so as to further assert his height advantage. The ambassador too had a certain pride about him, and one could call it almost dwarvish in its stubbornness. 

“What I think, beardling, is that you could hardly appreciate the value of a man's life, for in the past your folk have seen fit to lock yourselves inside of your cozy little mountain fortresses, regardless of the peril that confronts those whom you would claim to be your allies.”

Now the color truly rose in Edmund's cheeks, and he leaned down toward Grolin's face.

“You folk and your hearts of stone care only for mithril and jewels. For that which is living, save only the members of your own stunted race, you feel nothing.”

Before Edmund's tempest Grolin stood, unflinching, certainly not yielding an inch to the narrow-minded words that rained down on him from above. He seemed to rise a couple of inches toward the enraged human's face.

“You judge me and my folk based on a history that you do not completely understand. I have long studied the chronicles of my race, and I am well aware of the many times when we did not intervene in outside affairs when perhaps we should have… I am also knowledgeable of a good many times when we did leave the comfort of our homes to assist the other peoples who served the Light. But now is not a time for bickering over past grievances. That path shall only lead to our mutual ruin. The point that you should note, good sir, is the gesture that is being made in the here and now.”	

“These fellows behind me, I can assure you, are some of the best warriors that our realm has to offer. They agreed to accompany me on this mission without hesitation, for they have the conviction in their hearts as I do that what has been done to your kindred is wicked and must be stopped. We are all shamed by the deeds of our fellow Khazad. It shakes our spirits to the core to know that members of our race could so brazenly disregard our principles of honor and our value of life, regardless of its form. Your upbringing, Sir Edmund, has apparently taught you to think that we Khazad cannot feel such things, and perhaps these mere words are not enough to alter that belief. But I make this request of you: allow us the opportunity to prove our convictions in action, and set aside your baseless prejudices. Then you may found your beliefs on fact, and not on lore.”

Edmund leaned back gradually as this speech was delivered, for Grolin seemed to demand the space with his sharp delivery and commanding presence. In no man had he ever before witnessed such a powerful demeanor, though he would never admit this fact. The other dwarves, meanwhile, watched this display with a great internal joy, to see the bigot beaten back by words that he knew full well to be true. Edmund's will, having once loomed so large over them, was cut to bits by Grolin's tongue and now lay in tatters at his feet. 

Wisely, the man chose to cut his losses and save some face. “Indeed, it remains to be seen how well you shall be able to back up your calculated words. For I still question the value of your folk to the rest of Arda. You may wish to cover it up, but those killers that plague us reflect a part of your folk's character.”

“Indeed they do,” said Grolin. “Every race produces its fair share of villains. But those brigands are not at all representative of our people as a whole… I contend that this fine group paints a more accurate picture.”

“Hmmph… we shall see!”

Now they were in a holding pattern, repeating their arguments to each other. Edmund's furor was extinguished, and all that remained were the smoldering embers of bitter resentment. He was now in a state that Grolin could handle. Silently the general thanked Drukin for absorbing most of the man's rage, so that when Grolin first encountered him Edmund was already partially exhausted. With the first battle of the campaign won, the general got down to business.


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## Ghorim (Mar 27, 2005)

*Departure, Part 3*

“Let us then begin to solve this problem. I would ask you, sir Edmund… do you have any clues as to where the brigands might be hiding?”

Edmund snorted, gazing over the general's head now and into the gaping entrance of the dwarf realm. It was so dark inside… how could he trust creatures that called such a black abyss their home?

“We have reason to believe that they are hiding out in Fangorn Forest and launching their attacks from there,” said Edmund dispassionately.

“Khazad holing up in a forest?” said Drali with an incredulous look, unable to contain his surprise. “Well, if anything, that should serve as proof that they aren't typical members of our people.”

Grolin gave Drali a brief glare. “What my comrade means to say is that our folk tend to prefer using underground areas… perhaps… are there any cave systems in Fangorn?”

Edmund shook his head. “Nothing significant.”

Grolin stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Most peculiar…”

Edmund nodded grimly. “Indeed, these murderers have defied our expectations at every turn. We would have thought that your folk would be easy to track, given your tendency to stomp about without any heed for grace. But our prey have proven quite difficult to hunt down… their tracks scatter and disappear… they come and go from our lands like phantoms. It's enough to make us question the truth of the lone survivor's report… the dwarves he claims to have seen should not be so elusive. We have brought in an expert in tracking to help us with the search.”

Grolin's eyes lit up as he heard these words. Here was information that he could use. 

“These two people you have just mentioned… the survivor and the tracker… they interest me very much. Of the former I have heard nothing save that he is a merchant. What else can you tell me?”

Edmund scowled a bit. “Little, save that he trades primarily in leather garments, and that he is called Bertrand.”

“Do you know where he dwells?”

The man scoffed. “Aye… he lives just outside of our villages by the Great River. You wish to interrogate him?”

“I would like to ask him some questions about his assailants, aye,” said Grolin. “And I would also like to apologize to him for all that has befallen him at the hands of my kindred.”

Edmund laughed aloud now, and with a most derisive tone he spoke. “Such high-flown sentiment! Well, beardling, perhaps you would also like to know that he has been stricken with a terrible fear ever since the incident. We barely got any information out of him when he came to us, covered in mud and the blood of his hired workers. He has been all but silent since. Should you enter his home he would likely die of fright. And if I were in his boots…” 

Edmund evidently saw this moment as a chance to reassert his authority, and leaned in on Grolin again. “I would never forgive the horrible deeds that were committed against me.”

Once more, Grolin did not budge. “You speak as if you yourself have indeed been somehow wronged by our folk.”

“Well… what has your petty race ever done of worth to me or any of my kin?”

“I see no need to justify such a poor question with a response,” said Grolin, with a hint of a growl in the back of his throat. He had had more than enough of Edmund's ignorance, and knew now that the man's condition was practically incurable. “Tell me instead about this expert tracker of whom you spoke. What sort of expert do you mean? A ranger?”

“Of sorts,” said Edmund, his thoughts clearly not on the question as he glared directly at the general.

Again Grolin heard shifting sounds behind him. The others were growing incensed at Edmund for his disrespect, and several of them had it in their minds to step forward and help their general handle the mannish ambassador. Edmund noted their glowering faces, and this sight only served to anger him more. Grolin raised his hand slightly to settle them all with a wordless order. He knew that he could not hold things at an even keel for much longer with so many strong personalities and intense feelings in the air.

“None of us are much skilled in the field of tracking,” said the general. “Do you know where we could find this expert, Sir Edmund?”

“Aye,” said the man, and nothing more. 

Grolin nodded, his plan set. “Allow me then to propose our travel path. First we all march east to the home of Bertrand the merchant. Then…” Grolin looked over his shoulder at his soldiers, quickly making a list in his mind. “Rhur, Thalwin, Hakin, and Ghorim… you shall accompany Edmund to recruit the ranger while the rest of us have a word or two with Bertrand. You shall return with the ranger in tow to the merchant's home, and from there we shall proceed back west to Fangorn. Does anyone present object to this itinerary?”

Grolin did not expect any dissenting voices, and not one did he hear.

“Let us get moving, then! We have stood in place talking for long enough!” 

And the general set to marching ahead without waiting a second longer. Edmund complied swiftly, eager to end his time with these dwarves, whose dark gazes unsettled and disgusted him. 

The other seven soldiers fell into line more gradually, and they left the area only with several glances back to the East Gate, the guards, and Ambassador Drukin, who was still standing there, still looking somewhat sheepish, for he had not been acknowledged by any of the others up to that point. In that moment, however, Drukin served a vital role. The soldiers, needing some friendly face to say a final goodbye to, nodded and waved to the aged spokesman for the mines as they went. He returned the gesture, calling out, “Good luck!” into the intensifying wind after the adventurers. The words reached their ears faintly, a dim echo of home, fading gradually from their memories as they continued down the rest of the mountainside and toward the inhospitable plain ahead.


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## Ghorim (Apr 10, 2005)

*Just Marchin' in the Rain*

Indeed, it was with the greatest of reluctance that the dwarves marched eastward, away from the Misty Mountains. Many a time they would look over their shoulders toward those mighty rock formations, so sturdy, so concrete and grounded. Ahead of them lay only uncertainty, sparse plains where nothingness surrounded them, and dark forests where nothing could be trusted, where all was shadow and trickery. Without the Misties, their anchor, a great uneasiness overtook them. But they were Khazad, and soldiers to boot… they did not know how to complain. 

The weather dealt their spirits another blow, as the aloof gray sky let forth showers of rain to dampen their journey. For the dwarves, the downpour was an especially foreign and troublesome experience. Much to their chagrin, their beards quickly became drenched with water, causing their prized facial hair to hang from their chins like wet rags. Edmund, though his mustache too was ruined, could not help but smirk at the misery of his companions. It served them right, for all their stodgy pride and false ways. 

The dirt path turned to mud beneath their feet, dirtying their boots. In addition to the precipitation, this strange outside world reminded the dwarves of the concept of the seasons. It was the onset of fall, and though even within the mines the dwarves could tell when the cool season came, outside of the underground caverns the transition from warmer, happier months to the cold and unforgiving winter became something that struck one hard and heavy. The smell of earthly death and decay invaded their nostrils, and the biting wind seemed to carry with it a profound sense of loss, to which the dwarves could relate the loss of the simple pleasures of home. There was nothing for them to do but trudge onward.

Drali removed his helmet, letting the downpour claim the rest of his hair as he held the upturned headpiece aloft. He smiled gently as it filled with rainwater, before putting the helm to his lips for a drink. Noting the quizzical glance from his brother, Drali smirked a bit.

“Want a drink?”

“No thanks… I can get my own if I so desire.”

“Might as well make the best of the weather, aye?”

“I think it’s a bad omen…” Darin glanced up at the featureless sky as he marched. Raindrops splattered upon his frowning face, collecting together and running down in little rivulets before collecting in his mustache and beard.

Drali shrugged a bit before taking another gulp from his helmet. “It’s not something that we can control, Darin.” He emptied the helmet and placed it firmly back on his matted head.

“All the same…” Darin trailed off, and for the moment there was silence between the two brothers. The other dwarves echoed that silence. Around Edmund they could not be at ease. The rain and their marching boots were the sole sounds to hear. Only Rhur and Thalwin, who brought up the rear, were far enough from the human to speak with some comfort. 

“Our leader showed quite a bit of restraint back there, I must say,” muttered Thalwin to Rhur in Khuzdul, just in case Edmund had a better ear than he had estimated. “Had that disrespectful young buck hurled the same words my way, I would have taken his legs out from under him!”

Rhur smiled a bit, while his eyes still trained on the horizon. “Young buck? The human? Your sight must be failing you.”

“Not at all!” scoffed Thalwin. “Think about it… how long do their kind live… sixty, seventy years? I’d say that he’s about fifty or so. Now in our years that would make him a young lad, would it not?”

“True enough,” said Rhur with a chuckle.

Edmund had heard them muttering back and forth in that coarse dwarvish tongue of theirs from the front, and upon hearing Rhur’s laughter he was convinced that they were talking about him. Of course he was correct, though he had no proof to back up the suspicions that ran rampant through his head. He glanced back at the two old dwarves with a heavy scowl, which caused them both to laugh in his direction, for his grim visage appeared to them now as a small child’s pout. With a grunt Edmund turned away from them. He shouldn’t care about the opinion of such worthless creatures. And yet… it stung him nonetheless. 

They continued to march along that open plain for much of the day, cutting south between the forests of Lothlorien and Fangorn, their ultimate destination. For a time, that foreboding and impenetrable front of trees stood within their sight, just to the south. The dwarves shot many glances in that direction, their guard momentarily raised. Who knew if the brigands were spying on them in that very moment? The mere idea of the enemy stirred a festering thought in the back of each dwarf’s mind: before this mission was through, each of them would likely have to slay a member of their own race. It was a thought that they tried to cast aside or obscure. Still, each soldier had to ask himself: am I prepared? 

Little villages would pass on either side, small groups of huts huddled against the onslaught of the rain. The fields that bore those villagers food were getting more than their fill that morning, drowning in the downpour. Gradually the settlements grew larger, some even boasting inns for the benefit of passing travelers. It was in one of these establishments that the group stopped for a brief respite and a mid-morning meal. Their stay was not long, however. The innkeeper, a bald tower of compacted dough, approached the soggy group and informed them that he couldn’t have them sitting huddled about the dying hearth as they were. According to him, they were making his other patrons, all three of them, uneasy. Grolin, knowing the true reason for this request to depart, chose not to make a scene and agreed to leave as soon as they were through with their lunch, which would not take long. 

Edmund stirred and bristled, on the edge of challenging the keeper, for he indeed took the dismissal personally. But he said nothing, collaring his prideful anger with some effort. It did not go unnoticed. As they left the cozy inn with heads bowed, trudging back into the pummeling storm, Rhur strode beside Edmund and spoke in a quiet tone, his words weaving between the piercing raindrops to reach the man’s ear alone.

“How did it feel to be cast off as rabble, my good sir?”

Edmund scowled and looked down upon the graying dwarf, who gazed right back up with dark, tightly focused eyes.

“It was not I who was cast off, dwarf.”

“Indeed… it was we… and the keeper thought of you as part of our group.”

Edmund turned away, and in the silence that followed Rhur dropped back to the rear of the group. Thalwin eyed him queerly, but Rhur said nothing of the brief conversation. The afternoon passed for them all in the drudgery of putting one foot in front of the other. The importance of their mission became lost in the haze of the storm, and yet there was no quit in them.


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## Ghorim (Apr 10, 2005)

*Just Marchin' in the Rain, Part 2*

Evening fell; the sky’s gray became an impenetrable black. They twice attempted to secure inn rooms for themselves, and twice the innkeepers sent them away. Their excuses were identical: not enough vacancies for so many travelers. Perhaps they spoke truthfully, or perhaps they simply could not stand the thought of dwarves using and defiling their cleanly little rooms. The hour grew still later, the rains showed no signs of abatement, and the dwarves were beginning to wonder if their armor would rust before they found shelter for the night. What an inglorious end to their quest that would be, for all eight of them to become stuck in place like statues, monuments to failure much like Bilbo’s trolls. 

Fortunately for them, Forin, who as the group’s unofficial watchman strode beside Grolin and Edmund at the front of the line, spotted a pair of large structures lying to the group’s north. 

“Looks like a pair of… ah…” Forin searched for the proper word, cupping a hand on his forehead to keep the rainwater out of his eyes. “Storehouses, aye?”

“Barns, we call them,” said Edmund.

“Well… let us ask the owner if we could spend the night in one of them,” said Grolin, beginning to march northward. “Perhaps he shall be more accommodating than our would-be hosts from up the road…”

“Who needs to ask?” asked Drali loudly. “He’ll probably send us on our merry, rain-soaked way much like those two keepers did. Let’s just stow away in one of these barns for the night, I say.”

Grolin shook his head, not even looking back to Drali. “No. We are not spineless trespassers. We shall do things the proper way, and not cower from this farmer like rats.”

“Aye… let us ask him nicely like good little children,” said Drali bitterly, now being in a rotten mood following the long and uneventful march.

Grolin said nothing in reply, and Darin gave his older brother an elbow to the gut and a disapproving look. Drali bit his tongue for the rest of the march. 

They knocked on the farmer’s door several times before he appeared with a candle in hand, evidently roused from slumber. Past him the group could faintly recognize the silhouettes of his family, huddled together in the darkness. Grolin humbly requested the use of one of the barns for the night, and the farmer, quite bewildered by the composition of the group at his door, and still more frightened by their extensive arsenal of weapons, timidly agreed to let them stay in the north barn, so long as they left before dawn. Grolin gazed upon this man with a sympathetic eye, for he knew that the farmer worried for the safety of his family.

Grolin bowed deeply before the man, his limp beard hanging low. 

“We shall not again disturb you tonight, my kind sir. We give our deepest thanks for your hospitality. No favor has ever been done unto a dwarf and not been repaid in full. We shall pass this way again, and when that day comes, we shall settle our debt to you.”

The farmer could only nod meekly, quietly wishing the group a good night before closing the door and locking it quickly. Turning about, the dwarves and Edmund, who was considerably more fatigued than his diminutive companions, trudged over to the barn that the farmer had indicated to them. Along the way, Hakin leaned forward and spoke to Drali.

“Ah… what a refreshing display of charity. Now perhaps you see that not all humans look upon us only with hate, Sir Drali?” 

“Aye… I’ve learned that there are some who are deathly afraid of us as well,” came the grunted reply.

Hakin smiled and chuckled quietly, for Drali indeed had a point. “Well put. But be mindful that your heart is not led astray like that of our misguided prey.”

Drali glanced back at Hakin, one bushy red brow rising slightly. 

“An excellent rhyme, Holybeard, but keep your poems to yourself.” 

Again Hakin laughed, rather liking this new moniker. “‘Twas a reminder, and nothing more.” His smile faded slightly and his tone became more serious. “I am concerned for you at times, Drali. The passion that is your greatest asset could also come to mislead you, if you do not keep it in check.”

Drali grunted once more. “I’ll be fine, Holybeard, spare me the compassion. I’m a soldier, just like you. I understand discipline.”

Hakin nodded and fell silent, but was not entirely convinced. Wordlessly, he sent a prayer for Drali westward, in hopes that Mahal, creator and guardian of their people, would hear it and respond accordingly. Hakin had no doubt in his heart that He would, for as one of Mahal’s most faithful servants, his faith had always proved justified.


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## Ghorim (Apr 16, 2005)

*Professions & Purpose*

The weary and waterlogged group entered the barn, and to their relief found it an excellent place to spend the evening. Evidently, the farmer kept his grains and feed in the north barn and the livestock in the south, which meant that the dwarves and Edmund would not have to share their accommodations with any bothersome, foul-smelling beasts. Massive stacks of hay bales towered around the room, and several areas were covered with piles of spare straw and hay, which would make for excellent bedding. On the right side of the barn was a ladder leading up to a small loft. A wide, open area in the center presented an ideal spot to build a small fire on the dirt floor. Thalwin, the group's most proficient fire starter, produced his tinderbox from his travel pack and set to work on a blaze immediately, muttering as he went about his business.

“Used to be that making a fire was a mandatory lesson for all army recruits… it was one of the first things that I learned in the service. But somewhere along the way the army decided that it wasn't important any more… so it seems that none of you ever had any proper lessons in the art.”

“An art, he calls it,” sniggered Drali, whose spirits had returned to their normally jaunty level upon entering the cozy and welcoming barn. “And pray tell, which one of the Seven Fathers was around to teach you as a lad, graybeard?”

Thalwin spat upon the ground and continued to toil at his task, seeing no need to retort. As he worked the other dwarves set to removing their travel packs some of their wet armor. They unfurled their bedrolls on some of the more comfortable looking piles of hay, talking and laughing amongst themselves as they settled in. Edmund, meanwhile, stayed far apart from them, in his own little corner of the barn near the front entrance. No longer did he have to lead the dwarves, and he could now divorce himself physically as well as emotionally from their company. This was no great loss to the Khazad. Indeed, not surprisingly, Edmund's distance seemed to make them all the more comfortable.

Old Thalwin's fire was soon burning strong, and the entire group of dwarves gathered about it to sit. They were weary, and some of them had half a mind to fall on their bedrolls and go right to sleep, but all of them wanted to enjoy the comfort and company of the present, for they knew that peaceful moments like this one would come few and far between in the journey ahead. For a time, they were silent. Thalwin and Rhur produced their pipes, which they could both scarcely live without, and after lighting up set to blowing lazily-drifting smoke rings while the others watched. After a short while, this activity grew tiresome, and sporadic conversations began to crop up for brief spurts. It was Drali, however, who came up with the most intriguing topic of talk for the evening.

“Ah… aren't we all lucky ones?” he began, knowing perfectly well where his words were headed, as he often did. “Only we soldiers get to have this sort of excitement in our lives. I, for one, am glad that I came into this profession and not another. It makes me curious, though, with regards to the rest of you… had you not become soldiers, or if you were somehow discharged from the service, what would your profession be?”

There followed a pause, the others somewhat surprised by the question, for they themselves had never considered it. Forin shook his head.

“Ah… Drali… once again you exceed all of us in generating topics for pointless, idle chitchat. I should think that you would be the leader of some female gossip circle, were you not in the army.”

Drali hardly flinched at Forin's attempt to put him down. 

“I'm merely trying to make conversation, my good crossbowman. And it is up to rest of the group whether or not to pick this topic up. I cannot force their tongues into answering the query. If they do not wish to use my topic, perhaps you could lead us in a rousing talk about the joys of firing bolts at stationary targets, since you seem to devote the vast majority of your life to this exhilarating task.”

Forin fumed and sputtered, and Grolin once again interceded between the two with calm words.

“I for one think it an interesting question that Drali has put forth to us. Forin, if you do not wish to respond to it, then so be it. However… I will give my answer. Had I not joined the army as a lad, I would likely have wound up in a mine shaft, for I had no other opportunities in my future.”

“Is that so?” said Drali. “A good thing, then, that you enlisted. For a miner, no matter how skilled at his work, can ever make such a difference as an excellent soldier.”

Grolin glanced to his left, where Rhur sat. “And what of you, Rhur?”

“Oh, that's simple,” said Rhur with a light smile. “Had I not chosen the soldiering life, I would be serving on some stuffy council in Khazad-dum, hearing complaints and drafting laws alongside my colleagues. Such was the occupation of my father, but I could not stand to be trapped into such a career, sitting about all day in drowsy hearings and growing fat.”

“It would have been a comfortable life, though,” noted Thalwin.

“Aye… too comfortable,” said Rhur. “For what is life without the struggle to improve oneself and one's standing? To have it all handed to me, simply because of who I was born to… I could not accept such an undeserved reward. So I became an infantryman… I suppose my father never forgave me for the decision.”

“Hmm… but there is far more to life than wealth and rank, aye?” said Hakin, gazing at Rhur intently.

“Well, of course!” said Thalwin, answering for his friend, who could only gaze back at Hakin in thoughtful silence. “Which is why he made the decision in the first place. A very commendable one, I might add!”

“And no one's disputing that,” said Drali. "Far more noble a choice than the decisions that most so-called nobles often make." He smiled, eminently pleased by his own play on words. “Now how about you, Thalwin? I'd wager that it's damn near impossible to think of yourself as anything other than a soldier, aye?” 

“Quite the opposite!” said Thalwin, Drali having subtly goaded him into answering. “Since I retired, I do believe that I've found a suitable second role for myself as a teacher. Even had I never been a soldier and learned how to wield an axe, I could have done a good job of teaching lads their language and their history.”

“Ha, of course! You've lived through most of our folk's history, after all,” said Drali, unable to pass up the juicy setup that Thalwin inadvertently gave him. 

The old dwarf grumbled a response, but Drali's gaze had already moved on to Ghorim, who sat beside his old instructor. “Now how about you, Captain Ghorim? We're all rather curious about you, I believe, since it seems that you're hardly one to talk about yourself, or anything else for that matter.”

Ghorim seemed to awaken from a daze, blinking a few times and clearing his throat. Clearly he hadn't noticed that the conversation was proceeding around the circle in his direction. 

“Oh… well… what would I be?” he scratched his beard a bit. “Well, an architect, I suppose.” And then he fell silent.

“Is that it, then?” asked Drali with a sly grin. “Tell us why, Ghorim.”

“Well, it's just something that I've noticed every now and then. Khazad-dum is especially amazing in its design, even more so than my old home of Erebor. I… I think about how the original planners, Durin and the rest… how they must have come up with the whole layout as a group… or maybe they just figured it out on the spot, as they went… I don't really know for sure. At any rate… each chamber has its own personality, aye? The design of each one presents a different… eh… feeling… a different feeling, I suppose. They all seem to meld into one another, from one feeling to the next. And of course when one considers the big picture, the grand scheme… it's absolutely genius. I would like to design something like that. Well… obviously, nothing even remotely as stunning as Khazad-dum, but something good… something that our folk can look at and think about…” 

Ghorim trailed off, losing hold of his procession of thoughts, and Drali laughed a bit.

“Sounds like you think about it more than just 'every now and then.'”

Ghorim shrugged a bit. “Often, then, I suppose.”

“You just like to think in general, don't you Ghorim?” asked Drali. It was clear now that he was probing his fellow captain, attempting to map out Ghorim's personality in his head. With each of his answers a new piece of the puzzle fell into place. This pursuit was one of Drali's favorite activities, for he had a bottomless desire to learn about the individuals who surrounded him.

Ghorim felt the scrutiny of Drali's questions, but did not show it. In fact, his composure seemed to increase as Drali administered more pressure. “I should hope that all soldiers set aside at least part of their days for periods of reflection.”

Drali's grin doubled. “Aye… the army could use more fellows like this one, that's for sure.”

“That's funny to hear, coming from you,” said Forin darkly.

Drali's gaze moved to the crossbowman. “Ah… the feisty Forin… he strikes from afar with his words as he does with his crossbow, never brave enough to face his foes head-on.”

“Ha!” Forin spat venomously. “You want me to answer your challenge, then? Your silly little game bores me, Drali, but I shall play nonetheless, if only to put an end to your pestering.”

“I'm honored that you've chosen to humor me, Forin,” said Drali mockingly. The others took in this exchange with looks of deep concern.


----------



## Ghorim (Apr 16, 2005)

*Professions & Purpose, Part 2*

“Had I not become a soldier,” said Forin snappily, “I would be a musician.”

“Oh?” said Rhur, seeming particularly interested. “What instrument?”

“Fiddle.”

“Ah! A fine choice,” Rhur nodded. “I play the flute, as a matter of fact. We ought to play together sometime.”

“Oh…” Forin blinked, his bitterness toward Drali dissipating at Rhur's invitation. “Well… aye, I'd be glad to.”

“See?” said Drali with a hearty laugh. “Aren't you glad that you played along with my silly little game?”

Forin glared with a rekindled fury in Drali's direction, all the more enraged by the fact that Drali's victory in this skirmish was total, and all of the others had witnessed it.

The firebeard's triumphant eyes skipped to Hakin, and the intensity of the returned gaze briefly gave Drali pause. It was clear that his stare was meant to admonish Drali in some fashion. What was Hakin doing, making everyone else's business his concern all of a sudden?

“And you, Holybeard?”

For a brief moment Hakin was silent, the fire reflected in his unblinking eyes. His gaze cut through Drali, and he appeared to be searching for something that lay far beyond the fire circle. Suddenly, he blinked, his trance concluded, and responded with light and flowing words.

“Had I not been blessed with my abilities to wield these axes, I would surely have adopted a different set of tools and become a blacksmith.”

“And why's that?” 

Hakin smiled and lowered his head, speaking with closed eyes. “Our profession, Drali, is one based on destruction. We soldiers do battle with the impure elements of this world on a bloodstained field. By vanquishing them we make these realms a better, safer place. It is a noble calling, certainly. But…”

Hakin's eyes opened, and his head rose, the fire playing off of his entire face now, his visage surreal as he stared up, transfixed on something that the others could not see.

“How many wars have our folk fought? How many times have we marched to battle, swearing to ourselves that it was the final time? So it was in our wars with the orcs, but it seemed the more that we slew, the more emerged from the shadows. And yet when we retook Khazad-dum, we all thought that it was the end. Now a new threat emerges, from within our own race, and we must ready ourselves to take part in a kinslaying the likes of which the Khazad have never seen. Such is our job… to eradicate threats when they emerge. But I fear that there exists far too much wickedness in this world for us to destroy…”

He paused, lowering his eyes once again. “We are a folk born of an act of creation. Mahal fashioned us himself, out of love, and blessed our hands with abilities far exceeding the other races… abilities to create fine works as He did. To craft something with one's hands… something of practical use and perhaps even beauty, that is truly to walk along Mahal's path. But my calling led me to this profession, and I do not shy away from it. For we are all Mahal's servants, regardless of which path we choose.”

Hakin grew quiet, and the others dared not breach the stillness that followed. Suddenly Drali's question did seem quite meaningless, even to him. How absurd it was, that they should speak of such trivialities, simply for the sake of filling the rapidly passing moments with conversation. How ridiculous, that they were huddled in that little circle in a human's barn, miles from home, isolated and adrift in the tumultuous storm outside. Each dwarf retreated into his own thoughts, harassed by doubt and questions. They lost track of time. Fire and water filled their ears.

Finally, Grolin spoke. “We should rest… it has been a busy day for us all, and tomorrow we have another long march facing us.”

The others nodded grimly. 

“Who shall take the first watch?”

Ghorim seemed to leap on the question. “I volunteer… my head is too fevered to submit to sleep.”

Grolin nodded. “So be it. We leave at dawn, gentlemen.” 

He stood and left to take his repose, and with him went most of the others. Thalwin alone remained behind with Ghorim.

“Not tired?” asked the captain, taking up his axe as he prepared to stand guard.

Thalwin shook his head, his eyes resting on the fire. “Thought that you could use some company, besides.”

“It's not necessary. You should rest with the others.”

“When I am ready.”

Ghorim smiled a bit and shook his head, pulling on his helmet. “As you wish.”

Thalwin paused before glancing up to Ghorim. “A busy day, indeed!”

Ghorim smiled and nodded. “To think it was but this morning that I was engaged in my routine, running laps… I feel that I must be someone else now, to be out here, faced with such challenges and questions.”

Thalwin shifted where he sat. “No one said this would be an easy trek.”

Ghorim scowled a bit. “It is a burden… my thoughts are alight with agitation, and I've had to force myself to ignore many of them.”

“Care to share any?” Thalwin glanced to his protégé, and still he saw him as Garan's son, a young boy who needed guidance.

Ghorim bit his lower lip gently, not returning the old dwarf's gaze. “You've probably had most of them at one point or another along the way. But that man Edmund has weighed heavily on my mind.” He glanced across the barn toward the old ambassador, who had long since fallen asleep in his own corner of the storage house.

“I never knew that we were so hated…”

Thalwin shook his head. “His rage is not justified, and hopefully we shall be able to prove that to him with our actions.”

“Is it not justified?” asked Ghorim. “What was it he said before the gates… how the Khazad have hid within mountains and done nothing to help the other races…”

“But we have!” said Thalwin. “When the time was right, we sprung to action to defend our allies. Do not let Edmund's thoughtless words bring you to doubt the honorable deeds of our kindred past.”

“But have we done it enough?” asked Ghorim. “For… if there was even one time when others needed our aid and we chose not to help, simply based on selfish reasoning, then that is a lasting shame for our folk.”

Thalwin scowled. “We cannot second guess such ancient decisions, Ghorim. I should think that the reasoning was always sound, regardless of what our old leaders chose to do. Besides, the Men and the Elves have not always assisted us in our times of need.”

Ghorim placed a hand upon his face. “You speak truthfully… but… another thing has troubled me, for some time now. The stories of our creation… we were not intended to exist, not originally.”

Thalwin's scowl deepened. “Ghorim…”

“Mahal attempted to go behind Eru's back in creating us. In His anger Eru could have destroyed us. But we were spared, and included into the grand plan for Arda. Have we done enough to justify such mercy? Have we fulfilled our role?”

Thalwin stood, and his hand came to rest on Ghorim's shoulder. “Drali was correct… we need more soldiers with minds as hungry as yours. But if you keep asking these questions you will drive yourself mad. We have a task to accomplish, and we cannot afford to become distracted, not by anything. There shall be time for such thoughts later, after our foes lie dead.” 

Ghorim merely nodded. Thalwin's words did not quell the din within his mind, and though Ghorim respected Thalwin's experience and wisdom, he knew that the old teacher could not give him the answers that he sought, not on this subject. The old dwarf bid him a good night and went off to bed.


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## Ghorim (Apr 22, 2005)

*Thoughts & Action*

Ghorim watched Thalwin’s fire falter and begin to die. He finished it off, filling his helmet with some of the rain from outside and dousing the small flicker of light that remained. Now darkness consumed the interior of the barn whole, which was just as well to Ghorim. The inky blackness was familiar to his eyes; they quickly adjusted. He sat once again by the dead fire pit, holding his axe close. Still he felt nowhere near sleep, as his questions and doubts seemed to redouble in size and tower over his head. He tried to put these horrible visions into perspective, but his mind soon became distracted by the chorus of snores that surrounded him. As much noise as dwarves produce while awake, they are just as notorious for the racket that they can stir up while in slumber. Ghorim’s ears came under assault from those various nocturnal sounds: low rumbles, sharp whistles, heavy snorts, and drowsy mumblings all mixed together in the moldy air of the barn. His thoughts shattered, Ghorim wondered if he might go mad from the cacophony. 

He glanced about the storehouse, looking for a means of escape. Quickly, his eyes locked on to a ladder that led up to the loft above the main floor. Yes… perhaps up there he could get his musings in order. Ghorim rose, and as quietly as a dwarf could made his way to the ladder, slung his axe over his shoulder with the attached back strap, and climbed slowly to the top. 

Glancing about the loft, he found it to be more expansive than it had appeared from below. A few bales of hay had been tossed up there, but otherwise it was a wide-open space. Straight ahead was a large opening in the shape of a half-circle. Through it, Ghorim could look out into the storm, which it appeared had finally begun to slacken somewhat. The dwarf smiled to himself, feeling at ease up there, with the distance and the sound of the rainfall effectively negating the snores of his comrades. 

Ghorim walked up to the window, glancing out into the downpour thoughtfully. A strange calm fell over him, and his thoughts drifted away from those massive questions of purpose that had plagued his mind. Now his reflections drifted easily as in a shallow stream, and he took in the tranquility of the moment with a weary contentment. He wondered at the strange world that existed outside of the mines… the shadowy trees that swayed in the storm’s breeze, the disorienting expanse of the sky above, the air that… 

Wait! Idle musings shattered, Ghorim heard a single footfall behind him, and then immediately felt the visceral and horrifying sensation of a weapon’s handle coming up heavily to his throat. An intruder, behind him… it all came to Ghorim’s mind in a terrible flash of thought, and his hands instinctively shot up to grasp the harsh wood, his face contorting as all those thoughts fine and beautiful fled from his mind, replaced by brute instinct. He tugged at the handle, but the lock only tightened, constricting his flow of air. Discipline did battle with animalistic fear in his head, panic surging all the while. And then the words came, quietly delivered with icy intonation.

“Caught unawares… the first of the group to perish. What dishonor shall come to rest upon your dead name!”

Ghorim could not respond. Only a strangled gurgle came from him. 

“Do not struggle… I can make this quick, if you so choose.”

Patches of darkness surrounded Ghorim’s vision, pressing in from all around. He stiffened all over, and though sweat oozed from every pore he felt painful stabs of numb chill shoot through his body. His knuckles were white on the handle, his eyes shut tightly. Ghorim’s thoughts careened wildly throughout his head, frenzied beyond reason. Part of him had already succumbed, and he lamented the mistakes of his life, the missed opportunities, the lack of vigilance that led to his demise. Tears nearly came upon the thought of his dead father’s spirit… how could it rest knowing what had befallen the only son, the one prized treasure in the father’s lifetime? 

But in a ferocious upwelling of determination, Ghorim took hold of his fate as tightly as he held the weapon’s handle. He needed to alert the others. The dwarf spurred his right foot to action, bringing it down repeatedly upon the wooden floorboards, trying to make enough noise to rouse his comrades. The assailant hissed directly into Ghorim’s ear, and brought his knee up heavily into the back of Ghorim’s right leg, his grip on his victim’s throat lessening ever so slightly. Ghorim knew what he had to do now. Though his leg ached, he continued to stomp as heavily as he could. Another hiss… this sound was Ghorim’s cue. The attacker lifted his knee again, driving it forward in a second attempt to put his victim’s leg out of commission. 

Ghorim pushed off the floor backward with his left leg just as the strike came. His foe was not expecting such a sudden and violent shove, and without his right leg properly planted, he fell off balance. Now all Ghorim had to do was build the momentum. He pushed with his right leg now even as it screamed out in pain. The assailant was stumbling backward now, still maintaining his headlock on Ghorim. Quickly the inevitable became apparent: they were going off the loft’s edge. Ghorim kept his legs churning, and adrenaline lit his veins ablaze as he felt the ledge approach. 

Suddenly, they were both airborne, and Ghorim’s world tilted a full ninety degrees. The last thing he saw was the barn ceiling, before the two of them landed heavily atop one of the haystack piles. The impact knocked out what little wind Ghorim had left in his lungs, and his eyes fell shut as the attacker’s lock on his throat released. Ghorim tumbled over the side and plummeted toward the ground below as dead weight.


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## Ghorim (Apr 22, 2005)

*Thoughts & Action, Part 2*

Forin had found the ideal spot to sleep, settling in for the night on a neat little pile of straw that lay beside one of the towers of hay in the storehouse. After a miserable day of travel, the comfort of his makeshift bed was a little pleasure to be treasured. He staved off sleep for a short while, just to feel that beautiful feeling of warm contentment course through him in soothing waves. Eventually he dozed off, and to him came strange visions of himself atop a mountain peak, all alone, with a valley flooded by churning water below. Dead silence enveloped him, only to be shattered by a distant knocking sound. He looked about, confused. The knocking grew louder, more persistent. The red sky parted… and from it dropped an armored figure. 

A jarring impact startled Forin into a full state of wakefulness. He tried to move his legs, but found them pinned. What was that atop them? The crossbowman leaned forward and rolled the object off his aching legs. His breath caught in his throat upon seeing the face, strangely discolored and contorted. There lay Ghorim, his breathing faint and ragged, his body practically limp. In alarm, Forin’s gaze shot up to the pinnacle of the hay tower. There, rising slowly in the shadows, was an unfamiliar figure. All Forin saw clearly were the eyes, off-white discs that seemed to hover in midair, staring down upon him. Forin then looked to his crossbow, loaded and ready to fire, just out of his immediate reach. With a rabid lunge, he dove for the weapon, grabbed it, and in a wild spin aimed it up at the top of the pile of hay bales. But the figure was gone. 

Forin, however, knew what he had seen. “Intruder!” came his hoarse and frenzied cry. Most of the others had already awoken following the commotion that Ghorim had made, and they came running, some without their boots on, to where Forin was stumbling to his feet. 

“Where?” asked Grolin sharply as he came running up well ahead of the others. 

“He was up there,” said Forin, nodding upward to where he had seen the shadow as he hurriedly reloaded his crossbow.

“To me!” shouted Grolin, and the others were already well on their way. The dwarves converged upon the general, and he ordered them all to encircle the unconscious Ghorim. A quick head count revealed that all were present… all save Edmund. Grolin’s alarmed gaze flew to Edmund’s corner of the barn, and with some relief saw the human standing there, holding his shortsword with trembling hands. It was clear that he could not see in the darkness as the dwarves could, and his eyes were shot open wide in the sheer horror of isolation. 

“Sir Edmund!” cried Grolin. “Over here!”

The man looked in the general’s direction, his mouth hanging open, no sounds produced. Edmund took a faltering step toward the sound of the order, but he could not go any further, for he was truly paralyzed with terror.

“Hakin! Fetch him!”

Without hesitation, Hakin rushed out into the shadows, within any of which the intruder could have been hiding. He grabbed Edmund roughly, producing a yelp of surprise from the ambassador.

“All’s well, sir! Come with me,” said Hakin, leading the bewildered man toward the circle of protection. As they went, however, something shifted in the corner of Hakin’s eye. One of the shadows seemed to bend slightly… it was the subtlest of movements, but Hakin was convinced of what it was. 

Stopping suddenly, he shoved Edmund the rest of the way to the others, and spun about to face toward the barn door. Sure enough, there darted a barely visible form, making for an escape. Hakin reacted instantly, taking the throwing axe in his left hand and letting loose a heavy side-armed toss. The axe hurtled through the air in a clean, compact arc, striking home right beneath the intruder’s left shoulder blade just as he reached the exit. A horrible cry came as the figure stumbled out into the night, still going with the axe buried in his back. 

“Let us track him down!” cried Grolin. “Darin! Stay here and watch over Ghorim and Sir Edmund.”

Darin had already begun to run for the barn exit along with the others, but he stopped short, barely containing his frustration and anger at being stuck behind as he muttered a gruff, “Aye, sir.”

The others continued ahead, and some of them still did not have their boots on, but they cared not for the cleanliness of their feet now, for the smell of their prey was heavy on their nostrils. The six dwarves erupted out the barn doors into the rain and mud, the general Grolin Headsplitter at their head. He searched the mud for tracks, but to his disgust found that the intruder’s had blended in with their bootprints from earlier in the night.

“He’s going south, toward Fangorn, most likely!” said Grolin, and in that direction he led the others. There was a heavy mist in the air now, obscuring the vast plains that lay ahead of them. The rain came down without mercy. There was too much space to cover, and not enough visibility. 

“Split up into pairs,” said Grolin, his eyes flying across the visible landscape in a perfectly controlled frenzy of activity. “Forin, come with me. Hakin and Drali, you two break off to the west. Thalwin, Rhur… go east. If you spot anything, alert the rest of us immediately.”

And so the group splintered into three, each pair going in its own direction. The mist choked their lines of sight, smothering them on all sides. Each duo stuck close together as they hurried along the muddy ground, always looking in different directions. Rhur’s eyes were the first to spot something of note.

“Hakin’s axe!” he exclaimed as he spotted the weapon resting on the ground. It lay there lightly coated in blood, discarded from the back of the intruder. “He went this way…”

“He might have tossed it off as he ran, though,” said Thalwin in a whisper. 

“He can still be anywhere.”

The two old soldiers had slowed their speed now, and continued on into the swirling fog at a cautionary pace. Thalwin squinted, trying with no avail to cut through the black and gray, in search of that elusive figure. Behind him, a single footfall…

“Behind you!”

Rhur heard his friend’s shout and reacted instantly, so innate was his trust of Thalwin. Had he hesitated for but a moment, the attacker’s axe would have driven deep into the back of his neck. As it was, he spun and brought his weapon about just in time to parry the would-be deathblow away from him. Rhur took up a defensive posture, but was alarmed to see that his attacker had already disappeared into the mist. But how so quickly?

“Did you see him?” asked Rhur quietly.

“I only heard him wind up for the strike,” replied Thalwin.

They drew close together, axes raised, looking about in a circle for the next attack. Thalwin knew he would have to bait their opponent to reveal himself, for it was clear that they were dealing with a coward. 

He cried out into the night, “General Headsplitter! Forin! Drali! Hakin! Come over…” 

The mist fluctuated. A flurry of strikes ushered forth from the clouds. Thalwin stepped forward to defend them, and though he could not see the attacker himself, he could follow the axe, and the old dwarf’s battle-hardened mind guided his hands to perfectly intercept each attack, analyzing and defusing the strikes before they were even made. Rhur suddenly jumped up ahead of Thalwin and went on the offensive, his axe singing out through the still of the night, creating a web of blows of astounding complexity. He too could not quite make out the form of the enemy… it baffled him how his target seemed to be blending in with the mists, twisting this way and that with the winds of the storm, somehow eluding his strikes. Suddenly a counterstrike from nowhere came aimed at his throat, and Rhur stumbled back, moving to the defensive. The attacker pushed him back, but suddenly Thalwin shoved into the exchange, taking up blocking the strikes for his friend. But Rhur would not be moved aside so easily. He stayed alongside Thalwin, and soon they were both fending off the attacks of their near-invisible foe together. 

Finally the assailant let one of his attacks hang in the air for too long, and Thalwin’s axe snared the foe’s weapon. With a sharp twist, Thalwin forced the axe out of the attacker’s hand. Seizing the opportunity, Rhur moved up with a vicious two-handed strike, which he felt connect solidly with some part of the foe. A shriek, this one far worse than the last, sounded loud and long, and quite suddenly at Rhur’s feet there seemed to materialize the lower half of an arm. The two dwarves heard the sound of footfalls fleeing off into the night along with the wailing, which faded off into the distance. The other four dwarves arrived to find Thalwin and Rhur standing somewhat dumbfounded before the severed arm, looking off in the direction of the recently fled assailant.

“What happened?” demanded Grolin as he approached.

“Simple. The intruder attempted to ambush us,” explained Thalwin, as Rhur continued to stare off into the mists. “We fended him off.”

“Hmm…” Grolin noted the arm that lay in the mud now. “I can see that now, aye. I doubt that our friend shall be returning to pester us this evening. I worry now, however, that perhaps he was not sent alone. Let us regroup at the barn.”

The others agreed to this plan. Hakin picked up his used throwing axe, Rhur confiscated the intruder’s weapon, and they all turned to go, with Drali giving the severed arm a slight kick with his muddy right foot before following the rest back to the storehouse.


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## Ghorim (Apr 27, 2005)

*Regrouping*

“He was damn near invisible,” said Thalwin, wringing the rainwater out of his beard. They were all gathered close together in the barn now. Even Edmund dared not stray too far away from the protection that the dwarves offered, and he sat in their little circle with a look of misery spiced with fear creasing his features. Ghorim had yet to awaken, but his breathing had stabilized, and the others had propped him up on a healthy pile of straw and covered him with a bedroll. Outside, the rain had come to a halt, leaving the group in an eerie silence without the reassuring sound of the raindrops on the roof above. 

“Doesn’t make much sense,” muttered Darin with a scowl, still annoyed that he didn’t get to go outside with the others. 

“The mists weren’t that bad,” said Forin, nodding in agreement.

“Well you tell ‘em, then, Rhur! Seems that they don’t trust my word alone.”

Rhur had been silent ever since the encounter in the fog, and even when Thalwin called upon him he just shook his head.

“I had a hard time getting a read on him.”

Thalwin nodded sharply. “Something wasn’t right about it, the way he blended in with things… maybe that explains how he got the drop on Ghorim.”

“Ghorim was probably lost in thought, too,” added Drali. “Forin says that he fell from on top from one of these stacks. How’d he get up there? I’ll tell you how… he was up in the loft, thinking about the architecture of the place, most likely.”

Thalwin scowled. “Don’t be so rough on the lad. How was he to know that someone would follow us here?”

Drali snorted. “Listen, Thalwin, I like the fellow just as much as you do, but let’s not remove him from blame entirely, eh? He was on guard, and he should have been vigilant.”

“You’re correct,” came a quiet voice, and the group collectively turned to see Ghorim propping himself up on his elbows. He spoke haltingly. “I should’ve… kept a better eye out. My negligence… put your lives in danger. I can’t even begin to apologize…”

“Then don’t,” came the silencing words from General Headsplitter. There was a coldness emanating from his entire being as he looked down upon the dishonored Ghorim. It was not an animosity, not scorn, just an icy emotional distance. His compassion and disdain cancelled one another out, and for Ghorim’s failure and plight Grolin seemed to care nothing. He was the leader… this was how he had to be. “Rest, instead.”

Ghorim felt that chill pass over his own heart, and nodded, lying back down and not saying another word. His bitterness stirred within, for with that dismissive air Grolin had heaped more shame upon him.

The general turned to the others, who after witnessing that exchange felt little desire to speak any more on the subject of the intruder.

“I want two guards per shift from now on. We stay close when we sleep. I shall take the next shift. Who shall join me?”

Drali rapped on his helmet where it lay beside him. “I’ll take this one. The rest of you can rest easy tonight. The General and I are a duo not to be trifled with!”

Thalwin snorted a bit, as Drali’s limitless gusto had been long wearing on him. “Be watchful, nonetheless. Something’s not right about this group that we’re after, I can tell already.”

As the company tried to settle back down to sleep following the jolt of their recent awakening, Hakin turned to Edmund, who was staring off mournfully into the abstract darkness. He had forgotten the dwarves and they had done the same favor to him. Hakin cleared his throat and gave the man a light tap on the shoulder.

“Sir Edmund… my apologies for handling you so roughly during the attack. I saw a movement, and knew not whether our assailant was coming in an attack, or going in retreat. I felt the need to get you to safety…”

Edmnud shook his head and spoke quietly, his outspoken pride whittled away to a stub. “You did what you thought best… think nothing of it.”

Hakin nodded silently. He knew not how to feel on seeing the man so humbled. Perhaps, even though the hour was late for Edmund, there remained room for growth, and this experience certainly couldn’t hurt in that regard. Hakin laid his head full of thoughts down on its straw pillow, and it seemed a great while before he fell asleep.


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## Ghorim (Apr 27, 2005)

*A Long Shift*

The others struggled as well, but eventually sleep came for them, creeping in like a hunter from the night and carrying them off one by one. General Headsplitter and Drali stood watch, and inevitably the latter felt the need to make conversation.

“Mmm… I ought not to admit it, but I miss my female.”

“I understand,” replied Grolin, though his response sounded more automatic than genuine.

“It’s like I’m back in the barracks again… here I am trying to sleep with my arm wrapped around a bundle of straw and I soon realize it’s not the same as having Pela next to me. She breathes nice when she sleeps, ya know. Not like these louts with us out here. Just a simple thing like that…” Drali shook his head. “Ah well… there’s no room for homesickness now.”

Grolin nodded. “You’ll have her back in time, and your children as well. Until then, you must reacquaint yourself with sleeping alone and cease your whining.”

The general smiled a bit, and he would have put forth such a joke to no one but his old friend. Drali drew a sharp intake of breath with that lopsided grin of his. 

“Well struck, sir. But I’m sure that you feel the same way about your wife.”

“Of course. She has proved to be my most trustworthy companion in life… her absence leaves me without a critical pillar of support.”

Drali’s grin grew a bit. “Aye… we were lost without ‘em and didn’t even know it.” He paused, glancing up at the barn roof, listening for the rain. Still hearing none, Drali’s eyes returned to the general. “Ah… at least we’ll have a dry march tomorrow, eh?”

“Hopefully.”

“What d’you think about our guest? Quite courteous, letting us sleep on as he did.”

“He was a spy, that much is certain. They evidently wanted to know our numbers, and perhaps overhear our plans. Assuming that he survives the journey back to Fangorn, they’ll know the first for certain.”

“And what of all these talks of invisibility? You think he might’ve found a ring or something?”

Grolin shook his head without acknowledging the jest. “I am left only to speculate, Drali. And of course there is no use in that… we shall see what we can learn from the merchant and proceed from there.”

“You think he’ll talk?”

Grolin shook his head. “With what he’s been through, I can’t envision him chattering away with us by the fire.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do to help. I’ve got a way with dragging people out of their little shells.”

“Aye. You’ve done wonders with Forin.”

Drali snorted and laughed. “And I’m sure that it has troubled you to see him discover his voice, and with it all of the different ways that he can threaten harm unto me! But worry not… I do not take any of this seriously, our little feud. Perhaps during the old campaign my barbs had some bite behind them, but now I’m just toying with him. It’s rather fun, in case you can’t tell.”

Grolin practically snarled in response, shooting up to his feet in a sudden bound. “The time for your games is over, Drali! Perhaps it never occurred to you, but I am trying to keep this group functioning as smoothly as possible. Our enemy is faceless, the people that we intend to rescue despise us. This is not playtime at home with your little twins, do you understand? Your little amusement with Forin has created a fracture in this company, for he takes your words quite seriously, and I believe that you know this just as well as I do. This nonsense ends here, aye?”

Grolin’s entire speech was delivered with a jolting intensity that all but pinned Drali’s head back against a haystack. And yet the general’s volume never rose above a sharp whisper. The others snored on, oblivious.

Drali visibly took a few moments to recover before responding, his shocked eyes never straying from the bright orbs of the general. “Of course, sir. I won’t pester him any more.”

“You’ll do more than that. I want you to bridge the gulf that you have so gleefully created, understood?”

Drali could only nod, his lips tightly pursed together. The message had clearly struck home. 

“Wonderful,” said Grolin as he sat. 

He lowered his gaze from the tamed Drali, and found himself surprised to see Rhur staring up at him from the floor where he lay. The old dwarf had tipped his helmet up from where it had rested over his eyes, and now locked gazes with the general. He gave a hint of a grin, and nodded approvingly, before lowering his helm once again and settling back to sleep. Grolin did not react, for he could take no joy, no sense of true accomplishment from his words. Drali had needed to hear them, for he had been acting without restraint, convinced that his friendship with Grolin would afford his behavior special protection.

Yet it pained the general to see the firebeard reduced to such a sorry state, with head lowered in servile shame. He had once idolized Drali, had he not? Grolin recalled faded memories of Drali standing above him, laughing with a force that could shake the whole barracks. Yes, Drali’s presence had once towered over him and the others. But he had squandered so much, and though he held a respectable rank, to many Drali was a bust, a might-have been hero who simply lacked the commitment to fulfill his limitless potential. What Grolin looked upon now was a cracked and distorted image of that once mighty form, and a terrible stab of remorse passed through his heart. 

He plays his games and makes his boasts to forget, thought Grolin. Once he meant them, when we were young, but now it is a front, a pale imitation of what he once was. It crumbles down upon him…

Grolin leaned forward, resting his chin on his right fist. There was silence between him and Drali for the duration of their joint shift. Outside, the wind gusted gently, weaving its way across the plain on its path eastward, rustling in the trees and whistling through the open window up in the loft. It continued on regardless of what stood in its path, and the two dwarves could only listen as it passed them by.


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## Ghorim (May 7, 2005)

*A Lost Spirit*

A specter tore across the predawn stillness of the plains, moving without let or hindrance southward. At first, it still appeared as an abnormal current moving through the mist, but gradually the ghost lost the strength to carry on this elaborate illusion, and it was soon revealed to be a lone dwarf, his past shrieks now having died down to weak sobs as he made a beeline for Fangorn. He tore at himself inside, a thousand worst-case scenarios passing before his mind in visceral detail. Harsh words… horrible punishments… the ghost knew that his master was capable of anything. He should have known better than to come crawling back, crippled and disgraced, but in his heart the ghost knew that he would surely die if his comrades did not heal and bandage his wound, which was tracking blood behind him as he ran. 

He just kept racing for the horizon, though his head reeled and his vision sputtered in and out of focus. His strides became stumbling lunges, and nothing kept him on his feet but the remarkable endurance that his race possessed. Soon, the tree line appeared ahead, and the ghost's heart burned with the desire to make it into the protection of those abandoned woods. Nothing would stop him, not all the lost blood, not the humiliation that surely awaited him. He made it only a few yards into the forest before he collapsed, falling instantly from a maddened sprint upon the leaf-covered ground. 

Darkness, silence… he was suspended in a world of shadow.

A splash of frigid water came to his face, startling him back into the physical realm. 

“Rest no longer, ghost. I summon you once again to do my bidding.”

The voice came to the ghost as a horrible dissonant sound, its words reverberating throughout his troubled head. He was propped up against a tree, in the silent forest, with four silhouettes standing before him, gazing down upon his broken form in overbearing judgment. The ghost lifted his left arm weakly, and found it crudely bandaged. Now his fearful eyes reluctantly shifted to the speaker, his overlord and master. The ghost's heart died as he saw those eyes, those horrible eyes, whose gaze alone seemed to pin him down, their cold hatred a blade against his throat. He dared not move.

“I chose you for a reason, my ghost. I thought that you could serve us well. But you have failed to go undetected, it seems, and now our enemies have your forearm and axe as trophies. Were I to follow my heart in this matter I would give them your head as well. But another chance I shall grant you to please me, so long as you tell of all that you saw.”

The ghost coughed, spitting up water all over himself. He could only speak faintly. “Thank you, master… your mercy… thank you.”

“I did not ask for your sniveling, ghost. I asked for a report.” The master made the slightest motion with his right hand, revealing his axe to the ghost, its blade shining dully in the night.

The ghost's entire body seemed to constrict in upon itself from the shock. 

“Aye, master… of course. There were eight, and a man, as we saw this morning.”

“You tell me nothing that I do not already know. How did they spot you?”

“They took refuge in a storehouse… one stood guard on his own and took his leave from the others. I attempted to dispose of him, silently.”

“And you failed?” The axe rose gradually, seeming to hover under its own power in the inscrutable blackness.

“I… I did.”

The axe dropped, but not upon the ghost's head, as he had feared it would.

“What then?”

“I retreated… and… and… I tried to ambush two of them in the fog. They were gray and slowed by age, but they fought together as one warrior… I could not best them.”

The master shook his head. “A catastrophe on all counts… you deserved to lose more than you did, ghost. Tell me this, then… does their leader match the description that I gave you?”

The ghost nodded, biting back tears of remorse. “He is the same.” 

“And what of this human?”

“An old one… some sort of representative from the villages.”

One of the other silhouettes spoke now, his words dancing nimbly as his eyes shone with unrestrained glee. “You should have killed him and left his body to frame the others!”

Another of the figures spoke now, and the leaves that littered the forest floor trembled with his words. “Nae… he should have burned the storehouse to the ground. They could have hidden the man's body, but that they could not obscure.”

Finally, the fourth figure spoke. “He ought to have slain the man, burnt down the storehouse, and then cut down the owner of the building, just to be thorough.”

“I asked not for your comments, any of you,” said the master. “He followed orders and remained a shadow… that is, until he overestimated his abilities.”

The master took one step forward, and in sheer disgust at the pathetic sight of the trembling ghost spat upon him. 

“Do not forget this disgrace, ghost. I have another task for you to complete. Even with one hand, you can still tie up our lone remaining loose end, yes?”

The ghost, now unable to dam up his tears, nodded feebly as the liquid from his eyes mixed with the water and sweat on his face. 

The master stepped back, regarded the failed spy for a moment, and then in a sudden act of fury shoved his boot into the ghost's shin, sending the battered creature scuttling off. In his ears, the ghost heard the master's piercing laughter, and it drove him from the forest at a terrible speed. Once again he became a mere spirit in the night, and that sense of anonymity gave the ghost that elusive sensation of complete freedom.

The master turned to one of his lieutenants in the wake of the ghost's flight. 

"Send some of the others after him. The dog may have hired some new guards by now... and I do not trust that wretch of ours to get the job done alone."

"The troops have been itching for some action... this news will please them," spoke the lieutenant with a nod. He departed, and with him the other two figures, leaving the master to his own devices. 

"Grolin Headsplitter," he murmured with a smile. "And his most trusted followers... what a splendid reunion this shall be."

He raised his axe slowly, his eyes traveling along the edge of its blade. He considered what was to come. "Kinslayer I must be, then, if that is what it takes."

Yes... he was satisfied with this reasoning, and prepared to carry it out when the time came. The master walked off in the opposite direction as his lieutenants had gone, letting the cold night embrace him. Everything within and without him was frigid; he traversed the dying world alone, sustained by lust and ambition. Soon, his designs would blossom, and then he could finally feel content, knowing that he had left his mark indelibly upon the world.


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## Ghorim (Jun 25, 2005)

*In The Morning*

Rainwater still hung heavily in the air that misty morning, after a night of tumult and restlessness. As he stood just outside the open barn door, his shift at guard nearing its end, Rhur's weary gaze turned to the sky. The foreboding sheets of gray that had obscured the heavens had since departed, and now visible was that disarming swirl of early morning color, as frigid blues and purples mingled freely with the reassuring warmth that emanated from the oranges and reds. A solitary front of clouds slashed across the sky, extending far off into space over the open farming fields. The heavens were a world unto themselves, Rhur realized, for this moment was the first time that he had truly beheld them and considered their majesty in its entirety.

The struggles of those who lived grounded... their petty desires and ramshackle settlements, their lusts for power and wars for glory, the sky was immune to such things. The winds carried the clouds in and sent them away, the sun rose and set on its regular pattern, the stars arrived in the hush of night to put a spell over the sleeping lands. Their permanence and stability was much like that of the mountains that the dwarves called home. All of these thoughts played on Rhur's heart, and perhaps he began to see what both Men and Elves cherished about the open lands that lay outside of the mountain keeps of the Khazad.

"Too damn beautiful for me," he muttered, and turned away from the spectacle of sunrise to face the drowsy barn interior. He marched over to where the others rested, his eyes on Thalwin, who was standing guard with him. The old dwarf stood leaning against one of the stacks of hay, matching Rhur's gaze evenly.

"What say we wake up the children?" asked Rhur.

"About time," said Thalwin as he transfered his weight off of the stack. "That farmer will 've started his daily chores by now, and he's expecting not to find us still holed up in here."

"We'll make trails in a hurry, then," said Rhur, shoving his boot into one of the sleepers. 

Long before the farmer entered his grain barn that morning, the group had departed.


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## Ghorim (Nov 15, 2005)

*Duel At Dusk*

The sun came on the second day of marching, splintering the menacing army of clouds and casting their legions asunder. For Edmund, its arrival was a sign of hope and promise from the heavens. His sagging face basked in the warming rays, seeming revitalized by the change of weather. To the dwarves, however, the orb in the sky signaled a renewed assault on their vision, with piercing shards of light attacking their eyes from every angle. The soldiers lowered their helmets as far as they could, and kept their gazes on the dirt trail or the stubby grass that surrounded them completely. They were hardly used to such a stunning source of light, and all of them considered the sheer volume of illumination that it provided to be entirely unnecessary. 

Only by living beneath the sun year round can one come to truly come to understand its importance, the way it dispels the dying chill and restores the health of those suffering from ailments of both mind and spirit. The flowers raise their colorful heads in salute to their maker and provider when the morning comes, and drowsily bow out when the day is through. For these things the dwarves cared naught, and if one were to attempt to explain such ideas to them they would likely laughingly dismiss such sentiment as Elvish nonsense. 

Fire, not water, now rained from above, and its heat could only be matched by the souls of those impassioned soldiers who marched through its swelter. They had witnessed the cowardice of their foe firsthand the night before, and in those hearts that knew only honor, disgust boiled into a barely-controlled blaze. All the more enflamed were the spirits of Drali and Ghorim, humiliated by their commanding officer for their failings in the night. Dwarvish pride buttressed their determination to prove themselves worthy in General Headsplitter’s eyes, for each thought himself mistreated. 

They conducted their march in silence once again, and morale sagged from morning into the evening, when the sun at last retreated back into the West, where the Misty Mountains now distantly lay. They would reach Bertrand’s house upon the morrow; that much Edmund revealed to them. Impatience crept in, and all felt restless when they gathered around the fire that evening. Grolin broke off wordlessly from the tight circle after half an hour of idle sitting. He took his axe with him. The others followed him with curious eyes, their tongues stilled. The general marched a few dozen paces off to the north, before lifting his axe into an offensive stance. He swung at the empty air, dancing in the whispering shadows, practicing his strikes with frustrated intensity. 

Perceiving that their leader was dutifully working on his forms, most of his soldiers turned back to the fire. But Ghorim still glowered in the direction of the Headsplitter, watching the general’s weapon slice through the night in fluid motion. Ghorim’s mind ventured back to visions of his father at practice, remembering well the near-fanatical obsession with self-improvement that pushed his father to the top of Erebor’s army, and later into the generalship of Khazad-dum. That is, before Grolin… before the duel…

Ghorim’s teeth gnashed, grinding together as his thoughts did the same. He snatched up his axe and leapt to his feet. The others glanced at him quizzically. The captain marched off in the direction of the general without an explanation. Exchanging glances, the remaining dwarves tried to read each other’s thoughts on the matter. Even Edmund seemed intrigued by what was brewing.

Forin spoke quietly, voicing the unspoken fear of the group. “He doesn’t intend to test his mettle against the general?”

Old Thalwin nodded, his features grim. “I’m afraid so.”

Rhur leaned forward in his seat. “Grolin cut at him last night with his words, and now Ghorim wishes to return the favor.”

Forin glanced over his shoulder as Ghorim neared the general, who was still practicing without heed for his approaching subordinate. The crossbowman turned back to face the others.

“Shouldn’t we intervene?”

“Nae,” said Thalwin, gazing after his receding pupil. “Ghorim wishes to demonstrate his resolve for our commander. If we attempt to hold him back, his discontent will become all the more of a distraction.”

“And he has borne it within for long enough,” said Rhur, exchanging a knowing look with Thalwin. The others were still at a loss for what the two old soldiers were referring to, but now all gazes fell upon the impending conflict.

Ghorim came to a halt before the exercising general, his eyes two singular points of mithril in the windy evening. 

“General Grolin Headsplitter!”

Grolin halted his axe in mid-attack, his body fixed in its dynamic pose, only his eyes drifting to the captain.

“I humbly request a spar, sir,” spoke Ghorim.

But there was nothing humble about his bearing. His posture, inflections, and air were all of supreme audacity. He was displaying his lack of intimidation proudly. Grolin lowered his weapon and relaxed his pose, taking a few steps back. Hardly taking any time to consider the request, he readied his axe once again. 

“Granted, Captain Ghorim. You may have the first strike, if you wish it.”

Ghorim raised his axe high above his head, spinning it with impressive velocity before bringing it down into an offensive position. 

“My general is a true knight.”

The captain took a few steps forward. Grolin suddenly shifted his stance, moving his axe from a horizontal angle into a sharp diagonal. He spun the weapon about, switching from a right-handed grip to a left-handed one. Ghorim didn’t flinch. He knew the general liked to alter his stances on the fly, seemingly at random in order to confuse his opponents. But Ghorim was nothing if not an intelligent fighter. He knew well the dwarvish truism: “seek knowledge of all disciplines, and you shall master none.” Even Grolin’s intricate, ambidextrous fighting style had its weaknesses. 

He, too, adjusted in the moment, feinting to Grolin’s right side before bringing his axe up and about in a swing aimed at the left side of the general’s head. Grolin seemed to take the bait, his axe drifting to the right, but it came up in a flash to intercept Ghorim’s strike when it arrived. The general moved swiftly in a counterattack. Slamming his right boot down on Ghorim’s left foot to hold him still, Grolin’s right elbow came up and whipped Ghorim across the face. The captain stumbled backwards and to the side, with his commander in hot pursuit. Grolin swung his blade at shoulder-level, and Ghorim had to hurriedly duck beneath the strike, swinging his axe low in an attempt to catch the general’s feet. Grolin leapt back beyond Ghorim’s range, and then moved in once again, his axe coming down from directly above. Ghorim had to regain his balance quickly, pushing heavily off the ground as he brought his axe handle up in time to intercept the general’s blade. He shoved heavily, pushing the Headsplitter away. The two soldiers regrouped. 

From the fire, Edmund shook his head in pure dismay.

“How can they just fight like that with their real weapons? One of them might get killed!”

Hakin, who sat closest to him, smiled. “I assure you, Sir Edmund, neither will come to serious harm. Both are professionals, and know how to dispatch a foe without killing him. What’s more, I should think that neither combatant desires the other’s blood in this spar.”

“Well, at least Grolin doesn’t,” added Drali, who could never resist telling a joke when the opportunity arrived to him so neatly gift-wrapped. He turned his gaze to Edmund. “And when did you start caring for the health of us Khazad, eh?”

The man snorted coarsely. “I should be much aggrieved if one our exterminators was fatally incapacitated before he could fulfill his duty.”

“Oh,” said Drali with a nod. “So we’re one step above rats now?”

“Hush,” said Thalwin sternly, his eyes never leaving the spar at hand.

Out in the field, Ghorim dug his boots into the grass beneath, smirking a bit. “You may have the first strike now, sir.”

Grolin simply nodded, and without any further warning ran at Ghorim. The general did not cut a straight line to his opponent, however. It was an indirect, arced approach. At this unorthodox charge, Ghorim steeled himself for an attack of a similar nature. The general came rushing in at a steep angle, then swiftly leapt into the air, surprisingly high for a dwarf. He spun through the sky like a top gone airborne, his axe coming around in a strike. 

The moment Ghorim saw the general’s legs tense up for a jump, he prepared to duck. As soon as Grolin had left his feet, Ghorim was settling into a crouch, preparing his axe to cut the general out of the air. But when the Headsplitter’s weapon came around into view, Ghorim saw to his shock that the axe was angled steeply downward. It would not pass overhead, as he had anticipated, but was instead now aimed directly for his skull. The general had outguessed him! The captain tried to bring his weapon back to defend, but did not move swiftly enough. The blunt side of Grolin’s axe caught Ghorim flush on the side of the head, sending his helmet flying off somewhere into the grass. The captain hit the ground heavily, grunting as his head slammed down upon the cold ground.

Thalwin shook his head, clicking his tongue gently as he admonished his former student from afar. “Never give Grolin the first strike, lad.” 

General Headsplitter stood over his vanquished opponent, the distant fire reflected on his crimson armor, the light of its flames heightening his commanding features. Ghorim gazed up from beneath in seething discontentment. He climbed to his feet, taking up his weapon and moving to retrieve his helmet. Replacing the headpiece, he took up a fighting posture.

“Again?” spoke the general dryly.

“Again,” said Ghorim, inclining his head.


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## Ghorim (Nov 15, 2005)

*Duel At Dusk, Part 2*

Grolin remained bound to his position, his axe still held without any hint of threat. 

“For whose benefit is this spar, Ghorim?”

The captain coiled his stance further, seeming ready to spring should Grolin’s words strike his ears at the wrong angle. 

The general continued. “Is it for yourself? Do you lack confidence in your abilities?”

Ghorim could see that Grolin would not approach him, and he lowered his weapon slightly. “I do not profess to be perfect, but I think myself an adequate match for any soldier in this party.”

Grolin nodded. “Is it for me, then? Am I to learn something of your character from this bout?”

“You know me well enough, General Headsplitter. Your rank may place you above me, but my honor is not a mat for you to trample upon at your leisure.”

“I do believe it… this is a matter of honor, as you say, but yours alone? What of your father?”

Ghorim’s blade rose again in a sharp motion. The general’s arms stayed slack at his sides. His axe, held loosely, swung back and forth gently with the breeze. Whispers of the past flowed through the air, encapsulating the two warriors.

“And what of him?” said Ghorim, his restraint, his greatest strength, now sorely tested. 

“Do you feel this would honor him now, as he watches upon you from the Halls of Mahal?”

“Do not ask such an audacious question as if you might know its answer!” growled the incensed Ghorim, and he flew upon the general in a series of self-righteous blows. 

Grolin’s axe was there for each strike, the blades scraping together discordantly at each meeting before Ghorim would withdraw his axe and drive at the general’s body again. Yet the Headsplitter seemed too far beyond him, a heroic form emerged from history’s yellowed pages, untouchable by the mortals of the present. Desperation was finally settling in when Grolin suddenly shoved Ghorim backwards, his axe shooting out to hook one of the captain’s ankles and send him spilling once again. 

Ghorim found himself glaring up at his commander from upon his back. He tore off his helmet and tossed it away angrily.

“Heap more dishonor upon my house, then, if it pleases you so!”

Grolin tucked his own helm beneath his left arm and dropped his axe. “You do not seem to understand, Ghorim. You need not stand guard over your father’s reputation. It is beyond reproach. None could hope to stain it.”

“Then what was your goal in deposing him from his position as you did?”

Grolin smiled wearily. “So it all comes back to that, then, as I knew it surely must.”

All things within Ghorim roiled as in a tempest, crashing and revolving about the singular memory of seeing his immortal father, the hero of the Khazad-dum Campaign, felled by Grolin’s hand.

The general spoke in a kindly tone. “Did you ever ask him about our duel?”

“Nae!” spat Ghorim. “Why would I ever force him to revisit such a memory? It shattered him to leave his post beside Lord Bailer.”

“He requested the match of me, Ghorim.”

“What?” the captain sat up.

“The whispers were running rampant through the Royal Guard. They said that he was no longer fit to command it. He summoned me, and said that he would not lead a unit that so doubted him. Either he would silence their tongues or accept that his time had come to resign. Then came his challenge to me.”

Ghorim’s brow creased. “That does not clear your conduct. You wanted his position from the start, and you sought to obtain it ruthlessly in that duel.”

“He was fighting for his career, Ghorim. I could not afford to hold anything back, for even bowed by age your father could have easily ended mine with but one swing. As for the generalship, I could not very easily decline it if I proved myself worthy.”

The young captain slumped forward in his seated position, running his gauntlet through his hair. From the fire, the others saw the two opponents as a pair of shadows in the dimming light. One silhouette knelt before the other, relinquishing dominance. 

“You went for his eye,” said Ghorim quietly, envisioning his father’s solitary orb suspended in darkness, the other covered by a leather patch.

“I was not the first to try such a maneuver, you know,” said Grolin, now sitting across from his subordinate. “With even one eye he always saw those attacks coming. Every fellow who thought himself clever went for the eye. But your father never failed to lay them flat.”

Ghorim glared at the Headsplitter from beneath his eyebrows, but even in this fearsome gaze there was lacking the menace from but a few moments ago. His mouth formed something resembling a grin as the wind picked up around them.

“You would have never beaten him if you hadn’t caught his eye like that.”

Grolin returned the faint smile. “I only connected with that blow because I wore him down first. I risked a great deal with that strike… had I not landed it, I know not how our duel would have concluded.”

Ghorim lowered his head, his thoughts on the dirt beneath him.

Grolin spoke. “As children, we have a tendency to elevate our idols to the mountainous peaks of our young thoughts. But the objects of our worship are destined to fall from such lofty perches. The statues that we erect to them eventually crumble, as their bodies must do the same. No matter how the heroes of our folk defy Nature, performing feats far beyond Her limitations, She always holds the final decree over their heads. They must wither and fail. As I will fail, Ghorim, as you will fail.” 

The captain gazed up from contemplation, his features noble in the shadowy dusk. “Well put, but you say nothing that I do not already know.”

The general smiled. “All discerning individuals know such things. It is simply a matter of keeping these thoughts near the fore of one’s head at all times, so that one might live according to their principles. For, if all considered their own mortality before acting, I should think their choices would be far more judicious.”

“No doubt,” said Ghorim, standing up slowly. Once erect, he considered the seated general for a moment, before reaching out his hand. He pulled the Headsplitter up to his feet, and now they stood eye to eye. 

“Tell me,” said the general, “for I have always wondered: how did your father live out the remainder of his days after he retired?”

Ghorim chuckled, gazing off to the horizon where the dying sunlight made its last stand against the coming night.

“He spent more time with me than he ever had before. With his career ended, he took a keen interest in mine. He picked up these odd little hobbies… whittling, for one. I’d never seen him whittle before, but apparently he had enjoyed it for a time as a lad, and decided to take it up again. That was before his hands failed him.”

Grolin nodded, following Ghorim’s gaze as he thought upon these things. “It gladdens me to hear that Garan had the chance to enjoy those small leisurely pleasures after his life of duty and servitude came to an end. And that he should be free to devote his energies to his son…”

The general trailed off, his intended words departing from his mind before he could speak them.

Ghorim filled the silence. “We’d all wish such things for ourselves in the twilight days of life.”

The two soldiers, opponents no longer, locked gazes, and in that moment mutual understanding salved old hurts. They returned to the fire, where not a question was asked concerning their spar. The others could see plainly enough that the emotions which had spurred Ghorim into challenging their commander were now faded, leaving a becalmed spirit in their wake.


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## Ghorim (Dec 30, 2005)

*A Messy Reception*

The settlements began to accumulate in great clumps now as the River Anduin neared. Villages no longer, these were towns with aspirations of full-blown citydom that the party passed. So thick was the mannish population that they could no longer make a path between the clusters of buildings, which towered ever higher toward the sky. Cutting through these small urban centers, the dwarves were fast made aware of where they stood with the populace. Windows, doors, minds... all closed as they passed. Conversation halted, only to be resumed in harsh whispers.

"They eat their own, I hear."

"There's nothing but gravel in their veins."

"They ensnare young virgins late o' nights and use their blood to turn lead into mithril!"

Eyes scanned the party hastily, fear and anger overflowing from those orbs that had never before glimpsed a dwarf. Scornful pride drove their backs to turn away from that filthy brigade of barbarians. How could there exist even the foundations of trust, when these folk knew nothing of the Khazad, of the lines both fair and noble that their folk had produced, of their magnificent works obscured beneath the mountainsides, and most of all, the passionate zeal with which they embraced life?

The dwarves of Grolin's party too let their hearts petrify at this inhospitable reception. They felt all of their past doubts of Men validated once again, and in their spirits they recoiled with disgust from the villagers. Here they arrived as saviors to these ingrates, who would rather see the dwarvish company lined up on the gallows than receive help from them. In Grolin, and Hakin as well, a great sadness burdened their thoughts, as they saw the extent of the damage done, of all the years of stubborn seclusion in the depths of the earth. They now emerged into a world that had practically forgotten them, but for the bloody reminders that their villainous kin were now busy creating. They were emissaries from another time, strange intruders upon the world of the present.

Grolin had earlier entertained thoughts of at least partially restoring the crippled ties between the two races, with carefully chosen words and praiseworthy deeds. But now he perceived the hopeless idealism that had blinded his vision. Before his eyes now flashed visions of the Men and Khazad retreating further from each other, with the latter eventually vanishing into subterranean oblivion as the former inherited the surface world. All of the times that they had stood before the Darkness unified as one, fighting back to back against the encroaching evil, all of these glorious battles were destined only to be forgotten!

_Is this then Eru's plan for our races? Or have we all strayed this far from it through transgression?_

Grolin wrestled with the doubt, fought against the shadows that threatened to overtake his thoughts, but soon had to cast aside these burdens and focus intently on the true purpose of his mission. His company could indeed only destroy, not create.

A group of ragged youths, their faces stained with dirt, bodies closed in patchwork material, followed the stunted procession now, for lack of any better amusement. They jeered both the soldiers and the unfortunate man who led their march, though they knew him to be of far more respected stock than themselves.

"Ha! Look at him! King of the beardlings!"

"Stick a clump of filthy whiskers on his chin and he'd be as good as one of them!"

The dwarves paid them no heed, but in Edmund's heart the verbal abuse lacerated his pride, already so wounded by his encounters with the dwarves. A voice came to his ear.

"Steady your spirit, Sir Edmund."

The ambassador glanced down and to his left, finding Hakin striding at his side. The dwarf's eyes were locked on the road ahead, and looking upon them Edmund was taken aback by the tranquility that lay beneath that gaze, as unshakeable as the stones that the dwarves so ardently worshipped.

"They know not the honor of your task. Their tongues may wag long, but the words they speak possess only as much power as you grant unto them."

Edmund, like all those who walk the earth, had within him his defenses against reality, his precious illusions, his ironclad mindset that guided each of his actions. But swirling winds of confusion were now whipping through his spirit, rattling to its core the framework of biases that had served him for so many years. This Hakin - his intense spirituality, his amiable demeanor, his sudden and inexplicable protectiveness of Edmund's person - he would not fit the spiteful, greedy, savage mold that Edmund had always held as true of dwarves. Was this deceit? Yet how could it be so, when the dwarf's entire persona so naturally exuded these admirable traits? Could Edmund himself have been mistaken about the Naugrim? But this latter question would be a struggle for him to answer. To tear down the great monuments that we erect to our own prejudices and begin afresh is never an easy task. 

Edmund now glanced over his shoulder, gazing at the trio of youths who followed them. He looked just in time to see one of the filthy boys reach into a sack that one of his companions held, pulling out a small red object and winding up to throw it. Edmund's eyes widened.

"They wouldn't dare!" he muttered.


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## Ghorim (Dec 30, 2005)

*A Messy Reception, Part 2*

But these boys knew nothing of cultivation, and the lad hurled his projectile without hesitation. The piece of fruit raced toward Edmund's turned head. The old man gasped and froze in mid-stride. He had practically resigned himself to his imminent humiliation when a lifted helmet suddenly shot up into his field of vision, deftly snagging the oncoming produce. Edmund's shocked gaze fell upon his rescuer... the red-bearded dwarf who never seemed content with silence. What did the others call him? Drali! Why, the beardling must have leapt a solid foot into the air to catch the object in his headpiece as he had!

Drali glanced into his helm and pulled out the fruit - an ancient tomato.

"Our deepest thanks for the kind donation to our stores... but alas! This tomato must have been around to witness the War of the Ring! Perhaps you helpful lads have something fresher to give us?"

The fiery-haired dwarf now stood between the stupefied boys and the rest of his party which had halted to watch. Indeed, all of the commerce within the village's main square had come to an abrupt stop to witness this unexpected encounter.

Before the mighty presence of Drali, all three boys naturally felt the urge to flee gaining sway over their feet. Yet foolish pride held them fast to their positions, and somehow they convinced themselves that retreat was no option before so inferior an opponent. So it was that one of the trio lost his nerve, reaching into the sack and grabbing a rancid squash. In desperation, he slung the vegetable at the insolent dwarf's skull. A jubilant grin split Drali's beard as his eyes locked onto the airborne object. He waited until the last possible moment, sizing up his target in delirious anticipation. His axe came up, slicing through the squash and sending its entrails splattering everywhere. Much of the innards landed on Drali's face and beard, but he hardly cared. 

Onlookers would later describe the dwarf's smile in that moment as bestial.

"More," Drali said, his words oozing with predatory menace.

Two of the lads completely submitted to panic upon this entreaty, loading up their arms and slinging the putrid produce as quickly as they could. The third, meanwhile, held onto the sack with a death grip and watched in abject horror as the dwarf took on the assault. Corn, potatoes, cucumber, even a small pumpkin came flying Drali's way, and all were pureed by his blade. It danced through the air with disorienting speed, creating an odorous mist as the vegetable carcasses piled about his boots. The entire square looked on in complete silence, and the only sounds to be heard were those of Drali's weapon, and above that, the dwarf's ever-loudening laughter, which reached a feverish pitch just before the lads fired the final item in their arsenal. Drali struck it down with an emphatic slash, and immediately marched at the terrified trio, his breathing heavy and his nostrils flared. Sense finally returned to the thoughts of the youngsters, and they instantly scattered, scampering off in three separate directions at top speed.

It was said that even people in neighboring villages heard Drali's roaring laughter as he watched his foes blanch and flee.

The dwarf now glanced about the stunned village square, shoving the head of his axe into the muddy, juice-stained ground.

"Now! Seems I've made a nice broth here! Anyone else have some new ingredients to contribute?"

The entire square seemed to take a collective step away from Drali.

The firebeard chortled once again, placing one hand to his belly. "Ach! A shame that such a fine and varied recipe should go to waste! But, so be it. Until the next time I pass through your generous township, farewell!"

Drali turned about, eying Grolin with a mischievous look that instantly reminded his commander of their shared youth.

"Shall we, sir?"

"Aye," said Grolin simply, with the barest of intonation.

If there is any popular conception about the Khazad that is mostly true, it is that they are incredibly adept at concealing their emotions. Even a wild spirit such as Drali could usually keep himself in check if the need arose. That is of course not to say that they are incapable of intense feeling. For, if an outsider were to observe the dwarves as they behaved amongst themselves, he would see a starkly different picture than the stony persona that most dwarves project to the surface world. 

So it was that the members of Grolin's company held impeccable fascimiles of grim expressions as they marched out of the village. Looking upon their faces, one might have been led to conjecture that Drali had just slaughtered a score of villagers, rather than vegetables. As soon as they were safely beyond the gates of the township, however, the facade shattered, and laughter raged through the company.

"Truly a heroic stand," said Hakin.

"Those urchins ran like orcs at the sight of bathwater," chuckled Ghorim.

"Speaking of which!" said Rhur, barely able to get the words out through his guffawing. "And I believe this suggestion should pass without dissent... the next stream we encounter, Drali's going in to give himself a thorough scrubbing!"

And indeed, Drali's appearance was in shambles. His uniform was utterly discolored by the various fluids that covered it, his entire beard sticky and matted, and pieces of pulp still clung to much of his armor. Rhur's proposition, as he had predicted, met with rousing support, and further laughter and good-natured ribbing at Drali's expense ensued. Even Edmund's dour mustache curled upward as his mirth emerged from a lengthy dormancy. He was moved so far by the prevailing jovial spirit as to speak.

"Be sure to get behind your ears."

The laughter of the others faltered upon these words, for they indeed disbelieved their senses to hear Edmund utter a joke. But as soon as they had adequately cleaned out their ears and decided that they had not misheard the human, their amused banter started up afresh. 

All approached the home of the merchant Bertrand in high spirits, all save Forin. He gazed away from the others as they blathered on, his features compressed in supreme annoyance. After all, why should Drali be so rewarded for showboating as he did? As far as the crossbowman was concerned, Edmund should have taken that tomato in his arrogant face. Cowardly bigots deserved no defense. As for those three human runts, well, Drali didn't give them one-tenth of what Forin thought they deserved...


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## Ghorim (Feb 20, 2006)

*The Merchant*

Bertrand guided the quill steadily, drawing it along the parchment with the same gentle touch that his hand had always possessed. The numbers appeared before him as gentle, wispy forms, applied to the log of his transactions as if by a tender kiss. A line, a circle: ten. Ten pairs of boots delivered to the area militia. His thoughts dwelt placidly within the grid of lines that formed the template of his records, each vertical and horizontal drawn carefully with his unwavering hand. There were no irregularities, only a pristine and tidy order that kept his records in their immaculate condition. The numbers obeyed him, governed by their unbreakable laws: income minus cost equals profit. In this domain, Bertrand was the master, and felt no fear.

He no longer made the deliveries himself. He had new assistants to do that for him now.

He had another helper who fetched food and water from the nearby village. Bertrand never left his house, quietly secluded in the woods. He spent most of his waking hours gazing contentedly at those friendly numbers in the logbook. He looked over old transaction entries in the book, adding up the old totals again and again. Every time, the calculations came out correctly. 

At night, he lay cozily in bed, his eyes resting on the ceiling of his room, so warm, so embracing…

In sleep… in the dark… the screams came. Brief flashes illuminated disfigured faces, leering, bearded. Bertrand sank deeper into the mud and the filth. A severed head, its eyelids removed, lay before him. Blood oozed all over the sightless eyes, trickling down the cheeks, so recently deprived of the flush of life.

“Beg for us.”

Noises, outside… voices.

Each morning, Bertrand’s eyes would flutter open. He would pull the covers off slowly, gently. He would swing his feet around to the side of the bed, and stand, always slow, always calm. He would glance back upon the sheets, soaked in sweat. And he would remove them, wash them himself, scrubbing away the phantoms of the night. He prepared breakfast from his stores, ate, and returned to his log of transactions.

One day his delivery boy did not come with fresh supplies. Bertrand felt the pangs of panic only distantly, like a chill breeze through a far away window. Perhaps the fellow had forgotten. It was no matter. He still had supplies enough to last for several days. If he did not receive a fresh stock, then he would go to the village himself to purchase the necessary items. He would go during the daylight. He would take the logbook with him. 

For now, there were only the numbers to occupy him. He had just finished another numeral when a sharp knock came at his door. The grid collapsed before Bertrand’s eyes, and for an instant his heart was seized by horror. The merchant’s hand twitched uncharacteristically, knocking over his inkwell and spilling the black, viscous liquid within all over the page. Shocked beyond reason, Bertrand slammed the book shut and shoved it away from him, his gaze flying to the door. He stood from his desk, calmly, always calm. But no… his unflappable hands now shook wildly.

“Who… who…?” the question would not come.

The door opened slightly. A familiar voice sounded from outside the threshold.

“Master Bertrand? ‘Tis I, Sir Edmund, of the Anduin Alliance.” 

The merchant clutched the wooden chair that sat beside his workplace for support. “Edmund! Of… course. Please… do come in.” 

The door opened fully, and Edmund stepped in, pulling back the hood of his traveling cloak as he entered. He looked straight at the merchant, and in Bertrand’s eyes the ambassador’s face suddenly appeared as it had that night, as the rain had poured down all about them.

“Fetch this man a blanket and something to drink!”

The merchant shut his eyes tight and swallowed shakily, before reopening them. “Please… please do sit down.”

“I shall not tarry here long, Master Bertrand.”

“Oh…” the merchant clasped his hands behind his back, each clutching the other to prevent it from shaking.

“Perhaps you’d best have a seat, though.”

“Yes… yes!” Bertrand nodded hastily. “I was just thinking to myself that a good… sit might do me well.”

And he moved to the fireplace, empty for the moment, his gait hobbled by an injury unseen. He lowered himself into his beloved armchair gradually, sinking back into the cushions, allowing them to swallow his considerable frame. Once he was properly situated, Edmund spoke.

“I’ve come with regards to… the incident.”

“Oh!” once again, Bertrand’s head bobbed with unnatural intensity. “Yes, of course, that… the night. Have you… or your men… tracked… tracked… them?”

Edmund shook his head mournfully. “All of our previous attempts have failed. We have lost… a few hardy souls in our attempts to find the culprits. They are somewhere within Fangorn, that we know. A new group has come forth to see that those who so viciously wronged you are brought to swift justice. But further information is necessary from your person…”

“Ask away, then!” said Bertrand, jumping upon the ambassador’s words. “Ask! I am not afraid to tell.”

“In truth, I have nothing more to ask of you,” said Edmund quietly. “I would just as soon leave those memories to rot, and allow your life to proceed as it should. But one of our new trackers wished to speak with you most fervently.”

“Oh?” Bertrand sat up a bit in his chair, a twitchy smile forming on his face. “Is he with you? Is he waiting outside?”

Edmund nodded, something about his features seeming far too grave for the merchant’s liking.

Bertrand ran a slick palm along his forehead, rubbing his left temple as his expression continued to fluctuate wildly. 

“Who… who is it, then? One of your colleagues in the trade alliance?”

Edmund lowered his gaze and shook his head, his entire posture appearing burdened. 

“Nae… he is… of the Naugrim.”

Bertrand drew a sharp intake of breath. “Oh!” was the first sound to leave his lips. “Oh!” he repeated, his tone still clinging to the remnants of cordial cheeriness, though within he was far past the brink of self-control. “They sent… one of… to ask… me?”

Edmund nodded, his words striving for some sort of consolation. “He is a general of their folk, a mighty leader. He… ardently, passionately… wishes to see this injustice reversed.”

Within, Edmund recoiled at his own words. Yet, he spoke on.

“He would have a few questions of you, but he also wishes to apologize, and to reassure you… in your hour of distress.”

The merchant pressed his hand to his forehead now, shielding his eyes as he averted his gaze from the doorway, outside of which now stood a cousin of the monsters who yet danced wickedly through Bertrand’s dreams. 

“I… I…”

Edmund spoke quickly. “I shall remain here until you permit me to leave. I have an appointment elsewhere… there yet remains one crucial member of this tracking party to enlist, and I must see to that personally. If you do not wish to be left alone with him, however, I shall remove him from your presence.”

Bertrand nodded, but still seemed paralyzed. He turned his head further away from the front door. After a lengthy silence, the words at last came, in a strangled whisper. “Send him in.” 

Edmund bowed deeply, though the merchant did not see this gesture, and moved to the door. He pulled it open, and stuck his head out.

“You may enter,” came the muffled words.

Bertrand heard the bootsteps… the sound of armor plates… terrible sounds, now so intimately familiar to him from that distant yet all too recent ordeal. The merchant shut his eyes tightly, refusing to look upon the Naugrim, hot tears running down the sides of his face as he pressed the lids together like a vice. He heard in his mind the taunts of the bandit leader once more.

But a new voice sounded. Beneath its tones lay not the spiritual void of a criminal but a steady, reassuring warmth that gradually brought Bertrand’s eyes open.

“Master Bertrand. I stand before you now… humiliated beyond all measure. A general I may be, but I feel as though all of my accolades have been stripped away. For several days now I have contemplated the story of your misfortune, and yet time does not dull the ache that this reflection brings me. Before the news reached me, a mighty pride for the character of my folk stood within my heart, like one of the mountains that I call home. Yet in a single blow this great mass has been leveled, and now I hold but gravel that seeps through my grasping hands. My heart mourns.”

“Yet it is a selfish mourning, for it is concerned only with the reputation of my folk. How, how can my sympathies even approach a complete understanding of how you have suffered? Though I might try to argue otherwise, ‘twould be in vain… I cannot conceive of your pain. I am a stranger, to your person and to your suffering.”

“The burden is upon me and my comrades to shoulder the proper responsibility and together lift the load required of us by our shared beliefs. We shall lay low our own kin in death, though never have Khazad undertaken such a campaign. Words, these words included, are but a hollow offering at your feet. Through deed alone lies the path to redemption. More than mere vengeance, we seek to salvage something from the ruins of these crimes. Broken and deformed it may now be, but if we can help to give you something of your past life back, something to the families of the other victims… then our task shall be accomplished.”

“But all must begin here. I am indicted by my race, this I well know. But answer me… do I earn a reprieve so that I might act in your service with a conscience somewhat relieved?”

Bertrand’s eyes, though clouded by tears, were now fully open. By degrees, his head turned to face the general.


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## Ghorim (Feb 20, 2006)

*The Party Splits*

Edmund beheld the pair from his corner of the room. Before him, the dwarvish general, his back turned. The dwarf's gilded tongue had produced the words of a beggar, but his posture remained unbowed. Still in Grolin’s bearing was that insufferable arrogance that his people all seemed to hold. It seemed they had never received the message that their creator had sent them when he fashioned their lot as inferiors – both in appearance and stature – to Illuvatar’s children. 

Grolin knew that he must stand tall to show resolve. For the moment, he was the face of his people, not just in the present, but throughout all the ages. Bertrand needed to see in Grolin’s sturdy posture the strength of the Khazad. He needed to see that despite the evils visited upon himself and his employees by that folk, at least one member of the race was prepared to stand beside him in his distress.

They regarded each other, the victim and his impassioned avenger, on even terms. The merchant’s pained expression gradually receded, and though remnants of his distress remained upon his face, now he appeared more curious than anything toward this strange, stoic figure that had entered his home. Bertrand’s right hand ran along his cheek, across the fields of stubble that had grown unchecked since the ambush. What was left for him to lose but the night terrors, the spirals of panicked thought that rendered him unfit for society? 

Summoning his conviction, the merchant. “You may stay, General.”

Edmund took a step forward, as if he might intervene against the man’s decision. “You are certain, Master Betrand?”

“My decision…” and here the merchant paused, realizing that he was about to cross a dubious threshold. But he made his final commitment. “… is made, Sir Edmund. You may depart.”

The ambassador froze, and in that instant his will simultaneously drove him in opposite directions. Fury goaded him to advance upon the general, but would he do then? Edmund drove a finger across his mustache, unsettling the well-groomed hairs in his contempt. He watched as the dwarf bowed low, one hand going to the chest in a fist as the other swung outward in a wide arc.

“Grolin Headsplitter, at your service.” 

This sight Edmund could not abide, but instead of acting to disrupt the scene, he wrenched his head away, toward the door.

Out he went, to face the seven soldiers who waited dutifully outside, standing like boulders amidst the passive trees that surrounded Bertrand’s isolated home. Their eyes were on the ambassador from the moment he opened the door. They regarded him silently, but severely. Edmund heard their thoughts conspiring against him, felt their spirits moving in unison to hem his in. Before their malicious designs he stood with irresolute command of the situation. 

“Which of you am I to take to the city?” Of course Edmund had forgotten the names Grolin had designated before the gates of Khazad-dum. Most of the others he regarded as interchangeable faces, dark and hateful. 

Thalwin stepped forward, with a definitive swagger as he sought to assert his seniority before that wretched brat of an ambassador. Behind him came Rhur, Hakin and Darin, forming a neat row behind the elder dwarf as he stood with his axe resting on his shoulder and a weathered hand on his hip.

“That would be us,” spoke Thalwin. He did not need to look over his shoulder to know that the other three members of the party were there to support him. The trust between the soldiers was inherent. Though they exchanged few words, their hearts pulsed in the same rhythm. 

Were it not for the pacific gaze of Hakin, Edmund would have only seen one antagonistic figure in those four dwarves. 

“So be it,” he said, straightening out his mustache in an act of nervous habit. “Let us be off then.”

“Excuse me,” cut in Drali, as he leaned against a tree with all the casual ease of a distant observer. “But what exactly are the rest of us supposed to do while the you all run around and make friends with the long-leggers?”

Thalwin turned on the firebeard, his mind lit with sudden agitation. “As far as I’m aware, the extent of your orders is to wait out here and play nice while your commander and the rest of us handle business. Now surely, you three lads can handle a task so simple as that, aye?”

Drali shoved off the tree, and stepped toward Thalwin, sensing the challenge that the old soldier had cast his way. “Now, perhaps I am misremembering the course of my family’s line, but as I recall it now, you are not my grandfather, Thalwin. If you want to give orders, I’ll obey, though you quit the forces long ago and hold no rank over me. That’s how much I respect your years. But do not speak to me as anything but a comrade in arms. I am not some child placed in your charge.”

The expression that crossed Thalwin’s face, inexplicably enough, was a smile. Patience, that hallmark of great strategists, had served the old dwarf well. Now was the perfect moment to launch a counterattack against the clumsy, overbearing bluster of the upstart Drali. One parry and one well-placed blow were all that Thalwin had ever needed to fell him. Rhur saw the grin, saw the combative flash in his old friend’s eyes, and thus heard the words before they were spoken. He would have intervened had he not seen the necessity of a more public humiliation for the reckless Drali.

“And on what ground would you stake these bold claims, Drali? I should treat you as an adult? My students, though they are but babes with axes in hand, display a greater sense of duty and responsibility than I have ever seen from you.”

“And how amusing that you should call to attention your family’s line. For this respect that you believe you are so richly entitled to seems to proceed only from your father’s name and rank. Oh yes! And you were our commander’s childhood playmate, as well. I suppose that should double my tribute to you. How long shall you wrap yourself in that blanket, I wonder? Show me a true member of the Khazad, and I shall call him as such, Drali.”

Thalwin had blindsided Drali with the precision of his strike. The firebeard was decked, sent reeling before all the others. The elder turned from his victory to eye Edmund, who stood ill at ease on the merchant’s porch. 

“Lead the way,” he said gruffly, giving the man a verbal shove in the proper direction. Edmund complied, and his four-soldier escort trailed him in grave procession. Darin lingered, however, sharing a silent exchange with his brother as the morning sun grew ever bolder overhead. There it was, in the younger brother’s eyes: the shame of their departed father, as vibrant and living as ever. Drali, already staggered, felt his breath depart him as he took in Darin’s inherited gaze. He watched his brother turn and leave with the others. And now his dispirited gaze fell to Forin and Ghorim, who had beheld the spectacle before them in rapt silence. With a guttural sound, Drali marched past them, seeking his own little patch of woodland.

Ghorim sought some wisdom as he turned to Forin, but saw only a bitter sort of satisfaction in the crossbowman’s eyes as he watched Drali sulk off. The captain scowled. Before he entered the house, Grolin had ordered his subordinates to wait outside, for he did not wish to overwhelm the beleaguered merchant with too many dwarvish faces at once. Until his commander could sufficiently win Bertrand’s trust, Ghorim found himself pinned in those chilly woods between the two old adversaries of Forin and Drali. 

Upon seeing Drali leveled by Thalwin’s insults, Forin would almost certainly be looking to press his advantage with a few choice remarks. And in his damaged state, Drali would be only too eager to respond. Distraction became a necessity.

“Keep your sights sharp,” said Ghorim to his comrades. “Our enemies appear to have a fondness for the cover of shadow.”

“Oh, rest assured,” spoke Forin, raising his crossbow, “I shall be on the lookout for cowards.” His gaze never left Drali.

Ghorim shook his head grimly. He always seemed to draw the roughest assignments…


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