# The Eastern Clans



## Uminya (May 15, 2005)

A rather sullen, young dwarf ruffled through a stack of papers and glanced over his shoulder to make sure that nobody had snuck in to the chamber while he had picked up his papers. Grumbling, he sorted through the stack and put them back in order being sure to calm his wits with occaisional sips of mead. Running his hand across his lips, he set the now-sorted stack down on his small table and looked up just in time to see a blue-haired dwarf standing in front of him. "Yes?" he grouched, "Oh, huh, you must be here for the council." He hummed to himself irritatedly and adjusted his beard, "Go right in. Take this paper, and DON'T LOSE IT!" He pushed a paper into the other's hand and waved him on, directing him to the opening over his shoulder with a jerk of his head.

The other dwarf looked at the paper briefly before stepping by and into the room, taking a slow look around. There was a vast, oaken table surrounded by pleasantly upholstered chairs and the air smelled faintly of mead, which made sense because there was also a large barrel of the stuff very near to the door along with a large platter of breads and cheeses. After a moment of consideration, he picked up a plate and mug and helped himself before moving to the table and kicking his feet up onto it, leaving the plate in his lap and mug in one hand. "I'm the first one here, it seems. I might as well enjoy myself as I wait," he said to himself, taking a bite of bread and a swig of mead.


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## YayGollum (May 15, 2005)

Not very long after that, a portly, middle-aged, vacant expression wearing Dwarf came waddling into the first room. He was absentmindedly kicking a good sized mace with his foot as he walked with his nose in the air. Once standing in front of the small desk, pointing to the next room ---> "I smell food. Is it in that room, sir? Oh, excuse me. This is where we come if we want to help with the new expedition, isn't it?" The little guy would then notice that he did not radiate the best qualities of Dwarves by his actions, lower his head respectfully, and throw his mace awkwardly onto his shoulder.


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## Uminya (May 18, 2005)

Catching the elder's glare, Zûbrim removed his feet from the table and folded his hands on his lap briefly before rising to his feet. "Well," he began, clearing his throat, "There are four of us here...perhaps there will soon be more. I'll warrant there'll be more than this lot for such a great mission." He seemed a little disappointed in the small congregation, but went on, "I don't mind talking about the same thing twice...so...as you know, we're to find one of the eastern clans...the Ironfists, I believe the manuscript said...and recover the lost art of forging _khôvi_ stones. The smiths here," he peered around at those present, "Are sure to be greatly interested in that."

He began to pace as he stuck his thumbs into his belt and puffed out his chest a bit. With a haughty glance, he looked at those present, "Well I, for one, am not. I'm here to get you there, us there, and get that secret back here intact. That is all. We'll all become fabulously rich, of course, which is good, but more importantly we'll re-establish contact with our lost brethren. It has been so many long years since Mahal woke us and we first met the Elves; we had little contact with the East to begin with, and none now." He took a swig of mead at this point, then continued, "And we are going to rectify that. Questions?"


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## YayGollum (May 19, 2005)

After getting confirmation from the Dwarf in the adjoining room (and a snack), Boffin took a seat and tried his pathetically best to look like the others. Listening to Zubrim's briefing, he was reminded of how much he admired the typical Dwarvish way of speaking. The honesty, the quick, efficient wording. He wanted to ask when they were supposed to leave, too, but after hearing that, he practiced what he thought were judicial gazes. When the older Dwarf shot out his question, Boffin tried to hide his fear that, if he didn't know, he would be seen as useless again. 

In an attempt to be as forceful and determined as the Dwarves that he admired, Boffin stood with a small bow towards his elder and said ---> "I have not, sir, and I am skeptical as well, but this expedition is not being organized primarily for that purpose. Yes, to acquire more knowledge of this form of art would be a great boon for our craftsmen. The reunion with our lost brethren should demand the bulk of our attention, as our host has pointed out." The words felt unnatural in his mouth, and after saying them, he sat quickly to chide himself for speaking at all just yet.


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## Uminya (May 19, 2005)

Zûbrim nodded quickly to Boffin, "Indeed, you are quite correct. Think of the new trade routes that could be established by reuniting the two clans with the bonds of fellowship." He paused momentarily and gazed around the room, seeming to rock back and forth on his feet. Clearing his throat, he made a vague, uncertain gesture and said, "Well...perhaps we should become acquainted with one another if we are to travel together...I am Zûbrim, son of Zûbrin, and with my knowledge of travel, I will serve as your guide on this journey." Looking back and forth between the others, he gestured to them, "Might I have the pleasure of knowing your names?"


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## Ghorim (May 20, 2005)

*Dvarim*

Erdin, one of the top generals of the Ered Luin, looks upon his personal unit of elite soldiers as they complete their daily exercises, pride shining vibrantly in his eyes. Each member of the company he had carefully selected, based on what they could contribute to the unit. Whereas other generals might have had personal units with more overall talent, Erdin's was without a doubt the most effective in combat, for each soldier knew his place and performed his assigned role. As they complete laps during this sleepy predawn hour, that group mentality shows. The troops run in a pack, their boots sounding on the stone floor in perfect unison. Erdin smiles, basking in the joy of what he has created.


But suddenly, there comes a dissonant noise. One soldier begins to lag behind the others, his boots striking out their own, flawed rhythm. Erdin's smile fades. Already he knows the soldier's name. This time is not the first that he has disrupted the general's perfect order. The last lap is completed, and the soldiers gather in a knot to await General Erdin's further instructions. The commander approaches, his eyes intently focused on the straggler. 

Dvarim, he is called. He is old, hobbled, an artifact from a bygone era. In this moment he stands bent over, hands on his knees, his breathing ragged. The others look at him from the corners of their eyes. Some feel bad for him, others are merely annoyed. All know how Erdin feels on the matter. He stands right before Dvarim. The old soldier looks up at the general, his eyes narrowed in a fierce glare. He is trying to fend Erdin off with a gaze alone, his determined squint a threat in itself. 

At one time this tactic would have worked. Dvarim's glare could have given pause to an entire army. But now there is something lacking within those eyes. The power that once lay behind them is gone, its remnants found only in the dusty, faded scrolls in which Dvarim's accomplishments are recorded. Erdin does not fear him. He dismisses the others to breakfast in the mess hall, and takes Dvarim with him to his office for a talk.

They sit and face each other, their wills locked in a silent battle before their tongues join the fray.

"You are become a distraction to my unit, Dvarim," says the general. "Not only do you slow them down, but you divert their thoughts from their duties. They wonder daily now whether you shall be able to complete your exercises without keeling over, or whether you shall soon be in need of a cane to stand erect. In short, their minds are stuck on you, and while I've no doubt that all of this attention pleases you greatly, it is cutting into my company's efficiency."

Dvarim's nostrils flare and his teeth grind together. He is not about to take this assault on his pride lying down. "You are the one whose mind is distracted, General. You wish to create a fighting unit without flaw, but such a company cannot exist. So you look for a convenient soldier to blame when all does not function perfectly. You target me because of my age! Now all your thoughts are set upon removing me from your company, and so you invent reasons for my dismissal that do not truthfully exist!"

Erdin shakes his head. "Your pride blinds you to the truth. The time has come for your retirement, Dvarim. Give up this game, for you are fooling none save yourself."

"Retire! Do you think me that useless? Transfer me to another unit, then, if you have so little faith in my abilities. I can guarantee you that dozens of companies would be honored to have me as a member."

"Only because of your reputation, Dvarim, not because of what you can contribute to them. Your will and arrogance remain strong, but your body has little left to give. I believe that if you continue to participate in the daily exercises of the army, they will surely be the end of you. Such a dishonorable death that would be, for your heart to fail during a routine jog. Therefore, I shall not transfer you, for your own safety, if nothing else." 

Dvarim's eyes widen. "What sort of grudge have you against me, that you would hold my future hostage?"


Erdin closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You have no future, Dvarim. That is the truth that I am trying to make you see."

These words shock Dvarim to the very core, and for a time there is silence between the two. At last, the general speaks again.

"There are two ways that we can go about handling this matter. Either you retire voluntarily, receive a grand send-off befitting a soldier of your tenure and caliber, and take up a comfortable position as a military adviser to our lord, or I discharge you from the service, you receive no recognition for your years in the army, and live out the rest of your life tainted by dishonor. Which shall it be?"

Dvarim sputters, enraged by the impertinence of this general. Such disrespect to him, a hero of the Ered Luin! "How dare you!"

Erdin nods slowly. "You are not prepared to make the decision now, I understand. I hereby dismiss you for the remainder of today. Come back here tomorrow morning with your answer."

Dvarim shoves back his chair and shoots to his feet, and for a moment it seems that he might strike General Erdin across the face. Erdin stands as well, slowly, calmly. He has dealt with stubborn old soldiers before. He knows enough to show Dvarim that he is not intimidated. Their stand-off continues for a few moments before Dvarim turns abruptly and marches out, slamming the office door behind him. Erdin sits, and without another thought of the elderly soldier sets to reading over some paperwork that has recently arrived on his desk. Something about an expedition to the East...


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## Ghorim (May 20, 2005)

*Dvarim, Part 2*

That evening, Dvarim sat at the bar of the Ale Beard Tavern, alongside Thuri, perhaps the only fellow that he could truly call a friend. The two of them had come up through the army together, though now they served in separate elite units. For a time, they casually spoke of inconsequential things, but after a few drinks Dvarim cast their chit-chat aside and cut right to the point that had been troubling him.


"General Erdin is tryin' to force me into retirement," he said dourly, slumped on his barstool and gazing wearily at the bottles that stood on proud display upon shelves behind the bar. 

Thuri glanced over at his old comrade with a hint of a scowl beneath his gray beard. "And who's he to sway your hand on the matter?"

Dvarim grumbled, "Says that I'm distractin' the others... says that I can't contribute any more."

"Well do you think that's true?"

"Of course not!" spat Dvarim immediately, sitting up on his stool. "He just has somethin' against me... never could handle that my name was more famous than his..."


Thuri paused, looking thoughtful as he took a sip from his mug. "Well, you know, you can't stay in the army forever."

"Nae..." Dvarim slumped again.

"At our age, it's something to keep in mind. We're blessed with a long life, our kind. And most of that life we spend in top shape... but I suppose the trade-off is that we lose hold of our abilities all too quickly, perhaps before we even realize that they're slipping away from us."

Dvarim glanced at his friend warily, and it was clear that he was a bit tipsy. "Are you sayin' somethin' about me, Thuri?"

Thuri shook his head. "It happens to all of us, friend. It might be happening to you now, but I don't know that for certain. My point is... you have to be aware when that time comes, for most assuredly it must. Such is Mahal's design..."

Thuri trailed off, and between the two friends there was silence as the raucous sounds of their fellow patrons filled the air. Dvarim's head gradually lowered to the table, and for a moment he appeared to be dozing, but in a sudden, violent movement, he lifted his entire body erect once again, and all of his pride welled up in him as he turned to Thuri and spoke.

"There was a time... in battle... when I raised my axe up high... all of the troops who could see it would flock to me." With these words Dvarim emphatically jabbed his index finger into his chest, his voice straining. "To me! And they would charge behind my blade. You were along with them, Thuri... do you not remember?"


"Aye," spoke Thuri, nodding with a sad, nostalgic smile upon his wizened features. "There are many yet alive who have not forgotten those days."

"But now..." said Dvarim, turning away from Thuri, glancing about the tavern and all of its inhabitants as if he were lost, "Who would come to my side now? Who would heed my call?"

Thuri placed a steady hand upon Dvarim's shoulder. "Never have my ears been deaf to you, Dvarim. I shall stay beside you in whatever is to come."

Dvarim lowered his gaze to the dirty floorboards beneath his stool. "Erdin wants a decision from me by tomorrow morning."

"Then give it him," said Thuri. "But consider all things beforehand. You must strive to look upon yourself and your condition without obstruction. Only then can you know for certain whether it is your time to retire."


Dvarim nodded slowly, and he seemed sobered now. "Thank you Thuri, for your kindness and wisdom. I shall think long upon this matter tonight."

Thuri nodded silently and withdrew his hand. The two old soldiers finished their drinks and then left the bar.

---

Upon the next morning, Dvarim entered General Erdin's office with his head held high. The general was behind his desk, and stood as his second-in-command entered.


"It appears that you have your decision made," said Erdin, "and I have little doubt as to which path you've chosen. But before you speak your choice, I would request a few words in advance. They just might alter your course of action."


Dvarim raised one of his bushy gray brows, but nodded. "Speak, then."

The general strode out slowly from behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back. "Yesterday, I spoke harshly to you. Though I felt it necessary at the time, perhaps I was overly aggressive in presenting you with that ultimatum. I should think that neither of those choices would seem appealing to you. Now, however, an opportunity has presented itself that would give us room for compromise."

Dvarim folded his arms across his broad chest and tilted his head to the side. This gesture was Erdin's indication to continue.


"I have recently received word of an expedition to the lands of the East. Seems that there's some interest in communing with one of the tribes that has settled out there. The reasoning is that we could swap some secrets that would be beneficial to both of our realms. Now... as of this moment, the members of this expedition are still in need of a military escort. The lord's council wants me to select the leader of this escort."

Erdin smiled slightly. "Of course you can see where I'm headed now. Here's my compromise for you: I appoint you the leader of the escort. Your name lends credibility to this expedition, and you receive further accolades for your service to our realm. After your return from the East, you settle into a comfortable retirement. Now how does that sound?"

Dvarim took a few steps forward, contemplating. He did not appreciate the general's condescending tone. Despite the fact that Erdin framed it as a compromise, this plan was simply a different way of forcing Dvarim out of his unit. And yet... it was the best choice of action available to the old dwarf. General Erdin was set against him, that much was evident. This expedition would provide Dvarim with a greater opportunity to cement his legacy than toiling under Erdin would, certainly.


So it was that with only trace signs of reluctance Dvarim acquiesced. "How large must this escort be?"

Erdin smiled wide, sensing his victory. "Not large. Four others, I’d say, to be selected by yourself."


Dvarim nodded. "I shall set to work on this task with all due diligence. My thanks for this opportunity."

His words sounded without emotion, echoing dully off of the office walls. Dvarim turned his back on the general, and departed.

---

Dvarim assembled the escort quickly. Thuri was the obvious choice to be his lieutenant, and while Erdin would not offer any of his cogs to serve under Dvarim, Thuri’s commander generously volunteered another three of his best dwarves to complete the small unit. These three had little time to get acquainted with their new commander, for the council on the expedition was soon upon them. They arrived late in the council chamber, their tardiness somewhat strange for a group of soldiers. Still, it appeared that they hadn’t missed much. There were only four other dwarves in the chamber when the five infantrymen marched in, and it appeared that these others had only just begun to introduce themselves.


“A good thing they brought us in,” thought Dvarim as he glanced over the four other dwarves. “This group doesn’t appear fit to defend itself.” 

It was indeed a sorry lot... a scrawny bluebeard, a pudgy fellow with a mace, a fuzz-faced, overeager looking youth, and a graybeard who appeared to be even older than Dvarim. Once the bluebeard was finished introducing himself as Zûbrim, all eyes went to the five newcomers. Dvarim cleared his throat.

“Greetings... we have been assigned as your escort for this expedition. I am called Dvarim... I command these troops.” He turned to his right and introduced the other four on down the line. “Thuri, Halak, Kiril, and Malkin. We are all at your service.”


The five soldiers rose from their chairs, bowed low, and then sat down once again.


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## YayGollum (May 21, 2005)

Boffin lowered his head with embarrased appreciation to Zubrim, was about to stand and introduce himself, but shifted uncomfortably in his seat and stuffed his mouth with more bread when the troops entered. As if he didn't feel foolish enough already! He briefly considered trying to back out of the expedition then but knew that his shame would plague him for years to come. He truely wished to be seen as a helpful member of Dwarf society, and this Zubrim didn't seem to have been disgusted by his last contribution, so he set his jaw and stood again. 

At the new Dwarves, then towards Zubrim and the others, starting to look hesitant when he starts to talk about himself ---> "We are deeply honored and encouraged by your presence. From what I know of our path, your talents will be most appreciated. Ah, and I am Boffin, a sort of, um, diplomat, you could say, and a wanderer myself. I have spent many years studying some of the strange cultures we might encounter. Eager to reach our lost brothers."


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## Uminya (May 22, 2005)

Zûbrim made an appreciative gesture and nodded to Dvarim, "Greetings to you and your soldiers. I am sure that they will have much opportunity to prove their skill on this journey, and the rewards that we will surely reap will be much appreciated." The dwarf paused and looked to the old dwarf and his young companion, "And what might you say of yourself, comrade?"


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## Ghorim (May 25, 2005)

A brief silence followed the final introductions, and Dvarim, somewhat annoyed at this pause in the proceedings, leaned forward on the council table, placing his right hand on his hip. He had not wanted to get overly involved in these preliminary deliberations, but it seemed that with this group, strong leadership was sorely lacking.

"So... down to business, then. My troops and I know little of this expedition's aims, save that if all goes as it should, we shall meet with our long-lost kin in the Eastern Lands. Of course, you are all aware that these realms are clear on the other side of Arda. Unless someone has managed to arrange an eagle transport for us, it shall be quite the march! What is our path, then?"

He cast his old commander's eyes on Zûbrim, and his gaze in that moment seemed to weigh the fellow's worth.

"You seem to be the one in charge of things. Perhaps you'd care to map out the proposed route for us?"

Thuri smiled faintly beneath his beard as Dvarim spoke. Age clearly had taken nothing from his friend. He was still just as lively and combative as ever, especially when the situation called for a strong personality. This expedition ought to be good for him... one last opportunity to command before nature made its final claim on him. Thuri settled back comfortably into his chair and carefully watched Zûbrim's reaction to Dvarim's words.


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## Uminya (May 25, 2005)

Zûbrim nodded and stepped towards a map, seeming to be quite in his element now that he could point something out. He ran his finger along an east-west chain of mountains and tapped on the center as he spoke, "The Grey Mountains, and here is Gundabad, which is quite infested with the orcs, despite our best efforts. The best route to take, I believe, would be to cut across northern Eriador to the Emyn Uial, travel south into the warmer--and safer--lands, and then go east once again to cut through Hollin and pass through Khazad-Dum for a time of rest and rethinking. Beyond that, I cannot say for the time being. I will need to know more of the weather and the...political situation to make a plan from there."

He took a breath and a drink of mead, then went on, "As I said, I am an outdoorsman. I will have no quarrel with leaving the fight to you and your troops, nor will I have a quarrel with you leading in situations...but if I may, sir, I insist that I make the final call on where we go." He beamed with pride and added, "It is my specialty."


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## YayGollum (May 26, 2005)

Even though he had very recently been trying to look as Dwarvish as possible, he mind started to wander back to the forests and a particular lesson of Sindarin. He was staring off into a corner, munching contentedly on cheese, when he saw Zubrim head for a map that he probably missed noting on his way in. Since the stuffiness of the stone halls were constantly making him feel cramped, he eagerly leaned in a bit to look at the map. He rearranged his face again to look grittily stubborn, crossed his arms, and quickly threw together a suitable Dwarf sounding remark ---> "When do we leave? I assume that you will arrange for supplies and mounts."


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## Ghorim (May 28, 2005)

As Zûbrim finished his speech, Dvarim displayed one of those wily grins that only veterans could properly manage, with but a hint of a glint in his eyes as he took in the blue-bearded guide. He had made his little test, and Zûbrim had performed admirably, displaying an encouraging confidence in his navigational skills. Dvarim had been somewhat hunched over the conference table, but now he leaned back slightly from it, speaking with a slightly less forceful air.

"Of course, I shall do my duty and take control of the situation when it is called for. My troops and I are here to ensure that none of you others have to trouble yourselves with self-defense. Should we encounter a hostile group, you need only stay behind us, and we shall handle them for you."

It was a bold claim to make, but Dvarim was never one to hedge on his assertions. He had full confidence in himself and in his subordinates, though he had met three of them only a few hours previous. That self-assurance shone through in his prideful appearance, as he sat erect in his chair and fashioned his gray features into a supremely noble look.

As Boffin spoke, the soldiers seemed to look a tad uneasy, and all of their discomfort could be traced to one word: "mounts." As good, old-fashioned dwarvish infantrymen, they had a healthy distrust for anything with more than two legs. Kiril and Halak in particular had some choice remarks on the idea of riding ponies across the land, but neither of them chose to speak ahead of Dvarim, their new commander, for they knew not how he would react. Kiril noticeably had to bite his tongue, however.

Dvarim felt the displeasure of his troops, and spoke for them.

"It is a long journey that we are making, I am aware. But are mounts a necessity? There is, after all, no cavalry unit in the Ered Luin. My troops and I are not familiar with beasts of burden, and I should think that we would all be far more comfortable making this trek on our own two feet."


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## Uminya (May 29, 2005)

Zûbrim rubbed his beard and looked from Boffin to Dvarim, then spoke slowly, "It would be easier for us to use beasts to carry our supplies and walk ourselves. However, Master Boffin, if you would like to ride at the pace of our footsteps, you are quite welcome to do so. It is not as though we would gallop across the lands at any rate." He cleared his throat and gestured to the door, "But as far as arrangements go, I have already done so for beasts of burden, foodstuffs and sundry. I am certain that all of you will be satisfied with the adequacy of supplies, but still we will be sparing and not indulge ourselves. Hope for the best and expect the worst, that's my motto."

Sitting down, the dwarf took another long drink and then looked at Dvarim first, then to each of the others in turn, "I believe we are adequately prepared for what lies ahead...it is now but one hour past sunset. Let us go and prepare our own affairs and be ready to leave from the Upper Eastern Gate an hour prior to dawn. Shall we say that is acceptable and take action upon it, then?"


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## YayGollum (May 31, 2005)

Boffin looked at Dvarim with innocent surprise when the Dwarf displayed hesitance over the need for mounts. Boffin had always loved ponies, especially Pooftop, the one given to him by an elvish friend of his. They were a large convenience for him, mostly because he tired more quickly than other Dwarves. He stood up and guarded his face with a more Dwarvish look of skepticism. 

A grateful nod was tossed at Zubrim, then ---> "Thank you. I shall, um, prepare for the journey." With a nod towards the others, he snagged a bit more of the food and headed for the door. He halted suddenly when he saw that noone else was leaving yet. While standing near the door and waiting to discover if there would be much else to say, he wondered to himself how exactly the average Dwarf would prepare for this journey. 

His first thoughts were to find a good meal, then sleep until it was time to go. He tried to make his musings look more intelligent as he replayed everything that he had said to these Dwarves. Did he seem Dwarvish enough? Could any of them effortlessly see through his deceptions? Or had he overplayed it and fooled them into believing that he was a bit too standoffish? He nibbled quietly as he pondered self-doubtedly.


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## Ghorim (Jun 1, 2005)

Dvarim nodded, and with a push on the table and a slight groan he rose to his feet, at which the other four soldiers stood as well. 

"Tomorrow, then. I wish you all a good night," he said cordially, and led the procession of infantrymen to the door. Each soldier gave Boffin a glance as they passed him on the way out.

Of course, Dvarim was not done with his troops for the evening. Before the council they had agreed to convene at the Ale Beard Tavern after the meeting was through, so as to further discuss the journey amongst themselves. The group managed to secure a table in the back of the establishment, which offered a fair degree of privacy. The group ordered a round of drinks, and as their serving lass was making her way off, Kiril gave a tug at her skirt.

"And a pork pie for me, if you'd be so kind!" he said with a devilish grin. She nodded warily in response and hurried off before he could make another grab at her.

Dvarim leaned forward on the table, his eyes scanning the group before he spoke. "So then... the parameters of our journey have been outlined for us. What say the lot of you?"

"It's a long trip to make," said Kiril as his brow creased. "I should hope that they'll pay us good coin for it."

Dvarim nodded. "I have spoken with a few members of the lord's council on this matter. They assured me that we shall be entitled to regular salary while on this assignment, to be paid upon our return, and that we shall have claim to some bonuses as well."

"Did they elaborate on what sort of bonuses those might be?" asked Thuri, stroking his gray beard with one hand and fishing out his pipe with the other.

Dvarim shook his head. "It depends on the results of the expedition. Should we secure some sort of lasting agreement with the Eastern Clans, then I should assume our reward would be greater."

"Hmmph..." grumbled Halak as the group's drinks arrived. "Well, I should hope that we get a healthy slice of the pie. Seems to me that we'll be doing most of the work when it comes to seeing this journey through. Why, just look at the rest of our party. It’s almost too funny to believe... one's too young, one's too old, one's too fat, and one's too skinny. I'm just glad that I have the four of you along, because I certainly don't trust any of those fellows to watch my back in battle."

"That is a problem," nodded Thuri as he packed his pipe. "I should think that if we were to run into any sort of large ambush, we would have great difficulty in fending it off successfully. A shame that none of the other party members could be in better fighting shape..."

"What surprises me the most," spoke young Malkin, "is that we have no one of noble blood to lead our group. When we meet with these Eastern Clans, I doubt that they shall take us all too seriously without a nobleman to serve as a representative of these mountains. In fact, I believe that they would take it as an insult, for us only to send a group of five soldiers, a guide, and three other civilians."

Kiril attacked his ale violently, guzzling down a good half of it as the others spoke. When Malkin finished speaking he grimaced and gave a look at Dvarim. "Good points all around! Sounds to me like some of these concerns should have been brought up at the council."

Dvarim scowled, and his pride flared at the suggestions that he perceived beneath Kiril's words. "Such is none of our concern. Our assignment is only to see that this expedition makes it to the East and back without casualties."

"Ahh... but you said it yourself, sir: we'll get paid better if this journey winds up a success," said Halak, siding with his friend Kiril. "Therefore, we ought to do everything we can to make sure that we make good friends with our estranged kin in the East."

"What would you suggest we do, then?" asked Dvarim, clearly bristling with annoyance.

"Well," spoke Thuri quietly, trying to calm his old friend down a bit. "You are a soldier of great stature, Dvarim. You have connections on the lord's council, aye? Perhaps you could convince one of the blue-bloods to come along with us?"

"I..." Dvarim scowled, not enjoying this marked deviation from the plan that had been laid out for him. "Well, if it aids our cause..."

Thuri nodded. "I would advise meeting with one of the council members as soon as possible. Those nobles do not like to do things on short notice, and we've precious little time before the expedition departs."

Dvarim nodded, his mind already analyzing the roster of council members, looking for one who could be easily convinced to live his comfortable life in the Ered Luin for a lengthy and dangerous journey. No... practically none of them were mad enough to make such a choice. There was only one fellow with whom Dvarim had a fighting chance. The old commander nodded again as the name came to him. He glanced to his as of yet untouched drink, and grabbed the flagon by its handle, shoving it to his lips as he stood. The four other soldiers watched in slack-jawed surprise as Dvarim knocked back his head and downed the entire drink in one pull. Once he had sucked the drinking vessel dry, he slammed it down on the table, wiped his wet lips with his arm, and tossed a couple of coins upon the table.

"I shall meet you gentlemen upon the morrow, with our noble in tow." 

Dvarim marched off hurriedly, and once he was out the tavern's front door, Kiril burst out laughing. "My, my! Seems like the old fellow's quite a drinker! Who knew? Well, I'd sure like to have a few brews with him after all's said and done with this business."

"Ahhh... he'd probably drink you under the table," chuckled Halak, of course knowing that with Kiril's love of drink, it would likely be the other way around.

Malkin turned to Thuri. "Do you think that Zûbrim will be upset to find that we've brought in some extra help behind his back? This whole expedition seems to be his idea, after all." 

Thuri removed his pipe from his mouth and shook his head. "Nae, nae. If he's being truthful about wanting nothing more than to show us the way there, he won't care. This noble should just be a figurehead, after all. He'll say some flowery things once we arrive in the East, and hopefully that and his lineage should be enough to suitably impress our kin. Up until that point, however, he'll just be one more piece of baggage."

Malkin smiled a bit at Thuri's description, and sipped on his ale thoughtfully.


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## Ghorim (Jun 1, 2005)

Dvarim had quickly made his way to the impressive estate of Froli, a noble whom he knew perhaps better than any of the others on the council. In Dvarim's distant heyday, he had frequently dined with the lord's council as an honored guest, and first met Froli when he was but a lad, attending a ceremonial dinner alongside his father, who was a respected member of the council. The young Froli, of course, had been star-struck, and pestered Dvarim with many a question on his battlefield exploits as they sat next to one another. Even as an adult he still remained an admirer of Dvarim and soldiers in general, since they were everything that he was not: fit, active, and universally respected. For though it had been many years since his father retired as the head of the lord’s council, and Froli had joined the group as a junior member, he had yet to gain the esteem of his colleagues, and was in fact the butt of many a secret joke made between council members. Dvarim chose to approach Froli for all of these reasons, for they would make his will more pliable in the matter at hand.

He concisely explained the situation to Froli as they sat in the noble’s impressive estate. The two of them rested on well-cushioned chairs near a magnificently ornate fireplace. The rotund and ruddy-faced Froli reclined in his seat and cooled himself with a small fan as the fire blazed nearby. A plate of sliced fruits and cheeses rested at the councilor’s side.

“Well!” he began in his highly ceremonial tone, “This mission, or quest, dare I say, sounds to be of the greatest importance. Nothing, I’ve always said, is more important than the blood bonds that unite all the members of our noble race, and for far too long have we allowed our Eastern brothers to drift further and further away from us, until our relations have reached such a perilous juncture! Let me simply reiterate how honored I am that you, Dvarim, hero of these mountains, celebrated leader and expert fighter, have come to me, so humble a public servant, to ask for my assistance in this pressing matter.”

“However, you must be aware that I still have domestic affairs to attend to. There is of course the issue of limiting the number of candles per household, which I have taken on as a personal project of mine. As you may know, there has been a rash of accidental fires started by candles in this city, and I’ve found in my research of the matter that most families already have more candles in their homes than they need to provide adequate light. A limit to me, therefore, seems hardly unreasonable. The council should be voting on it very soon, as my colleagues have assured me that...”

Dvarim had allowed Froli to blather on thus far in hopes that he would eventually run out of breath, but the soldier soon realized that this councilor’s tongue could easily wag on for hours and still not advance the conversation at hand. It was here, then, that he cut in.

“Councilor Froli... with all due respect to you and your concerns, I must be blunt and tell you that many consider you to be the least influential member of the lord’s council. Is this not also your impression?”

The noble’s face blanched as Dvarim spoke, and he stammered a bit in his reply. “Well! I... I... I’ve never asked about on the matter. I certainly feel that I more than pull my own weight...”

Dvarim interrupted him again. “Would not this expedition provide you with the opportunity to greatly increase your renown and prove yourself an excellent successor to your father?”

Clearly, subtlety was not Dvarim’s strong suit, but in this case it did not matter. He was laying out Froli’s most deep-seated fears in front of him, and no anxiety troubled the councilor more in the depths of the night than the thought of having an irrelevant career.

Froli’s bluster left him, and his response to Dvarim’s question was decidedly meek. “I suppose it could... but the journey is long, and I don’t consider myself much of a traveler.”

“But think of the rewards, sir. You would forever be known as the one councilor brave enough to march all the way across Arda, the councilor whose expert negotiations secured a lasting and profitable trade agreement with the Eastern Clans.”

Froli dropped his fan at Dvarim’s words, and made no effort to pick it back up. He blinked, and when his eyes once again opened they were filled with visions of himself, venerated and immortalized on history’s page, the toast of the council. Those dreams had long lain beneath the surface of his daily thoughts; he had only needed someone to stir them to the fore of his mind, as Dvarim had just done.

Dvarim smiled gently at this sight. He had known well how to argue his point, for he too was in this mission to secure his legacy. It had grown tarnished over the years, as his reputation now was that of the faded legend who refused to let go of his career. With this mission, he could prove to his detractors, General Erdin not the least among them, that he was still capable of seeing an assignment through. Aye, one last adventure for Dvarim before he succumbed to the rocking chair by the fire with its drowsy reminiscing. 

He had Froli in his pocket now.

“We depart tomorrow, one hour before dawn, from the Upper Eastern Gate. Shall you be with us then?”

The councilor nodded slightly, still mesmerized by his own fantasies. “I shall.”

“Tomorrow, then,” said Dvarim as he stood. He left the mansion at a brisk pace, opening the imposing front door before one of Froli’s servants could do it for him. The barracks were his destination now, for he was much in need of rest. Within a few hours, he would rise to take on his final assignment.


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## Uminya (Jun 2, 2005)

As the others filed out of the chamber, Zûbrim remained behind, examing the map for a bit longer before running a hand over his gaunt face and beard. "Hmm... I wonder if Dvarim and his troops are going to go and fetch someone important to take with us...with their training, they should be thinking of these sorts of things," he thought out loud. Finding no answer within himself or the chamber, he shrugged and stepped out, making his way after a brisk walk to the Upper Eastern Gate.

As he stepped through the threshhold, his face was met with a cool breath of air and a pale light from the moon. Taking in some of the night air, he let it out with a sigh and walked to the stables to check on the pack animals that had been arranged as well as his own supplies. Finding all well, he sat down in a pile of straw and looked through his quiver of arrows, running an idle finger through the fletching or tapping the arrowheads against his teeth.

The night was growing old when he woke again, and all the land was blanketed in the twilight silence when Zûbrim stirred, blinking his eyes slowly before rising to his feet. Briskly, the dwarf rucked up his gear and led out the animals, picketing them a stone's throw away from the gate. Patiently, and with an apple in hand, he stood and waited for the others to begin to arrive.


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## YayGollum (Jun 5, 2005)

After having apparently been shoved out of the room, Boffin trundled off to toss a farewell at his family, and maybe obtain a hearty meal out of it. He plopped into bed following the uncomfortable supper with a family that had pretty much given up on him. Luckily, he had told them all about his upcoming trip. His very annoyed looking father dragged him out of bed and pointed him in the direction of the east gate. He found that his pony Pooftop had been efficiently loaded up by his family's servants and looked for a quick place to grab a bite to eat before the appointed hour.


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## Ghorim (Jun 6, 2005)

The soldiers scattered to their separate appointments that night, each returning to his home for one last taste of its comforts. For Dvarim, that home was the barracks. He had never taken a wife, though he had been much coveted in a time long past. A female would have only hindered him in his pursuit to perfect his deadly craft, or so Dvarim had convinced himself. He slept soundly in his bunk that night, his mind at ease.

The others departed one by one from the Ale Beard Tavern, with Kiril staying the longest, for he considered any establishment that could supply him with drink to be a home. After his comrades had all marched off into the night, he migrated from the empty table over to the bar, and found himself at the center of a colorful group of drunken characters. The soldier was in his element, somehow managing multiple conversations with his bar mates, the highly verbal tender, and the tavern lasses as they came to and from the bar to pick up drink orders. Faces came and went from his memory in blurs. His drink toll kept mounting, loosening his tongue, and sharpening his wit, or at least so he thought. He rambled incessantly about the assignment upon which he was set to embark upon the morrow, and only after several times of thoroughly describing the mission did he realize that perhaps it would be prudent to get some sleep before the long march began. So he bid farewell to all of his newfound friends, and stumbled from the tavern back to his barracks, humming an old traveling song as he went.

---

Malkin, meanwhile, enjoyed a quiet evening with his parents and younger sister, and praise rang endlessly in his ears that night, though it was tempered by some concern for his safety. The young soldier shrugged it all off, reciting the normal assurances to his family. He was serving with an excellent group of soldiers, and their guide clearly knew the safest route to take. He was struck by a peculiar feeling of nostalgia as he settled into his old bed for the night. It was a sensation that a fellow so young ought not to feel, yet it was simply too powerful for him to ignore... the quaint familiarity of the sheets, the sight of the house cloaked in nighttime shadow... they were comforts to him as he drifted into slumber.

---

Thuri had made the mistake of telling his older daughter Ingrid of his plans for departure before the council took place. She was the sort who was always looking for an excuse to round up the family for a gathering, and quickly pounced on this opportunity for a get together. When Thuri returned to her house to say one last goodbye, he found his entire extended family there to see him off in celebratory fashion: his two daughters, Ingrid and Milena, all three of his grandchildren, and a host of cousins and in-laws, some less familiar to him than others. All of this festivity annoyed the old soldier greatly, for he strove to always conduct his affairs in an austere manner, and loathed being the center of attention. Still, Ingrid’s gesture was not lost on him. For her sake, Thuri soldiered on through the evening admirably, fending off handshakes, exchanging greetings, partaking in some ale and cake, and even giving a brief speech to those assembled. 

His grandchildren proved to be a handful as always, clamoring for his attention throughout the evening. He gave them each a turn on his knee and talked to them as much as could be afforded, but it seemed that nothing could appease them. At long last their bedtimes came, and their parents escorted them from the dining room to their beds. The rest of the guests took their time in departing, and it was only after several farewells that all of the extraneous party members had departed. Exhausted from all of the commotion over his imminent departure, Thuri plopped down upon Ingrid’s couch and fell fast asleep.

---

Halak’s last night in the Ered Luin proved to be far quieter. He went to the home of his mother, as he often did. She now lived the empty life of a widow, and was only able to maintain residence in her husband’s house due to Halak’s wages. He entered as quietly as his armor would allow, and glancing into the darkened dwelling saw his mother seated in her rocking chair, creaking back and forth in steady rhythm. The light source in the small home was a solitary candle, so that only the elderly dwarvish woman and her chair were visible. She seemed to exist in an abyss, about to disappear at any moment. 

Halak frowned a bit and turned to his left, removing his helmet and hanging it on the third of three pegs that stuck out of the wall. He never placed his helm on the other two pegs... those forever belonged to his father and older brother. Dimly the soldier remembered when his mighty father installed the three pegs for each male in the family, back before either of the sons was in the army. Someday, they would all hang their helmets up together in a proud display of their shared profession. But that time never came, as the father fell in a campaign against the orcs shortly before Halak enlisted. Then the brother’s time came not long after, as the campaign dragged on, leaving the young Halak to preserve the crumbling remains of their family. The lad’s despondent mother was now under his sole protection. He kept her comfortable for all those years, because it was all that he was capable of doing for her... she was inconsolable, and grief at all times enshrouded her thoughts.

Halak pulled up his father’s armchair to sit in front of the rocking chair, putting his axe down on the floor.

“Good evening, mother.”

She just smiled at him emptily, still rocking back and forth. It had been like this for a few months now... Halak often worried for the state of her mind... whether she could even understand him any longer. He sighed gently, and set to informing her of the expedition east, for he had not gotten the chance to tell her of it earlier. Her smile faded as he described its length and alluded to some of the potential dangers, but he quickly moved on to the rewards that awaited him at journeys end, and how he could ensure her comfortable living for the rest of her days with the bonuses that were due to him. Of course, he did not yet know how much he would earn in bonus payments, but nonetheless spoke to his mother of the extra reward as a sizeable sum.

Her smile returned at these words, and this expression encouraged Halak to keep talking to her, describing the other party members, even telling a few jokes at their expense, anything to keep her happy. She smiled on, just enjoying the sound of her son’s voice. Soon Halak was telling her whatever popped into his mind, reminiscing on old family outings, reciting off-color jokes from the barracks, not wanting to fall silent, as his mother’s expectant and sorrowful eyes prodded him on. Eventually, however, Halak’s strength began to fail him, and his chin nodded toward his chest as he muttered on about a trip that he and Father had once taken to watch a musical performance in the main square. Finally he dozed off, in mid-sentence. The music of that distant concert haunted his dreams, distorted and off-key.

Halak’s head rose several hours later, and he found his mother still sitting before him, rocking steadily, her mournful gaze upon him. The candle had burnt itself out, and he could barely make her out in the dark. Halak rubbed his eyes and stretched, smiling gently.

“Seems that I talked myself to sleep. Did I snore?”

The continued creaking of the rocking chair was the only response to his question.

“Well... my apologies if I did.”

After a brief pause, he picked up his axe and rose to his feet. “I’d best be going. Stay strong while I am away, mother... I shall... return...”

Halak’s last sentence trailed off as his mother extended one of her feeble hands toward him. He reached out to take it gingerly, afraid that too strong a grip would crush her hand. She tugged gently, and Halak knelt before her rocking chair, looking into her eyes with a growing concern. With her other hand she reached out and stroked his beard, caressingly, still with that old mother’s touch. In her fractured mind, Halak was still her baby boy. 

“Don’t,” she said hoarsely, just that word, and she repeated it.

Halak’s brow knitted, and he shook his head. “I have orders, mother. But I can make this work. I shall come back with money... money for you... I’ve already made arrangements for my regular salary to go to you while I’m away, and...”

Her gaze left his eyes, and turned toward the pegs by the door, where Halak’s lonely helmet hung. He followed her gaze, and quickly turned back to her.

“No, no... it won’t be like with them. It won’t.” He rose slightly, and leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead. “Farewell, mother... I shall not be long.”

He stood, and she gazed at him silently now, her eyes appearing to tremble. With some effort, Halak turned away from that pleading stare and marched for the door. He grabbed his helmet on the way out. Without turning to look over his shoulder, he briskly opened the portal and then shut it behind him. The soldier paused outside the house for a few moments, taking some breaths to compose himself, before proceeding at a hurried pace for the Upper East Gate.


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## Ghorim (Jun 6, 2005)

When Halak arrived, he found Zûbrim, Thuri and Malkin all ready and waiting. Kiril appeared shortly after him, looking groggy and cross for reasons that were obvious to all those present, for his whole body still reeked of the Ale Beard Tavern. 

“Where’s our commander?” Halak asked Thuri.

“I do not know,” replied the old soldier with a frown. “It’s not like him to be late.”

Their answer came swiftly, as Dvarim soon came marching up with a drowsy Froli at his side. Behind them trudged a trio of Froli’s servants, each carrying a cumbersome pack of supplies on his back. 

Kiril seemed to smirk derisively and scowl in annoyance at the same time. “Must be the blueblood. He’s going to kill the damn ponies with those bundles of his! He’ll probably want to ride one of the dirty beasts for most of the way, too.”

Dvarim stomped straight to Zûbrim. “Allow me to introduce to you Sir Froli, a member of the lord’s prestigious council. My subordinates and I agreed that we needed a fellow of noble blood to come along with us, so as the lend authority to our otherwise humble delegation. Sir Froli is quite excited about the possibilities of a trade agreement with the Eastern Clans.”

Froli gave a cavernous yawn to back up Dvarim’s words. “Oh yes, yes of course...” The councilor was clearly not used to waking up at such an obscenely early hour.

Dvarim hid his displeasure at Froli quite well beneath his usual impassive mask. “I sincerely hope that you do not object to this decision, Zûbrim...”


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## Uminya (Jun 17, 2005)

Zûbrim nodded his head slowly to the noble in respect, "Very well, good sir lord, whatever. What was your name?" He said, not really meaning it. Pressing right on, he turned to Dvarim. "Well, I hope our...noble voice is ready for a leg-stretcher. I see everyone is ready?" he said, looking over the other's shoulder and then all around to see if everyone that had showed up the night before was there or not.

Reaching over his shoulder, he ran a finger over the fletching of his arrows and looked thoughtful as he went over in his mind everything that was needed once again, just to be sure and to fill the brief gap of time between his question and the most-likely-to-be-delayed answer. Not wanting to wait, he whirled about on one heel and beckoned to the others as he took the reigns of one of the pack-mules in hand, "Come along. Someone lead this mule so I can deal with leading the lot of you, my friends. We can put quite a leg up before the sun comes up and melts away the valley-mists about here."

Decisively, as if not concerned with anything beyond the present, he put one foot in front of the other and slowly began walking, as if to encourage the others to do the same quickly so that they might follow suit.


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## Ghorim (Jun 23, 2005)

Froli's blue blood boiled when Zûbrim's disrespectful tone reached his ear. 

"See what happens when they put a commoner in charge of such an important expedition!" thought Froli sourly as he grated his teeth together. "It goes straight to his head, and he forgets his place!"

The noble had half a mind to take a bold step forward and order the bluebearded guide to pay him the proper respects. But Froli was not like most members of his class. His mind was too weighted down by self-doubt, too wracked with insecurity, for him to translate his proud thoughts into action. He allowed himself to simmer in tight-jawed silence as the guide turned and marched off. Within himself, Froli cursed his inaction, and glared at Zûbrim's back as he went.

Dvarim, meanwhile, made a sort of whuffing noise, which could have either been a cough or a chuckle. He liked to see the sort of spirit that their guide had just displayed, and more and more his estimation of Zûbrim rose. He turned to his troops.

"Right, then. Our numbers are the same as those of the civilians, so it seems fitting that each of us should keep an eye on one of them. Halak... you shall guard Sir Froli here. Thuri, Malkin... you two keep watch on Sir Owin and Master Brian. Kiril... your assignment is Boffin."

Kiril ran a hand over his face, half in disgust, half in an attempt to wipe away some of his lingering fatigue. "You've much confidence in me, I can see sir." He grumbled some more as he turned to see the pudgy dwarf stumbling up, the last to arrive.

The others moved according to Dvarim's orders, with the wizened commander moving to the fore to stride alongside Zûbrim. He eyed the reins of the pack animal briefly and then turned away, considering such a task beneath a fellow of his stature. Someone else would have to lead it, and certainly none of the soldiers were in the proper mood for undertaking this menial assignment. 

They ventured toward the gate, preparing to exit into the stillness of the morning's early hours, as that strange outside world gradually stirred to life. Miles upon miles lay ahead of them.

"There'll be no falling behind," grunted Kiril to Boffin. "You keep pace with me, or else I'm leaving you wherever you fall. Got it?"

Halak had similar words in mind for Froli, whose servants had quickly loaded their master's belongings upon the mules before departing. He kept his trap shut, however, not wanting to test the nobleman's ire any more. 

"The blueblood had best be kept in good spirits, or else he'll want to turn around in but a few days," thought Halak. So it seemed that a morale-booster appeared to be in order.

As the group passed through the gate into the hazy blue morning, Halak marched alongside Froli, who carried with him a jewel-encrusted walking stick, and spoke.

"You ever heard the one about the Elf and the Greenskin?"


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## YayGollum (Apr 25, 2006)

Boffin hastily churned into motion at Zubrim's not-especially-subtle urging. His head whirled as he took in what he thought of as the start of an exciting and perhaps noteworthy adventure. He edged away as Kiril approached and chuckled good-naturedly at his grunt, which he assumed to be a friendly jibe. At least until he let his adrenaline die and remembered that the guy was a fine example of a normal Dwarf, which is when he stopped chuckling, cleared his throat, and contributed a grunt of his own. 

"Hmph. I got it. Uh, wait a minute." He stopped to see how many people were watching him, at the moment, and probably hoped that there weren't very many, then awkwardly climbed his way up and onto his pony. "Phew! There we go! No problem. So, what's your name again? We'll be travelling together for a while. Might as well make friends, right?" Boffin turned away as he winced, reminding himself to think like a Dwarf before he speaks.


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## Ghorim (Apr 28, 2006)

*Lively Company*

Watching as Boffin struggled his way onto the saddle, Kiril's mind struggled in vain to remember why this plump jester was coming along with them on a stomp to the opposite end of the realms. As the fellow sat there on his mount, so pleased with himself for having made it atop a mobile seat while the others marched, he seemed to resemble nothing if not a fleshy target for orc arrows. Kiril's jaw hung a bit low as he considered these nagging questions, giving his ridiculous traveling companion a dead-eyed stare. 

_Well, maybe he'll keep us entertained._

Kiril shook his face thoroughly, his robust black beard swinging to and fro with the motion. He had to wake himself up again to deal with this sort of civilian idiocy...

"Aye, we've got a long road to travel," he muttered. "Might as well be... pleasant..." He spoke the last word as if he'd just swallowed some stale mead.

He glanced up at the mounted dwarf from beneath two thick brows. His expression twisted into a smirk that seemed in equal measure cruel and light-hearted. Kiril's face was a strange collection of scars and pockmarks, badges of honor and shame. The older ones came from his reckless youth, mementos of the bar brawls that taught him how to throw and take a punch. There, along his forehead, were the faded lines where a bottle of spirits had shattered upon his skull. He had left the tavern that night bloodied but victorious. 

He didn't get much further before the authorities caught up with him.

The choice was none too appealing - some substantial time in the brig, or conscription into the forces. Well, he needed a salary, didn't he? It was a long and strange trip from that decisive moment to his arrival in the Ered Luin's elite Second Division. It turned out he was a natural at bashing things with a weapon. Who would've known?

The soldier extended his hand up to Boffin. "Name's Kiril. Something tells me that I'll lose my bonus if you don't make it through this trip alive, so be sure to holler if something's about to split your face open, eh?"

Kiril's sadistic countenance positively beemed at the fat dwarf's flustered reaction. 

"Now what's your name, again? Buffoon, was it?"

"Such a charmer, Kiril!" called Halak from where he marched nearby. "You really know how to butter a fellow up!"

"Just trying to make him as comfortable as I can," said Kiril with a slight shrug. His laughing gaze returned to Boffin. "Perhaps you'd like a pillow for that saddle of yours? We could get you a footrest up there as well!"

Halak shook his head, addressing Boffin in an easy tone. "Just plug your ears up for the next few hours. Kiril's only sore because his head is still swimming in all the ale he soaked up last night. Oh yes... and our tavern lass wouldn't let him cozy up with her for the evening."

Kiril laughed off the remark, not caring who knew about his activities of the previous eve. "I feel fortunate in that regard... she wasn't much of a looker." 

"One-eyed, with a wooden leg too, aye?"

"Aye... but, ahhh! What a magnificent pair of..."

"Worse than my grandchildren, you two!" interjected Thuri, with a fair degree of strategic timing. "Shape up a bit, won't you? Don't forget that we're in a noble's presence!"

"Oh... he doesn't mind it," said Halak, glancing to Froli, who was still trying to make sense of his guard's Elf and Greenskin joke. "I'm sure they use worse language in the heat of council debates, aye?"

"Hmm?" Froli turned to Halak. Seeing the gazes of most of the others suddenly on him, he hurriedly cleared his throat. "Oh! Well, aye, there's room for such... eh... _jocular_ language within even the highest chambers of power in our fair mountain home. Why, I remember one particularly spirited session, in which..."

"See! It matters not to him," cut in Halak. “Now, Kiril, just what were you saying about our server’s... finer features?”

Kiril roared with laughter, and then launched into a rather vivid description of the girl's anatomy. 

Thuri and young Malkin exchanged knowing glances of amused aggravation. Having served with Kiril and Halak for as long as they had, they knew that the two of them could go on for hours like this. They were like a pair of brothers… _young_ brothers, sharing their juvenile remarks and crass jokes. But when the time to focus on an assignment came, both could easily shed their childish personas and complete their duties as well as any other soldier within their unit. Both possessed abundant physical talent, and working in tandem on the battlefield, they were positively devastating.

But did their commander know that? Inevitably, Thuri and Malkin glanced to the marching form of Dvarim, trying to measure his reaction to the antics of Kiril and Halak by staring at his back. In truth, the wizened soldier paid little attention to his subordinates. His concentration on the mission consumed all of his other senses, so that the laughing banter behind him only struck his ears faintly. His will had become fixed on seeing this assignment through. Indeed, it was his last stab at prominence in the estimation of not only his peers, but of history itself. Dvarim could not allow his exploits to fade into oblivion. They were to become indelible. He would see to that.


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## YayGollum (Apr 28, 2006)

Boffin was shocked at the response to his friendly question and barely stopped himself from crying. He looked up and away to note to himself why Dwarves and elves had such a hard time getting along. He didn't lose his flustered reaction until he brought his attention back and began to see that Kiril was only employing famous Dwarven honesty. He chuckled sadly to himself as he looked down at his hands, understanding why his family thought of him as a failure. 

Shaking his head to clear the depressing thoughts away, he listened hungrily to the banter. When Froli came up, he thought only briefly about trying to make friends with him, since he seemed very similar to the Dwarves that he had been brought up with. The others might even think less of him, if he tried that! 

Holding tightly onto the adrenaline that he had been building up, Boffin tightened his features with a determined look and hopped off of his pony. The small stumble that followed was only enough for him to waver for a second. "Um, aye! Sounds like I missed out, last night! At least, it sounds like she had taste for rejecting this guy's face! Ha! Who knows, Kiril? Maybe the women of the east won't be so picky!" He then tried to concentrate on marching at the pace of the others, shutting out all thoughts of failure. If he could prove himself even a half-Dwarf to these soldiers, his family would be sure to welcome him home!


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## Uminya (May 1, 2006)

Zûbrim glanced over his shoulder at the others and smirked, walking at a pace quick enough so as to not be lingering, and yet not so fast as to exhaust the party before their noon break for lunch. The twilight air had a bit of a chill in it, though the early spring was a far cry from the biting cold of the deep winter. It was refreshing, and with promising weather, they made good progress down through the valleys and dales of the Blue Mountains.

Within two days, they found themselves in the foothills overlooking the Valley of the River Lhûn, breathing the warmer, thicker air down there. The land was vast and empty on this side of the river, marked most closely by the farmsteads of some of the surface-dwelling dwarves but--by and large--free from much danger at all. They made swift progress through these lands as the trees opened up and the fields blossomed around them. Tho Zûbrim certainly wasn't one to talk much about a pretty picture, he certainly thought it was a very pleasant experience.

In just a few more days, they came to the ferry-crossing on the River and paid the toll to make their way over it. Setting foot on the far bank, the thin dwarf said, "You are now in the lands of men. This is a land that they call 'Arthedain', if you're curious about that sort of thing. There, to the east, are the hills of Evendim, and over them is a great city of men...or was great, in the days of my father. But still, it is good enough. We won't be stopping, just passing through before we follow a great road to the new city, where we _will_ be stopping." He paused to take a breath, then stuck his thumbs beneath the straps of his pack, "It's not so bad of a walk. But for now, let's have a bite to eat, and then we'll move along."

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

They continued on a short time later. The days got warmer and more pleasant, with only the occaisional shower to wet their beards. By and large, even the most timid of hobbits would have had no argument walking endlessly through new lands in such delightful weather. It was for that very reason that Zûbrim picked up his pace, quite subtly (he figured) and practically raced through the hills of the Emyn Uial, coming to the shore of the lake within a week from the ferry.

Less than a day's journy brought them around to the walls of the waning city of Annuminas. Like a great blossom in wilt, its beauty was fading fast, even though it still held a sort of ancient majesty. The gates were still open when they arrived, but men clad in the armament of Arthedain were bustling about the streets hurriedly, likened as to farmers gathering up their tools when black thunderheads are approaching on the horizon. Yet there was not a cloud in the sky.

Zûbrim said nothing to comment as they wound through the streets of the city. The thoroughfares were wide and fairly empty, and so they made rapid progress through the city; the thin dwarf noting the clever uses that humans came up with for their masonry, but still not thinking it nearly so good as what his people could manage. Soon enough, they passed through the eastern gate of the city and found themselves on the well-built King's Highway, flying like a white arrow towards Fornost Erain.

Though the weather held and still no foulness had appeared, there was an unusual tension building up in the air. Perhaps not in the land itself (the stones said little) but in the men passing along the highway. More and more were ordered formations of soldiers marching eastward, and less were the farmers and anything going west. At last, though, they made it to the northern citadel of Fornost, and after convincing the guards that they were on polite business, were allowed into the city.

Zûbrim did, of course, promptly lead them to the seediest, foulest-looking inn that he had heard rumor of, not only to please his brothers he felt would be doing the most work, but mostly because he felt it would especially irritate the noble Froli.


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## YayGollum (May 6, 2006)

After standing in front of The Broken Barstool for several uncertain seconds and expecting to be led onwards, Boffin sucked in a quiet gasp of surprise but quickly hid his expression. He looked around at the others to flash a sheepish grin and toss a few embarrassed chuckles while waiting for their guide to continue or to actually enter the place. Only when it became obvious, Boffin sighed and attempted to gather his wits for another round of deception in the name of honor. He positioned his pony where the others were being left and followed his companions. 

He rubbed at his sore feet while he thought that no one was looking. Although the thought of spending much time in a gutter like the one he was at disgusted the side of him that had any taste, he wore a hopeful smile and hoped that the food was good. "Ah, I am sure that the ponies appreciate the rest! Now, what is this inn that you have led us to, Zubrim? You're certainly not going to make Dwarves look very choosey, are you? oh well. It's here and it looks plenty, uh, frugal!"


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## Ghorim (May 6, 2006)

“Now stop me if I’m starting to sound like an Elf… but sometimes it’s not so bad getting a face full of the air up here.”

Kiril spoke these words as he ambled along, slightly off from the rest of the group. He had a habit of wandering from the path that the others traveled, at times seeming guided only by whim.

“Best check your ears for points,” said Thuri dryly.

They were on a steady descent from the snowy peaks that sheltered their kin, out into a sprawling world that seemed to welcome their arrival with a magnificent flourish of green and a fanfare of birdcalls. In truth, the soldiers only dully perceived this stirring of life that surrounded them. Their profession had long since deadened such sensations within them. And yet with the sun beaming down to mildly reassure their progress, along with the placid blue curtain that hung above them, the soldiers felt a noticeable lift in their spirits. 

They all perceived that this first leg of the journey would likely be the last one without any sizable danger, so each of the traveling party’s guardians sought to make the most of this early respite. Dvarim’s decision to attach each soldier to an individual civilian paid great dividends, as through idle chatter each guard came to better know his counterpart. Thuri and Owin discussed the joys and tortures of being a grandfather. Brian, whose enthusiasm seemed as boundless as the scenery that surrounded them, had a ceaseless string of queries for Malkin to field. Kiril had jokingly taken to treating Boffin like the real soldier that he so clearly wanted to be. After consistently using the “Buffoon” moniker for the first day of the march, the soldier now referred to his pudgy charge simply as “comrade,” and often asked for advice on how to conduct himself in the battles that were sure to come. Halak and Froli, meanwhile, had come to find each other mutually amusing, though Froli’s humor was rarely intended.

The commander himself, however, seemed to recede further from the rest of the party. He saw no need to dispatch many direct orders to his troops in the early going, and primarily conversed with Zûbrim on the guide’s intended course. Dvarim’s old friend Thuri essentially became his middleman with the rest of the soldiers, who found that by the time they were entering mannish lands, they knew little more of their leader than when they had first met him. 

The moment they crossed the River Lhûn, and Zûbrim made his announcement to the party, the soldiers seemed to collectively withdraw back into their familiar, orderly mannerisms. With each step their motions stiffened a bit more. Even Kiril and Halak’s ever-present humor became tempered by a growing air of soldierly stoniness. Their surroundings at Annuminas seemed to reflect this shift in their mood. Where once the world about them seemed charged with new life, the settlements of men that they came upon exuded a sense of accelerating decay. Something golden had come and passed long before their arrival, and now the city seemed resigned to a lonely fate, crouched on the southern end of the Lake Evendim. Men-at-arms would hurry past, and should their gazes linger on the dwarvish party as it stomped along, they would catch looks of solidarity from the five soldiers. Though separated by race and station, they were all of them brothers when placed on the frontlines.

By the time they were nearing Fornost, the soldiers could clearly sense something amiss. Even the most ignorant and oblivious of civilians could tell that those passing mannish legions weren’t out on leisurely training exercises. The land steeled itself for the blight of war. 

“Here’s where the road gets rocky,” muttered Kiril as another armed battalion crossed their path. He was now marching in tight formation with the others.

“And here I was hoping for one long, sunny stroll,” said Halak mournfully.

“Eh… do you think there is reason to worry, sirs?” asked Froli with a poorly masked sense of nervousness.

“Let me put it this way,” said Kiril, “if I had a spare helmet, I’d lend it to ya. As it is, you’d best do a good job hiding behind your guard there if we should wind up in the middle of something unpleasant.” 

“No worries,” said Malkin from nearby, knowing full well that their aristocratic emissary was feeling skittish enough without Kiril trying to push him over the edge. “If we chart a proper course, we should avoid any of the conflicts that appear to be brewing in these lands.”

Kiril shrugged, with a lingering grin. “Battles are funny things, though. They have a habit of catching folks by surprise.”

Not coincidentally, Froli had to take out a silken handkerchief from his vest pocket to wipe away some errant perspiration.

Halak laughed at this sight and gave the noble a spine-adjusting slap on the back. “And what are you sweating for? That great ruby on the end of your walking stick could split a few skulls, if you were to use it properly.”

Froli rubbed his aching back as he knelt to recover his dropped handkerchief. Upon Halak’s words, he glanced up in surprise. “What? It could?”

Halak nodded. “Aye. Tell you what… if we run into any hostiles, I’ll knock ‘em to the ground, and then you can finish ‘em off.”

“Finish them…?” Froli was clearly beginning to squirm.

“Just bring that big stick of yours down on the throat or either of the temples,” said Halak, pointing to the targets on his own body. “Those are kills, every time.”

Froli nervously pondered the bloody visions that Halak had planted in his mind for the rest of the march to Fornost.

---

“Ah, I am sure that the ponies appreciate the rest!” said Boffin as he returned from the stables. “Now, what is this inn that you have led us to, Zubrim? You're certainly not going to make Dwarves look very choosey, are you? Oh well. It's here and it looks plenty, uh, frugal!”

“The Broken Barstool,” read Thuri as the group regarded the inn from the exterior.

“It’s perfect!” proclaimed Kiril.

“It will do,” said Dvarim curtly, shoving through the entrance without a further thought.

“Surely you cannot be serious, Zûbrim!” said Froli, his face stricken with a look of utter mortification. “Why, in a settlement so vast, there must be at least a dozen establishments finer than this… this…”

“Shack?” said Halak with a mischievous glint in his eye. 

“Such a word,” said Froli stuffily, “is simply too dignified for such a haphazardly constructed den of debauchery!”

“Now, now,” said Thuri, “the accommodations should only get worse from here on in. You’d best forget about your silken bed sheets back home and lower your standards, Sir Froli.”

And with that, he too crossed the threshhold, bringing with him a sizable contingent of the party along. Only Halak and Froli now stood outside of the Broken Barstool. 

The soldier glanced at the seething ambassador. “Just plug your nose and dive in.”

Froli, sighing deeply, seemed to acquiesce, and Halak led the way in. 

To no one’s surprise, it was a dimly lit interior, which must have comforted some of the dwarves with its resemblance to a small cavern. The inn, however, was primarily constructed of not stone but wood, and most of the planks were either warped or beginning to erode from water and pest damage. The roof was in a sorry state. Had it been raining, the dwarves would likely have been drier off had they stayed outside. 

The patrons sat at their appropriately rickety barstools and chairs in various states of dejection, with their faces drooping down into their dirty mugs. Kiril, already positioned at the bar, was trying to single-handedly change the dour atmosphere with a loose tongue and loud words. Most of the other dwarves were pushing some tables together so that they could all sit together as one party. 

Thuri approached the bar, and leaned his head close to Kiril’s ear. “Three drinks, at the most,” he said quietly, hoping to rein in his comrade’s antics for the night.

Kiril blinked in surprise, and cried out, “Three drinks! Are you mad?”

Dvarim, standing beside the dwarves’ table, stepped to the center of the room and glared at Kiril. 

“Two drinks, maximum!” he said sharply. “And that goes for the lot of you,” he added, glancing at the other soldiers. 

Kiril, sensing that he had driven a poor bargain, bit his lower lip in consternation.


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## Ghorim (May 6, 2006)

Even on two drinks, the dwarves became far more jovial than they had been since they entered the lands of Men. Halak and Malkin joined Kiril at the bar. Brian tagged along as well, following the movements of his guard and newfound idol Malkin with all the loyalty of an excitable puppy. The other six members of the party remained at the table, enjoying a pleasant conversation as they sipped their drinks and ate their meals. The inn’s food was fairly sub-par, but did not fail to fill their bellies. Froli and Boffin, though still looking uncomfortable with their surroundings, were at least beginning to settle in.

Meanwhile, Kiril, perhaps convincing himself that he was drunker than he actually was, felt a song coming on at the bar. Somewhat unsteadily, he climbed to stand atop his stool, and placing a hand to his chest, called the attention of the entire establishment with a hearty and reverberating, “Ohhhhh….”

Dvarim, alarmed at this development, shot up from his chair to order his subordinate down. Thuri, however, grabbed hold of his commander’s wrist. 

“Let him,” he said to his old friend. 

Before Dvarim could even respond, Kiril leapt into one of his favorite drinking tunes, maintaining a precarious perch atop his barstool. He sang in a rich baritone, though slightly off-key:

“Beardless Baun was a bitter old son,
Always feeling low!
He never did grin,
‘Cos on his chin,
A beard would never grow! 
Not a single hair would grow!”

Halak and Malkin, recognizing the tune, jumped in for the first verse. Halak simply doubled the melody while pounding out the song’s rhythm on the bar top. But Malkin, possessing a finer voice than his comrades, came in an octave higher, and provided a few subtle but effective harmonies as the song progressed.

“From his first days,
Folks were amazed,
He had a face so bare!
And to that face they’d laugh all day,
Any and everywhere!”

“Baun wore scarves,
To hide from dwarves,
What was so plain to see!
And pasted feathers to his chin,
From birds most uh-guh-ly!” 

“Ohhhhh….”

“Beardless Baun was a bitter old son,
Always feeling low!
He never did grin,
‘Cos on his chin,
A beard would never grow! 
Not a single hair would grow!”

By now, Thuri was contributing his voice to the song as well, and though Brian did not know the words, he too was chiming in.

“Baun always wept,
And never slept,
Wouldn’t go out at all!
A healer came!” “What was his name?”
“‘Twas Vim, as I recall!”

“Vim scratched his head,
He coughed and said,
‘Take everything off your shelves!’
‘Strap it all upon your back,’
‘And go live with the Elves!’”

“Ohhhhh….”

“Beardless Baun was a bitter old son,
Always feeling low!
He never did grin,
‘Cos on his chin,
A beard would never grow! 
Not a single hair would grow!”

From the moment these strange dwarves had entered the Broken Barstool, its patrons could not decide how to react to them. With this latest incident, the responses amongst the men were clearly mixed. Some thought it was wonderful entertainment, and clapped along in time to the tune. Among other segments of the crowd, however, the situation was untenable. In their minds, this obnoxious group of stunted travelers was trying to take over their favorite drinking hole. It was an offense that they simply could not abide. As Kiril gave a bow from atop his barstool to scattered applause, certain members of the crowd were beginning to plan the quickest way to drive the dwarves out of the establishment…


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## YayGollum (May 9, 2006)

Inside and once seated, Boffin checked the money that his family had lent him. He ignored the others while he tried to wrap his brain around the figures for estimating how much he'd need for the entire trip but gave up and decided that he would splurge, tonight, when he smelled a bit of food. Boffin had forgotten all about his earlier distaste for the place after occupying himself with his supper. 

After learning everyone's names and being able to talk to them easily, he felt that he had been accepted by this group well enough and was able to loosen up and enjoy Kiril's song. Suffering from tone deafness, he knew better than to ruin it by attempting to join in, so he only tapped his mace on the floor to the tune and clapped loudly. When it was over, Boffin, usually very clueless about how to pick up general vibes, only noticed the humans who seemed to be having fun, too. 

Caught up in the moment, he lurched out of his seat to attempt to capture the audience with an epic and elvish tale that he thought they would appreciate. Once upright and catching the faces of a few humans who weren't such large fans of what they saw as an invasion, he shrank back a bit but decided to continue forward and act as if he only got up to obtain another drink. 

He frowned as he scanned the crowd and observed several other unhappy faces. At their tables, he positioned himself as well as he could behind them and out of sight of the humans. Whispered to nobody in particular and just so that he could get it off of his chest ---> "Er, I don't think they liked that song. Oughtn't we quiet down and leave them alone?"

Outside, a short, stocky, hodge-podge armour clad, and especially hairy man tethered his horse. A raven perched on his shoulder, pecked at his helmet, and squawked at him. "What? You don't like this place? Can't you hear the singing? They're all having a good time! Sounds like there might even be a Dwarf in there. A battle isn't going to break out in a bar! Who's ever heard of that happening?"

The door slammed open as the guy stomped his way up to the bar. The dented shield he was dragging behind him dropped with a clang when he found a stool. His raven flew to the rafters where it squawked at him irritably. Only after he was settled in with a mug of mead did he turn to give much thought to the bar's other denizens. The animosity coming from one side was easily detectable, even to one as self-centered as this guy. He blinked with surprise and frowned with concern when he noticed that it was being directed at a large group of Dwarves. 

Turning back to the bartender, he loudly proclaimed ---> "The mead's alright. So, how's this place doing? I see a lot of troop movement, these days. Looks like you've hired yourselves some Dwarves, too! Nice move, I've gotta say! You won't find anyone more reliable! Or stubborn, in a fight. Phew! You wouldn't believe how long they can go." The raven squawked skeptically while the guy only grinned.


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## Uminya (May 12, 2006)

Zûbrim grinned broadly at Kiril and his comrades sang their ridiculous song, slapping his hand on his thigh in time with the music. When they finished, he laughed heartily and clapped his hands together, but shot a quick glance around the room to note the somber behavior of some of the humans. He scooted his seat closer to Dvarim and leaned towards the hardened warrior, speaking in their native language, "I think it would be a good idea to keep one or two people on guard through the night." He paused and grinned suddenly, "I thought your friend, the noble Froli, would appreciate a bit of action right off the bat; not to mention I'd like to see Master Boffin have a chance to find his stones. There's nothing better than a bunch of drunken, human rats to keep you on your toes, mm?"

He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head, relaxing in his chair. He seemed to consider for a moment, then spoke aloud in the common tongue, "I think, good associates, that I will see the innkeeper about our room, and then I will head out for a breath of fresh air." He sat up with a jerk and then slipped off of his chair, hitting the plank-floor with a soft thud. Tipping his floppy huntsman's cap to the others, he stumped to the innkeep's desk and ensured that their room was ready. Assured that all was well and waiting, he nodded gruffly and pushed his way out through the door and into the street.

The sun had long ago disappeared, and the stars were blazing brightly in the northern skies, unrestrained in their radiance despite the presence of dim, flickering streetlamps. The air coming from the downs to the north was crisp and clean, and Zûbrim's beard fluttered lightly as the breeze moved about him. He put his thumbs in his belt and closed his eyes, letting the sounds and smells of the human city come slowly to his hunter's senses. The soft din of the tavern behind him, the sound of hooves clopping down the cobbled street, the sound of a dog howling in the distance, a door closing. Here there was no musty reek of decay and apathy as there was in Annuminas, but there was great tension. Perhaps moreso, because here there was vibrance and vitality, not the tired regret of a city forlorn.

He opened his eyes again and looked about in the dim illumination of the stars above and a waxing gibbous. He heaved a sigh and turned to step back into the tavern, but hesitated for just a moment as he cast a glance back over his shoulder.


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## chrysophalax (May 12, 2006)

He would never have said that The Broken Barstool was among his favourite haunts if he was looking for a good time, but for information, it didn't get any better. 

When Fingil had entered the rundown watering hole, he had been in a very black mood indeed. All was not well among his kindred and try though he might to avoid becoming engulfed by the coming political maelstrom, it was looking like there would soon be no way to remain neutral. At least, not if Amlaith had anything to say about it. That was one of the reasons he had sought refuge at the bottom of a pint, rather, seven going on eight pints and he was beginning to feel charitable at last.

He had actually laughed, what passed for a laugh with him, anyway. A low, rumbling chuckle that sounded more like a minor earthquake than humour and he had drawn an odd look from a passing customer. "You'd better have that chest looked at, mister." He returned the remark with a glare sufficient to give a orc pause and the man hastily went on his way. Why couldn't people just leave him alone?

Irritation with the world in general threatened to ruin his alcohol-induced serenity, when his eyes settled back on dwarves and he began to ponder. _I wonder what brings a party of Durin's folk out of their deep caverns? I never recall seeing more than a pair of them together at one time. hmm, and they seem well kitted out too, especially the self-important looking one trying to enjoy himself. Heh, not used to being among commoners, is he?_ This unusual development would bear keeping an eye on, if for no other reason than as a diversion to more pressing matters elsewhere. Matters he didn't want to face.

During his ruminations, another oddity presented itself in the form of a ragtag-looking man who's armour had seen far better days...or maybe not. Fingil kept a weather-eye on the man's feathered companion, a raven with a sarcastic tongue who had flown to the rafters just above where he was sitting. He didn't want any unwanted "presents" from on high. As he swallowed the last of his last round, one of the dwarves went outside, while the others continued with their carousing. All in all, the night was turning out to be more interesting than most, so he ordered another pint and settled back, watching.


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## Ghorim (May 14, 2006)

Malkin had heaved a sigh as Kiril scaled his barstool, seemingly without reason. The young dwarf could already sense what was to come. He glanced out upon the dour crowd with a fair degree of pity.

_They've no idea what they're in for..._

Kiril had never been much good at gauging a situation and reacting accordingly. He barged through life head-on, without much regard for what he was crashing through. From his first days in Ered Luin's famed Second Division, Malkin had noted that reckless power in Kiril. Having a painter for a mother had taught him the powers of observation. Malkin's eyes were always digging deeper into their surroundings, looking to unearth new insight from that which seemed inscrutable. 

And what did he see in the Broken Barstool that evening? Men looking to drink away their sorrows, feeling lost in the furor of the black days that were now descending upon their lands. Some yearned for distraction from their nagging anxiety, while others wanted only to bask in their own misery. It was a tense situation to begin with, and now Kiril was about to crash straight into it, ever heedless to the consequences of his actions.

Yet, when Kiril began his song, Malkin was quick to jump in. Certainly, they were drawing the ire of half of the room - including their commander. But why keep one's life at arm's length? Though the hour was dark, they yet had the strength to draw breath and sing away the shadows. Besides, Kiril and Halak needed a more refined voice to compliment their rough-hewn deliveries. Perhaps by keeping his comrades somewhat in tune, Malkin could render "Beardless Baun" more tolerable for the mannish patrons. 

But looking out upon the crowd after the tune concluded, Malkin plainly saw that they had twisted the knife in the wounds of some of the more despondent men. Kiril, of course, was oblivious.

"Another!" he cried, as if it were reasonable to request an encore from himself. 

Malkin's eyes shot across the room to Dvarim, who was delivering a glare that could melt iron. The young dwarf quickly turned to Halak, whom he trusted to have a solid grip on the present situation. Only Halak could reason with Kiril when his friend reached this perfect state of drunken abandon.

Halak took the silent message from Malkin loud and clear, and glanced up at Kiril.

"All right, brother, the fun's been had. Time to stand down."

"Hmm?" Kiril looked down upon Halak from his wobbly perch. "Ahh... but that was only a warm-up! There are many more songs to sing!"

Halak sighed and shook his head. "Come now, Kiril. Both you and I know that you aren't this tipsy off two drinks. And all the drinking songs in the world aren't going to make up for the fact that you're stone sober. Now don't upset the natives any further, eh? Take your seat."

Kiril, somewhat flustered by the accuracy of Halak's candor, grimaced and muttered something about sticks in the mud before reluctantly settling back down upon his seat. 

Malkin chuckled softly at Kiril's surrender, before the clang of metal striking the floor and an explosion of feathers captured his attention. A stout, heavily armed form was now settling in upon the stool to his left. Examining the fellow from the corner of his eye, Malkin was unsure what to make of this newcomer, who appeared to be little more than a sloppy assemblage of armor. For an instant, Malkin even wondered if he might be kin, but soon cast that notion aside. As the young dwarf glanced up to the rafters to note the rather vocal bird that seemed to accompany the stranger, the metal man himself spoke. 

"The mead's alright. So, how's this place doing? I see a lot of troop movement, these days. Looks like you've hired yourselves some Dwarves, too! Nice move, I've gotta say! You won't find anyone more reliable! Or stubborn, in a fight. Phew! You wouldn't believe how long they can go." 

Malkin felt compelled to reply. "We fight only as long as it takes to get the job done, good sir. We don't like leaving tasks uncompleted. And though I thank you for the compliments, I should also point out that my kin and I are not employed at this establishment. We’re no more than travelers on our way through Fornost to visit relatives out East."

Halak and Kiril, their curiosity piqued, glanced over at their young comrade and listened in to his conversation, ready to interject any remarks if necessary. Brian, standing nearby, also looked on in rapt attention.


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## Ghorim (May 14, 2006)

Dvarim had to sit and watch it all. With each increasingly raucous repetition of the song’s theme, the commander’s intimidating glower deepened. He could scarcely believe the severe lack of professionalism that Kiril had displayed from the outset of this march. Here it was once again, reaching a new peak with the jolly soldier’s less than tuneful rendition of “Beardless Baun.” By the time the tune concluded, Dvarim was sitting hunched over the table, wondering how this character ever made it into the prestigious Second Division.

Thuri, once had finished his hearty applause for Kiril’s showmanship, noted Dvarim’s discontent.

“Not fond of that song?” he asked.

Dvarim shook his head. “The tune is harmless enough. Its singer, however, chose a poor time to unleash it upon the room. We shall have to tread carefully for the rest of the night.”

Thuri was about to reassure his commander that he ought not to be too concerned, when Zûbrim leaned in to speak with Dvarim. The party’s second-in-command respectfully gave the two their space. He did not hear the words of their exchange, noting only that Dvarim nodded with a wry smile in response to the guide’s words.

Once his business with the commander was concluded, Zûbrim addressed the entire table.

"I think, good associates, that I will see the innkeeper about our room, and then I will head out for a breath of fresh air."

Up to this point, Froli had begun to believe that he could successfully fit in with the rabble of the inn. It wasn't so hard, after all. Just drink up, paste on a fool's grin, and stomp your feet in time to the music. None of this foolishness required any thought. With Zûbrim's announcement, however, the noble startled from his smug impression of a mindless commoner.

"Half a moment... our _room_? We've only secured _one_?"

Zûbrim didn't seem to hear Froli's question as he stood to take his leave of the party. 

"Zûbrim!"

But no, he was gone. The noble's fat face flushed red. Such restraint this uppity layman was forcing him to display! Grumpily, Froli turned to those who remained at the table.

"How are we to fit the ten of us into one room?"

Dvarim was in no mood to pretend that he could tolerate Froli's whining, while Owin and Boffin both seemed at a loss for words. Therefore, it fell upon Thuri to placate the blueblood.

"Most inns keep rooms on reserve for especially large parties such as ours. We'll manage, worry not. Besides, ten in a room is a positive luxury next to the barracks back home."

"Well, excuse me if I'm accustomed to finer accommodations," said Froli sourly. He seemed to stew on the matter for a moment, before pulling out his bulging purse from beneath the folds of his robes. "I shall make arrangements for a room of my own, then! That should simplify matters for all involved."

Dvarim sat up sharply. "You'll do no such thing," he snapped, in a sudden flare of annoyance.

Froli, who was very much afraid of igniting the old soldier's flame, seemed to instantly relent upon this heated retort, but still managed a meager protestation. "Why not?"

"As you've already noted," said Dvarim, more calmly now, "this is not the finest establishment that Fornost has to offer. I wish to keep the entire party in one place so that my troops and I can assure the safety of you others - and your property, as well."

Froli's gaze instinctively shot down to his purse, and his grip tightened upon it. Noting this reaction, Thuri couldn't resist chiming in.

"I concur, sir. And on that matter... you, Sir Froli, ought to be more careful about whipping out that purse of yours. No doubt this inn is a favored destination of many of the region's most dastardly thieves."

This remark proved to be too much for the excitable aristocrat. Affluent paranoia set fire to his senses, and suddenly his eyes were bouncing all about the main room in search of money-hungry criminals. No words could adequately express the horror that Froli experienced when his gaze halted upon a man who was staring directly back at him. The noble failed miserably in concealing his shock, fumblingly stuffing his purse away, which of course only drew more attention to the item and its valuable contents.

Pulling his robes tightly about his figure, Froli's body trembled profusely as he leaned in toward Thuri, whose curious gaze was distracted by the peculiar armored fellow at the bar.

"Eh... Sir Thuri," spoke the noble in a faltering whisper. "You were correct! I... I do suspect that a man in this room has made designs on my purse! I saw him, just now, glaring straight at me."

Thuri's eyes narrowed, yet did not waver from the scene at the bar. He silently cursed himself for lending wings to Froli's overactive imagination.

"Describe him for me," he whispered back, deciding to at least humor the noble. "But don't look back at him."

Naturally, Froli failed to follow even these simple instructions as he hurriedly glanced back at the solitary fellow before launching into his description.

"Eh... well... he's sitting off to himself at a table... with a... a... _terrible_ expression on his face. He's wearing some simple garb... colored brown and green, I believe."

"What shade of green?" asked Thuri in a deadly serious monotone, though he was expending a great deal of effort in containing his inner laughter.

"What... shade? Er... well, I suppose it has something of a... _mossy_ hue. No, wait... it's a bit darker than that. Eh... maybe it's more akin to..."

"Is he bearded?" Thuri cut in.

"Aye... he has one of those pathetic little beards that Men sometimes see fit to grow on their chins."

Thuri nodded slowly, keeping his gaze locked dead ahead. "I believe I know who you're talking about. I wouldn't worry about that one. I've seen shadier sorts. He's probably just amused by those robes of yours."

"What?" hissed Froli incredulously. "What's so... _amusing_ about them?"

"Well," replied Thuri evenly, "purple colored robes don't appear to be all that fashionable in this region."

Sensing that the soldier wasn't taking this matter seriously enough, Froli uneasily shifted in his chair as he tried to devise a course of action. Froli's every line of thought led to suggest that he should retire to the party's room immediately. But a deeply rooted dread fastened him to his seat. Even the voyage to the stairs on the far side of the room was a path fraught with peril. He could ask for an escort, but he certainly didn't want to seem like a craven coward in front of these soldiers, especially his father's old friend Dvarim. The noble figured that he would be safe as long as he stuck close to the main party. 

Contented with this strategy, Froli strove to suppress any lingering anxiety and enjoy the rest of the night as best he could. So long as he didn't look in the direction of that strange loner, he'd be fine...


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## YayGollum (May 15, 2006)

Boffin scurried over to listen as Zubrim spoke to Dvarim, but, since he had never actually mastered the language that was used, couldn't fully understand what the guy said. He wondered if Zubrim had pointed out another one of his flaws, since he heard his name mentioned. His general announcement cooled his doubts a bit, though. 

He hadn't been especially surprised or annoyed when Froli started to complain. Boffin stepped up with the intent to ask if he could share the second room that Froli suggested but shrank back at Dvarim's quick refusal of the notion. The conversation turned to questioning the quality of their fellow customers, which lost his interest. Always naive and only considering entire races at a time, he assumed that these Dwarves were merely speaking of all humans as good-for-nothings. 

When it seemed as if Froli had become unocuppied, Boffin dragged a chair next to him and sat heavily. He hadn't had much of a chance to get to know this Dwarf, who he always thought was the most like his family, the ones he was trying to impress. "Ah, these humans aren't so bad! You know, I've travelled with several, and most of them are actually quite civilized. Of course, they haven't had the benefit of our society's particulars, but they don't do too bad, considering. Uh, and that skinny Zubrim didn't exactly choose the wealthiest area of town!"

Meanwhile, the armoured human turned from the bartender with a bit of surprise and nodded respectfully at Malkin. "Oh, I didn't mean to assume. I figured that, with all of the troop movement, this city had thought to hire a few good Dwarves, too. You wouldn't happen to know what that's all about, by the way? I generally try to keep my nose out of fights that don't concern me or mine. Wouldn't want to get caught up in something big, while I'm around." 

As he spoke, though, he looked around to size the other Dwarves up a bit more closely, this time. He greeted any who happened to be looking his way with a couple of more nods, then gave Malkin a comradely grin and continued much more quietly. "I actually lived in the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills, a while back. Heh. Humans out here just aren't as used to drinking with Dwarves, I guess. So you say that you're heading east? How far? Because I'm headed that way, myself. Also to visit relatives. Looks like you've got a pretty decent group, though."


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## chrysophalax (May 16, 2006)

Having noticed several of the dwarves looking his way and talking animatedly, Fingil got it into his head that he was being talked about. Fingil was a very straight forward person and greatly disliked being talked _about_ rather than _to_. He therefore decided to give them something worth talking about. "Hey! You! The dwarf with no voice! Give us another and see if you can hit more than one note at a time on key!" All eyes were firmly fixed on him now and Fingil grinned crookedly. "Go on! Warg got your tongue, eh? Maybe this will help loosen it!" He then ordered another round for Kiril and told the landlord to keep them coming. The fact was, Fingil was secretly hoping that this evening's unusual entertainment would provide the remedy for his doldrums. If not, there was always the ale.

The landlord was quick to take Fingil up on his rare generosity. Soon a full tankard stood before the gregarious dwarf and his mouth fairly watered at the sight. Fingil watched as the dwarf appeared to hesitate and wondered why he didn't instantly down the foaming ale. With his voice, he was going to need a lot more than the two he had already drunk! Elsewhere in the room, several people started crowding closer, waiting to see how the dwarf would respond to Fingil's challenge. Not many here present knew the Ranger, but those would did have a nodding acquaintance with him thought he was behaving oddly. He was not a man to draw attention to himself, therefore, as with anything new a tiny, rundown bolt-hole such as this, the regulars elbowed each other and prepared themselves for a treat.


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## Ghorim (May 18, 2006)

Froli's lessons had always come in the dining room. There he was pinned under the gazes of his forebears, each of them accounted a marble bust along the opposite walls. They were of the finest make, and thus intimidatingly life-life. Their silent reproach hovered over every meal. In the afternoons, those stony eyes reinforced the iron rules of etiquette that the young noble's father drilled into him. 

Posture was essential. Slackening the spine for but an instant showed weakness. But staying erect, even in the heat of a legislative debate, sent a resounding message of power, and of conviction. And so, with a soldierly zest, Froli's father worked him over every day after lunch. Sit! Stand! Walk! From beneath thick, graying brows he observed each flawed motion, making his critiques in solemn tones that echoed heavily off the walls. It often sounded as if Mahal Himself was issuing the commands.

It got so that Froli's back would instinctively stiffen whenever he entered that room, even now, when he ventured in to gaze upon the newest bust that guarded over the table. There he was, immaculately preserved in eternal stone: the broad, swooping nose, those brambly eyebrows, the lips, tightly locked, and the wise, probing eyes. His father, the Ered Luin's great orator and councilor, now lived on in replica... in his son as well as in rock. Every movement that Froli made was merely a dulled reflection of his father's mannerisms. 

As the noble sat in the Broken Barstool, vainly attempting to shake off his jitters and demonstrate that he was still of superior blood, Froli mimicked one of his father's favorite postures. He leaned back in his seat, fastening his hands to the arms of the chair, and puffed out his cheeks. 

"It emanates wisdom," his father had said. "It makes you look bigger than you are... much like an owl."

Froli had never seen an owl. He looked rather silly in that posture. 

Boffin sat beside the noble. Froli glanced over from his ridiculous owl pose, feeling a slight twinge of empathy for the fellow who was now settling in to his right. Both of them were clearly not built for long, menial journeys such as this one. They were fellows intended for greater things, to think the great thoughts and draw up the great plans while lesser dwarves sullied their hands. 

"Ah, these humans aren't so bad!" said Boffin. "You know, I've traveled with several, and most of them are actually quite civilized. Of course, they haven't had the benefit of our society's particulars, but they don't do too bad, considering. Uh, and that skinny Zubrim didn't exactly choose the wealthiest area of town!"

"Hmmph!" snorted Froli, the folds of flesh around his neck vibrating robustly with the expression. "Indeed, I've little doubt that some of the more blessed of the Atani have achieved a state of cultivation to rival our own. But none of those fine folk are to be found in this despicable region of the city!"

Froli shook his head in annoyance, watching the insufferably arrogant guide as he strolled out into the streets.

"Bah! That Zubrim! He wishes to test our resolve by leading us into this... this... ach!... glorified pile of excrement! But we shall not give him the satisfaction of watching us lose composure, shall we, Boffin?"

Froli chuckled to himself mirthlessly, settling back once again into his chair.

---

Malkin casually leaned one elbow upon the bar as the armored fellow spoke. He let the stranger's tongue wag as long as he pleased, making no attempt to interject a response. Only when silence fell between them did the dwarf speak up.

"A fine company, indeed... well, save for these two louts," he said with a nod over to Kiril and Halak. Malkin was not a natural at their unrefined brand of humor, but he was versatile enough to adjust to it. His comrades groaned their approval at his remark. "We've taken the same view of the movement of the armies. Personally, I find the thunder of all those boots to be a most troubling forecast for the future of these lands. But the affairs of Men are their own, and in any event, ten Khazad can do little to impede the race toward war once it has begun."

"Now, as for our destination..."

"Don't give away the whole itinerary!" cut in Kiril quickly. "Now just who are you, metal head? A friend of our folk, it seems, but certainly not kin. From whence do you hail? And is that featherbrain perched up in the rafters your pet?"

"More importantly, is it properly trained to roost indoors without making a mess?" wondered Halak aloud. 

The stranger seemed prepared to answer these potent queries, but a sudden shout from one of the nearby tables snared the attention of all those at the bar, as well as the establishment at large.

"Hey! You! The dwarf with no voice! Give us another and see if you can hit more than one note at a time on key!"


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## YayGollum (May 19, 2006)

Boffin listened to Froli with much respect and interest but threw a couple of downward and ashamed glances when he heard the guy's quick judgments. He checked the window with a bit of alarm, though, to see if Zubrim were watching them for signs of a lack of composure. He turned back to Froli with confusion on his face when he saw that Zubrim was apparently only out there to take a stroll. The confusion was knocked away by his approximation of Froli's own owl face. "Oh, well, no, we won't...shan't! Hm. Are you sure that he would plan something like that? We would all enjoy a finer inn, I am sure. I just figured that, since he is our guide, he would know how many inns we will be visiting along the way. Going to the cheapest ones is only polite. These soldiers don't have the resources, most likely, and we wouldn't want to have to support this many for a long journey. Um, that's what I think. But, you know, Khazad-Dum isn't far, in comparison to our goal. I am looking forward to it!" 

His eyes brightened behind his owl face, hoping to cheer the guy up. When he heard the dour human's challenge, he instinctively backed into his chair a bit and darted his eyes to the soldiers. Coming forward would be the bravest thing to do, but he would only embarrass them all with his untrained voice. Deciding that stepping up would only make his appearance falter, he clung to his earlier idea of acting like Froli and rolled his eyes at the annoyance, then added a long sort of suffering sigh.

The stocky human smirked good-naturedly at Malkin's comment on his louder companions and listened intently to the rest that he had to say. He glared when the guy was interrupted, but is was only a thoughtless reaction until he thought that his friend was being insulted, which was when he switched to an annoyed look that showed how accustomed he was to those sorts of comments. The raven squawked indignantly at the Dwarves, then called on his mount to defend him. 

Before the guy could attempt, he was distracted by some random human's challenge. He missed where it came from, since he was more interested in the free drinks that the Dwarves were getting. He nodded with appreciation at the new mug intended for Kiril, then leaned back and raised his eyebrows at the guy with expectance. Not the most cultured guy around, he hadn't been to very many formal Dwarven performances, but the few that he had been dragged to had given him a grudging admiration. Sure, these guys didn't look like the most cultured Dwarves ever, either, but you could never tell what was under the armour, he decided. He also decided that it had nothing to do with him and tossed a quick, "Oh, lighten up!" at the raven in Animalic before settling in to see what would happen.


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## Ghorim (May 19, 2006)

This was not the first time. 

The first time had come before Fingil was born, before Fingil's father was born, back when Kiril was still finding his way through a maze of drunken nights and hazy mornings. He squatted with the toothless and the penniless in the long shadows of the city, one of the youngest of their forgotten number. 

Back then he still clutched his mug with two hands.

The first time had occurred at the Red Anvil Tavern. Now there was a _true _drinking hole. The Broken Barstool only aspired to achieve that establishment's immaculate sense of squalor. Kiril, a filthy youth with dirt in his beard and beneath his fingernails, blended in just fine. He had sat at the bar that night, enjoying his drink in silence.

And then the braggart came. He was a talker. Every head turned to him when he entered the bar. Gazes locked upon his stout form, and others respected his presence, for no other reason than he possessed a thunderous voice and a lightning tongue. Kiril watched this terrible storm approach his seat, but quickly averted his eyes. He had not looked away quickly enough.

"Well well! So the little bastard wants to sit with the big lads, eh?"

Kiril's eyes trembled as they stared pitifully upon themselves in the dirt-encrusted mirror behind the bar. In the glass, he saw the older dwarf standing right beside him, gazing upon his hunched form with a wicked curve of a smirk. The loudmouth glanced into the mirror now, and there his malicious gaze was reflected into Kiril's. 

"This is my seat, runt. Budge!"

Stares assaulted the young Kiril from every direction. He hunkered down. Even then, he was too stubborn...

The kick came to his stool, sharp and unexpected. The seat went spilling, and Kiril with it. He felt that terrible jolt of adrenaline as his sensation of balance vanished. The floor, bearing thousands of overlapping stains, came rushing up to meet him, and upon Kiril's impact there was a resounding gale of laughter sounding all about his sprawling form. 

The young dwarf coughed repeatedly as he struggled to his knees. He looked up to see the cocksure mirth upon the braggart's face as he held the drink that Kiril had scrounged and saved for.

"Thank ye kindly for the gift. And lest I forget... your mother was a real treat last night! You've yet another half-brother on the way, methinks!" And to that insult, which prompted lusty guffawing from the small crowd, the braggart drank. 

Kiril's meekness died a bloody death in that moment. Misfortune had to that point kept a tight lid on his youthful fire, but upon those honorless words that inner flame sprung forth, wild and unchecked at last. Likewise, Kiril leapt up from his knelt position, taking up the stool that lay on its side beside him. The braggart's head was cocked well back as he downed the ale. He didn't see the strike coming. No, he had not expected a single action of reprisal. Young Kiril splintered the wooden stool across the knees of the slanderer, sending him off his feet. The amber liquid spilled from the mug in a golden downpour, adding a fresh stain to the collage upon the floorboards. 

Kiril was upon his downed foe instantly, and unleashed a flurry of blows upon the braggart's hideous face, first with only the right fist, but then adding his left to the assault as the other hand grew sore. The nose caved in; blood gushed forth in terrible eruptions. 

Kiril wept. Kiril laughed.

---

So what did Kiril do now, once again hemmed in by onlookers at a ramshackle drinking spot? He had a whole collection of facial disfigurements to prove that he was older, and perhaps a tad wiser from experience. But no number of life's lessons could fully tame this dwarf's rage, which still dwelt slumbering in him at all times. He hopped down from his seat, his gaze running cold on this ranger who had suddenly appeared from the mists to insult him. 

Kiril was fully prepared to behave rashly. But a hand and sharp words moved to rein him in. They came from Malkin.

"'Our lives are not ours to keep, but our honor we only relinquish by choice,'" said the young dwarf in Khuzdul, each syllable uttered with vibrant urgency. 

It was an old dwarvish proverb. Kiril had heard it before. He never considered the meaning that lay behind those words until that moment. His planned advance toward the man halted, as did his intended sharp words of retort.

"Go on! Warg got your tongue, eh? Maybe this will help loosen it!" 

And then a temptation of another sort came before Kiril, in the form of a keg swollen with ale placed before him upon the bar. So it was that Kiril's two greatest desires, to destroy and to consume, were both present in that moment of decision. 

Kiril glanced in the direction of his party's table, in the forlorn hope that old Dvarim had marched off to bed early, owing to fatigue. Of course, this was not so. His commander had in fact elbowed his way to the front of the growing crowd, and was glaring straight at Kiril, silently reminding him of his orders for the evening.

With a scowl, Kiril turned back to face the ranger. But quickly, the dour expression dissolved and reformed as an impish grin. 

"Another tune, you say?" Kiril asked innocently. "Well! I don't need so much as another sip of ale to think up a song that ought to keep you all entertained."

"Go on, sing it then!" declared the ranger, and this sentiment was echoed by several others in the crowd.

Kiril turned over his shoulder to gaze at Halak, who had also left his stool to take up a supportive stance behind his friend.

"All I need's a rhythm," said Kiril.

"Done," said Halak, and set to stomping his right foot and clapping his hands alternatively. It was a simple enough pattern, and after a few repetitions Kiril leapt atop it, singing in a melody strikingly similar to that of 'Beardless Baun,' though its phrasing and rhyme scheme were different:

"With a child's beard,
And an axe to grind,
He's loud in mouth, 
But weak in mind!
O, that charmless man!"

"He's first to shout,
But last to act,
He thinks he's tough,
But in fact,
He's just a harmless man!"

"A charmless man!
Ruder than rude!
A harmless man!
Hollow as wood!
A charmless man!
Don't close your eyes!
A harmless man!
Here's your surprise!"

And with that final, emphatic lyric, Kiril suddenly reached up to the bar top and grabbed the keg, hoisting it well over his head and taking a menacing step toward the ranger. The building itself seemed to gasp in shock at this violent motion. The ranger steeled himself for a frontal assault. Halak and Malkin leapt to restrain their comrade. Had anyone been looking at Dvarim in that moment, they would have thought that his old heart had failed him.

But Kiril let up just as it appeared he was about to hurl the keg at the man. He glanced over the crowd with a wild grin, and it was suddenly clear to all that the dwarf was ecstatically pleased with all the alarm he had caused them.

"What?" Kiril asked, his breath a bit ragged from all the effort. "You didn't honestly think I was going to waste all of this good ale on him, did you?"

Some nervous laughter floated out of the crowd. The ranger appeared stalled between confusion and outrage. 

"No!" grunted Kiril as he set the keg back down on the bar. "Not _entirely_ charmless, this one. This is a fine gift for a stranger, though you've got the rudest sort of generosity that I've ever seen!"

This remark seemed to mollify the man's temperament, albeit only slightly. 

"I'd be glad to down the whole thing myself, but as it is, I'm under strict orders not to guzzle another brew for the rest of the evening." Here Kiril gave a nod to his commander Dvarim, who still appeared uncharacteristically pale and shaken by his subordinate's theatrics. "And we Khazad aren't the insubordinate types! I'll follow my orders, although it pains me."

"Still! I don't think the order applies to the civilian members of our party. Perhaps you'd like to split your keg with them, eh? They may not look it, but they're quite a lively bunch. Why, little Brian here alone could probably drink you under the table!" Kiril slapped the shoulder of the dwarvish lad, who positively shriveled when the ranger's gaze fell upon him. 

"But now... what of you, fuzzface?" Kiril took a few steps toward the man once again. "I've had my chance. Now is yours. Have _you_ any songs to give us? Go ahead! Sing what you will! I've thick skin, rest assured."

The crowd, which had begun to disperse in disappointment upon seeing that no climactic brawl between the two foes was in the offing, seemed to perk up once again upon this counter challenge. The tables were now turned... how would the ranger react?


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## chrysophalax (May 21, 2006)

A squawk from above drew Fingil's attention as he watched the dwarf's irritation and discomfort grow. The bright, beady were watching every thing with an intelligence that was almost frightening. However, it's main focus seemed to be fixed on the mugs of ale and the cask which had been brought up for the dwarf. "Seems your raven wants a drink, good sir!" he called as he got up from his seat and went to the far end of the bar. He poured out a measure of the thickly foaming stuff into a bowl that would normally hols some of the occasionally edible stew that was served here, then called up to the bird. "Master raven! I know you can understand me. This one's on me."

Fingil had always had a fondness for animals, preferring their company to that of humans. They were loyal and dependable, not treacherous or cruel as he had found most to be, even his family...

Dark thoughts threatened to engulf him again and he shook his head, forcing himself back to the present and to a challenge! He then did something that his few friends knew to be a warning sign. He smiled. "A battle of wits with you? Seems a shame really, since your weapon appears to be rusty from ill-use." A dry chuckle came from a few in the room. The other dwarves merely watched, some scowling, while others seemed to be making wagers under the table, which gave Fingil a sudden flash of inspiration.

"Shall we have a wager, then? If you win and if your commander will have me, I will gladly lend you my guidance and my sword to your service. Should I be the victor, all I ask is a few moments of your time to ask a favour." The dwarf looked to his leader, who shrugged and he stuck out his calloused hand. "Done, now get on with it!" Fingil tried not to grimace as his fingers were nearly crushed in the dwarf's grip. "I'll be needing that hand again, no-legs!" he said as he stepped out into the room, trying to put together a song. Impromptu songs had never been his strength and he had always avoided such contests when he and other rangers had been drinking round the fire of an evening. He much preferred watching others make fools of themselves. _Now who's the fool?_ he asked himself as he cleared his throat. A couple of men in the corner began to beat their empty tankards in a rhythm on their table and now there was no going back.

"His voice as clear as crystal,
His chest, a carven shelf.
What here just before me,
Must surely be an Elf!

Or do my eyes deceive me?
Help me, those who can!
What I took to be of Elven-kind
Could never be a man.

Such beauty cannot hide itself.
Nay, it must be displayed!
Ai, lads! Of course! This lovely
Is but a Dwarven-maid!"

Fingil finished with a bow and a flourish, then stood with his arms folded to see what transpired.


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## YayGollum (May 21, 2006)

The raven uttered a small squawk of surprise then ordered his translator to watch out for Fingil, who didn't seem to miss much, but also to thank him for his gesture. The drink was almost immediately downed by the short guy, who knew that birds shouldn't be drinking such things. After wiping his mouth and shrugging at the taste, he nodded and looked at Fingil with grudging appreciation. He had met very few who cared to contemplate that some animals could be smarter than they appear. Was this human just another depressed and friendly drunk, or was he smarter than he appeared, too? 

Can't be that great, the guy thought, shaking his head at the earlier parts of the song. Once the punch line was delivered, though, a brief but loud explosion of laughter was released. This guy hated elves and only saw it as a joke on them. "Ha! The raven Shadowflaps thanks you, for the drink. Truor Tupnm thanks you for the laugh. Don't be surprised if you're beaten, though. He's got better beats to back him up." He extended an arm in gratitude as he ignored the bird, who was complaining about his missing drink, which he had planned on at least taking a sip of, just to be polite.


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## Ghorim (May 21, 2006)

Kiril absorbed the man's words with his arms folded across his chest, his thoughts veiled by a detached, smirking expression. In truth, he did not hear a single word of the ranger's tune, for his mind was already racing to assemble the words for what he intended to be a crushing counterblow. He wasn't the type to humor an adversary for longer than was necessary by reserving his sharpest barbs for later rounds. The dwarf chuckled quietly as a few especially nasty couplets came to his mind. 

Fingil finished his verse with some remark or other about Kiril being a female, and completed a crisp bow to the hearty cheers of much of the tavern. Kiril glanced about the room at the applauding masses. He shook his head a bit, and bellowed to silence them.

"Ahhh! You poor folks! So in want of entertainment that this pretender here strikes you as amusing!"

The dwarf gave Fingil a grin that appeared both good-natured and competitive. He felt compelled to respect the man for not backing down from his challenge. Yet at the same time, he could not allow such feelings to temper his acidic verse.

"Yet I'm sure that pitiful little rhyme of yours was a great strain for you to compose! You could use a drink to replenish your strength, I'd say!" 

Kiril grabbed a mug from the bar and filled it up from the keg, and with a smooth flick of the wrist sent the drinking vessel sliding down the bar top toward the ranger. The gesture was not so much an act of generosity or even an insult as it was a stalling tactic to help Kiril put the finishing touches on the rhymes that were beginning to interlock within his head. The black-bearded dwarf set to pacing now in agitated excitement, though his eyes never left Fingil. He resembled a warg sizing up its prey.

Meanwhile, Malkin and Halak had receded into the ring of onlookers that surrounded their comrade and the ranger. They took Brian along, though the youth wanted to be as close to the action as possible. Listening carefully to Fingil's song, both felt that it received more support from the audience than it deserved. 

Halak chuckled. "Just wait 'til they hear what Kiril delivers!" He glanced over to Malkin, who was scowling heavily. "What's that face for? You ought to know better than to worry for our friend in this contest."

Malkin shook his head. "I only wonder as to why our commander took this ranger up on his wager without hearing its full terms. What favor does he seek from us? And what determines the victor? If it is the audience's support, then Kiril faces quite the daunting task. I'd say at least half this room would not cheer for him no matter how cleverly he made his phrasings."

"You ought to know enough the have more faith in the power of Kiril's mouth! He'll either win these onlookers over or wear his opponent into submission. We won't have to worry about this ranger's favor, but rather how to cope with his presence in our party."

Malkin remained unconvinced.

In the back of the room, the rest of the party could barely see through the crush of bodies from their table to view the two singers, but they clearly heard each of the first two songs. Thuri and Owin had struck up a friendly wager as to the eventual outcome. The old soldier naturally stuck by his comrade in good faith, while his civilian counterpart liked the ranger's odds better. After Fingil concluded, Thuri gave Owin an inquisitive look.

"Still standing by the long-legger?"

"Naturally," said Owin promptly in response, though his confidence seemed less solid than before. 

Thuri shook his head in mock shame. "A traitor to your own kind!"

Owin merely shrugged. "I've a feeling in my beard, and I trust the sage wisdom of my whiskers in all things."

Froli, meanwhile, had been thoroughly alarmed to see the suspicious looking man spring up from his chair with a shout, but was quite relieved to see him target Kiril instead of his own person. As the contest began, he nonchalantly dismissed it as a frivolous exercise that debased the finer qualities of music. 

"They've both terribly limited ranges, vocally, I mean," he spoke to Boffin, whom he now viewed as his only sympathetic ear in the party. "I've never much cared for the cacophony that wafts out of taverns every night, but apparently there are some who regard it as genuine song!"

He chortled huskily. "Evidently they've never witnessed a _true_ display of vocal talent." With that remark he smugly rubbed his knuckles upon his chest, an indication that perhaps he thought himself capable of greater vocal feats.

But that hardly mattered to Boffin, as he noticed Kiril was just beginning to launch into his third song of the evening. 

The soldier had halted from his pacing in the center of the open space allotted to him and Fingil. He placed his left hand upon his chest and extended his right one as far as it would go. He cleared his throat rather obnoxiously, and began the tune in a highly formal, exceedingly drawn out fashion. He let each phrase hang in the air just long enough for the audience to fully absorb it before moving on to the next line:

"When doling out tasks...
They chose his kind last...
With the fate of the beasts...
Their lot had been cast...
To tend to the trees...
The grubs and the bees...
The rangers... of... the... land!"

He stretched the final line of the introduction as long as it would go, and made a great theatrical pause to build the crowd's anticipation. Finally, Kiril began the main portion of the song with his now-familiar call of, "Ohhhh..." before stomping his feet in a steady, marching cadence and singing out in a ringing, jovial tone:

"Take this one, fer instance!
He lives his life in dirt!
'Twould be quite nice,
To give advice:
A bath could never hurt!"

"O but all the critters,
They treat him like a king!
Salute this lout,
With hoof and snout,
They warble and they sing!"

"And of course he repays them!
He waxes all their hides,
He cleans their dung,
With loyal tongue,
And sleeps with them besides!"

"I see he's made a new friend,
Up in the rafters high!
He'd rather talk,
In grunts and squawks,
Than speak like you and I!"

"So if you've any pity left,
Please give him all you can!
He thinks himself,
Fit for an Elf,
But he's _still_ a charmless man!"

Kiril concluded the number with a seismic clap and a mighty, "HA!" 

Removing his helmet, he mocked Fingil's bow with one of his own, bending so low that his beard scraped the floorboards. As he rose, he found his kinsmen all alight with applause and laughter. Halak had very nearly doubled over to the floor, but summoned enough strength to walk up behind Kiril and smack his back in congratulations.

Among the Men, Kiril also won a great deal of support. Since none of the others assembled were rangers, they could laugh at the dwarf's insults without the burden of thinking themselves targeted by his song. Still, a sizable contingent of the crowd withheld any showing of mirth for Kiril's effort. This development did not go unnoticed by him. 

Kiril replaced his helmet upon his balding head as he gazed upon the ranger. The dwarf felt that Fingil would either fold here or considerably up his effort to compete. Regardless, as Kiril noted the man's amused expression, the dwarf began to think that he wouldn't so much mind having this fellow along, if their party was indeed forced to take a mannish traveler aboard...


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## chrysophalax (May 21, 2006)

"Truor Tupnm, eh? Impressive, as is your talent, my friend. I had only thought that Elves and the men of the wood east of the mountains understood animals. In any case, here's my hand and another drink...ah, and landlord...something, uh, suitable for the raven as well." Fingil had seen the irritated glint in the bird's eye when his companion had downed "his" drink and didn't want him to feel left out. The ranger was rather surprised at the welcome his song (if so it could be called) had received. Never one to back down from a fight, he realised however that in this case, he was facing a master.

As Kiril delivered his next vocal assault, he found himself grudgingly admiring the dwarf's mental agility and knew then without a doubt, he was in very deep waters. He cudgeled his brain for witticisms, but rhyme and metre were proving to be more elusive than a will-o-the-wisp on the Downs. If this dwarf was any representative of his race, then it was no wonder Truor had praised them earlier, for if their fighting skills matched their quips, then forminable they must be. He had to win...or at least, force a draw. It was time to go on the offensive, in more ways than one. He felt his lips curving into a grin.

With a nod to Truor and a wink to several others in the crowd, Fingil tossed back another ale, just to loosen his tongue a bit more. He listened politely and as Kiril's song concluded with a ear-splitting "HA!" he applauded along with the rest. "Master dwarf, I salute your gallant effort, yet I beg your indulgence once again. Never let it be said that a Ranger ever backed down whilst he could draw breath." With that, he jumped up on a chair and began to sing once more.

Now Kiril here, he's quite the master. 
His rhyming, it couldn't be faster!
Though his beard is quite grizzled,
And his pants, he has pizzled,
Truth is, he's a walking disaster!

He loves his ale by the flagon,
and his ego's the size of a Dragon.
On his whiskers he'll choke 
And in one final stroke,
He'll be carted back home in a wagon.

And then of course, there's his height.
The lack of which must be a fright.
In a fight he's no good
Tripping over his hood
Whilst the others make fun of his plight.

But this dwarf has a dark, brooding past
And a secret that he hoped would last.
He's a flower-picking dandy
With shears he's so handy!
As a hero, I'm afraid he's miscast.

He let out his breath with a whoosh and got down off the chair. He was sweating hard and he hoped his nerves weren't showing. He had done his rhyming on the fly and had decided to cut his losses before his knees started shaking. He looked around for someone to hand him a drink and hoped to whoever listened to such hopes that he would be able to spare the listeners further torment and himself further embarrassment.


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## YayGollum (May 22, 2006)

Although Boffin had been concentrating on acting like a good Dwarf, at least in what he thought that Froli's opinion might be, Kiril's song interested him. Mainly because he hadn't noticed that anyone in the place was a Ranger until then, and he had heard several good things about them from some old elf friends of his. He winced as the song ended and hoped that the Ranger would be good enough to back down. He had gotten the gist of what Froli had been saying, though, and raised hopeful eyebrows at the guy. "Oh, has your voice been trained for singing? Heh. Wouldn't it be amusing if you showed them all up? True, they might not be capable of appreciating any song you might choose, though." He couldn't help chuckling at the idea of Froli trying to show off and getting jeered out of the room, but he kept up the hope that Froli might still try something.

Truor quickly shook Fingil's arm and settled back on his stool to grab his mead and try to stay neutral. He wanted to introduce himself better, but thought that leaving the combatants room was wiser. The Dwarf was obviously better at this than the Ranger, but, as a confused bartender delivered a bowl of dirty water for the raven, the human was certainly winning his friend over. Truor was enjoying the posturing of the Dwarf and was a bit confused at the Ranger's lack of it, though. 

When Malkin moved away, he got distracted and had to look around before he found him again. He frowned to himself and tried to remember what it was that the guy had been talking to him about. He quickly forgot about that, though, as he listened with a contented smile at the performances. They reminded him of the epic contests they used to have after a hard day's work in the Iron Hills. He was feeling more and more as if he wished for the company of Dwarves again. As soon as this battle is over, he decided, he'd try to track Malkin down again. 

As he noted earlier, Kiril's songs had much better beats. They were also far more insulting, which was more of the point. After much clapping, he shook his head sorrowfully at Fingil. When the human's song was finished, Truor could almost taste his relief and inexperience. He looked around at the humans closest to them, to see if any would step up to help the guy first. When nobody did, he stood and grudgingly handed him his mead. "Hey, at least you've shown the stubbornness of a Dwarf. I gotta say that you're outmatched, in this fight, but that wouldn't hold him back, I'm sure!"

After ineffectually squawking at Truor to defend him against Kiril, Shadowflaps eventually gave up and attempted to drink from his bowl in peace, as several humans jostled in the area. After taking a drink and neatly flapping to Truor's shoulder, he pecked at the guy's helmet and squawked his thanks at Fingil in as dignified a way as a raven could.


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## Ghorim (May 22, 2006)

"Master dwarf, I salute your gallant effort, yet I beg your indulgence once again. Never let it be said that a Ranger ever backed down whilst he could draw breath."

"Not throwing yourself upon your own blade, eh? Admirable, indeed!" crowed Kiril as he watched the ranger climb atop a nearby chair.

The dwarf listened this time, though he did everything in his power to keep an apathetic mask in place. The ranger's insults aimed to cut deeper this time, but in the delivery Fingil stumbled, tripped up by his own nerves. The dwarf could sense that his opponent was out of his element, and noted each minute hiccup with a great satisfaction. 

The ranger had indeed run up against a true professional. It was no coincidence that Kiril had chosen this format for his contest with Fingil. During periods of relative quiet in the barracks, Kiril, Halak and some other like-minded comrades often engaged in contests of wit and banter to pass the time. They would sit in their own little corner, their shouts and laughter occasionally drawing the annoyed glances of their graver comrades. Kiril was the group's undisputed champion, for he was well-versed in the subtle art of putting another fellow down. The insult was the currency of the bars back home, and from his formative years he had immersed himself in the tavern scene, honing his quips just as dutifully as he molded his body with martial discipline. Before he grew into his stocky frame, Kiril's wit was his best defense against hecklers. 

In short, Kiril was hardly representative of his kind in this arena, as he possessed an exceptional talent and a bevy of experience in the field. The dull, repetitive life of a soldier rarely bred his caliber of wit. It required a mind raised outside of the military culture. Dvarim, whose heart had always beat to the unchanging rhythm of marching drums, would have been hopelessly lost in a contest that required such creativity.

Fingil concluded his verse, and even his most partial supporters seemed less enthused this time around. A call came to the ranger from his armored friend, who had now identified himself as the tongue-twisting Truor Tupnm.

"Hey, at least you've shown the stubbornness of a Dwarf. I gotta say that you're outmatched, in this fight, but that wouldn't hold him back, I'm sure!"

Truor's words proved to be spot on. Kiril sensed the perspiring ranger was ripe for a finishing blow, and made no efforts to stall for this round. He roared into his tune without a preamble, and took a few steps toward Fingil with each stanza, until he was right upon the ranger:

"Is that sweat upon your brow?
I think that awful queer, just now,
You said my drawers had got all wet,
So why’s it _you_ who’s so upset?
Maybe it’s high time that you get,
Yourself out of this show!"

"You’ve had a crowd, to my dismay,
That hoots at anything you say,
But how can they honestly cheer,
A fellow too possessed by fear,
To sing more boldly than a deer,
Time to call it a day!"

"My head is closer to the floor?
I’ve nae heard _that_ insult before!
So clever, singing of my height,
And you’ve put up a decent fight,
But now it’s time to say good night,
And strain our ears no more!"

"The winner of this fight’s foregone,
There’s no more point in carrying on,
I’ll let you now rest and recoup,
To drink some ale and sup some soup,
For you are now part of our group,
We march tomorrow at dawn!"

Upon this final line, Kiril extended his hand toward the ranger with a broad smile, essentially offering an end to hostilities if Fingil acknowledged that he had lost his bet with old Dvarim and the match to Kiril.

Back at the dwarves' table, Thuri had seen enough to conclude his own wager. "Pay up," he said to Owin, extending an open palm to accept his winnings.


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## chrysophalax (May 22, 2006)

Surprise, outrage and relief chased themselves across Fingil's face as Kiril concluded his song. He glared long and hard at the outstretched hand before him and at the rather feral gleam in the dwarf's eye. Oddly, a part of him felt somehow honoured that he had passed some sort of test, thereby earning a tentative place with this band of Durin's folk. HIs pride still stinging from the lash of defeat, he grasped the dwarf's hand and gripped it hard, letting Kiril know there was fight left in him yet.

"Well played, Blackbeard. Aye, I know when I am beaten, but never mistake victory for conquest. I assure you I can be no mean foe, but I am a better friend." With that, he clapped the dwarf on the back and brought what was left of the keg to the long table where the rest of Kiril's party sat grinning like wolves in a sheepyard. They pounded his back and began a raucous chorus of "O, that charmless man" as several of them collected bets, much to Fingil's chagrin. Right now what concerned him most was how to approach the dour dwarven leader about events soon to unfold. How could he join with them when civil war was threatening to break on his own doorstep?

Chewing his lip in thought, he glanced over to where Truor sat downing his mead. _This man seems to know dwarves. It's possible he can help me decide how to go about this. Having made up his mind, Fingil sat himself down next to a fat, youngish-looking dwarf, then looked over, tried to catch Truor's eye, but caught the vigilant raven's eye instead. He pulled off a chunk of fresh bread from a still-warm loaf and held it up, hoping to attract either bird or master. In his heart the ranger knew already that he would probably go with these dwarves, at least for a time, but he couldn't leave without at least trying to let others know of the situation, since his own warnings had fallen on his nephew's deaf ears. At least his conscience would be clear._


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## YayGollum (May 23, 2006)

The fat and youngish Dwarf was Boffin, who was a bit disappointed that the contest was already over and his chance to see what Froli could do was gone. He tossed a ---> "Oh, well. Maybe next time, eh, Froli? But it looks like we have another travelling companion! Hm. A Ranger will be very helpful, even though we already have Zubrim." More quietly and to himself, while leaning back to gauge the human from up close ---> "I wonder if he knows any elves in the area!"

Truor grabbed his freshest mug of mead and tried to talk himself into a method by which he could join the group, too. Sure, he had been interested in the lands west of the Anduin, but he had been wandering for at least a couple of years, already. If these Dwarves planned on travelling through the Vale of Anduin at some point, though, it would be nice to have them along on a short visit home. They were probably headed to Moria, at least, which he had never seen. But then again, they were moving at dawn, and he loved to sleep in.

Shadowflaps pecked at his helmet again and ordered him to move closer to the group, so that he could reach the bread without having to leave his perch. Truor glared with good humor, then brushed the bird off. He turned on his stool to talk to Fingil, though, as the raven awkwardly reoriented itself and found a place on the Ranger's left shoulder to accept his gift. "I guess I'm so new to the area that I've never heard of Rangers. They have more than an average understanding of their animals, then? Heh. It's been a while since Shadowflaps has been treated so well!"


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## Ghorim (May 25, 2006)

Why else would have Kiril offered a handshake were he not angling to test the ranger's resolve? That's all handshakes were good for, after all. They illuminated the character of strangers and revealed the mood of old acquaintances. Were it not for the firm impression that Fingil made on his gloved hand, Kiril might have doubted the sincerity of the ranger's sullen words. But the sturdy grip did what mere speech could not. 

"Well played, Blackbeard. Aye, I know when I am beaten, but never mistake victory for conquest. I assure you I can be no mean foe, but I am a better friend."

"So you've got some sense in you, after all!" chuckled Kiril. The torches that lit the tavern cast into sharp relief all the crevices and valleys etched upon the dwarf's face. His countenance was as rugged and worn as the mountains he called home, but now it was arranged into an expression of boundless amusement. 

"I shall keep your words well in mind," he continued. "I can only guess that you wield your blade with more precision than your tongue! Otherwise you'd have no reason to sound so confident."

Still the dwarf basked in his fierce sense of triumph, but at the same time he knew that the ranger would be eager to show him up at the first opportunity. For this dwarf, the prospect of a brewing rivalry was just another thing to grin about. Kiril was certainly not commander material by any stretch of the imagination. Yet he was remarkably effective at motivating others to achieve beyond their abilities, mostly by fostering in them a healthy resentment for his own person. 

"But come! Join the rest of your new companions at the table in the back. We've no more business here at the bar tonight. I'll introduce you to all the others! No doubt all the bearded faces blend together in your mind, but I'll straighten you out!" Kiril set to marching back to the table, but stop abruptly and spun about. "And don't forget the keg!"

The other dwarves at the bar followed Kiril to the back of the main room, and soon the entire traveling party had crowded together in a tight huddle, save for Zubrim, who evidently had found the air outdoors much more to his liking. Dvarim, his face all stone and iron, hung back from the clump slightly and observed the ranger with a skeptical eye. He knew too little of the fellow to welcome him in with open arms as Kiril seemed to do without further questioning. Aye, he had agreed to the ranger's wager, but only for the lack of another viable resolution to what could have easily become a violent tiff. 

Kiril commenced his introductions without delay. None at the table emerged unscathed as he named each of them to Fingil. 

He described Froli as "the most elegant whiner this side of the Misties. The stirring way in which he complains about his aching feet and empty belly... it never fails to bring a tear to my eye."

Boffin, meanwhile, was the party's "secret weapon in combat. Aye, when we're locked in a pitched battle with a five-course meal with a side of ale, there's none I'd rather have on my side than this fellow here!"

Thuri possessed "a memory that runs as long and as deep as the Anduin. Just don't ask him to dip into it! He'll wear your ears down to nothing!"

"Is that so?" replied Thuri coolly. "Now that sounds like the orc calling the troll ugly."

Kiril paused and cleared his throat, and it was apparent that the old soldier had struck a fine parry to his comrade's insult. Without attempting a retort, Kiril turned to his commander, the only one left whom he had yet to introduce.

"And that's our commander, Dvarim, standing behind you."

Fingil turned in his chair. He offered a formal introduction of himself, which was a wise decision, since up to this point not even Kiril had known the ranger's name. The party had simply thought of him as "that charmless man." Dvarim hardly acknowledged Fingil's address.

"You've your own supplies?" he asked coldly.

The ranger nodded with a sharp bob of his chin.

"Good. I expect you to provide for yourself for the duration of your stay with our party. We did not pack for eleven. I do accept your presence within our ranks, but only if you hold your own. Dead weight's no use to us, for we've already enough of it."

Dvarim glanced at no member of the party in particular as he spoke, but those at the table had a fair idea of who the commander was referring to. 

"We are headed far to the East of the land to meet with some estranged kin. Our guide, Zubrim, is out on a constitutional at the moment, but when he returns I would like you to consult with him on our intended path. Perhaps in that realm you could be of some use."

Dvarim's inflections revealed nothing of his feelings toward the ranger, but he seemed quite stern, with each sentence gilded in steel and delivered like a sharp palm to the chest. The commander was about to ask the ranger of his background and experience, and what he knew of the immediate area. The outspoken figure of Truor, however, emerged from the bar with his raven in tow to complement the manners of Fingil. Dvarim respectfully receded, and allowed the two to converse, though his taskmaster's gaze held intensely upon the pair.

The other dwarves seemed to split off into their own talks, no longer held silent under the authoritative heft of Dvarim's words. Mainly they spoke of these two strangers, Fingil and Truor, glancing at them curiously from the corners of their eyes. The opinion seemed universal - though both seemed pleasant enough on the surface, the dwarves had yet to discern the true characters of these men. Few of the travelers could feel at ease until they knew whence these fellows came, and just where their interests lay...


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## chrysophalax (May 25, 2006)

A sharp peck from the raven's beak drew a muffled oath from Fingil's lips. He glanced sharply at Shadowflaps, who was gazing sharply back at him as though to tell him to pay attention to Truor. "Indeed, Truor. Many of my brethren that dwell in the North care for all living things. We men are not the only intelligent creations of the Valar by any means!" He grinned at the raven as Truor came and settled near him.

Kiril meanwhile had been rapidly introducing his companions to Fingil, complete with acidic comments. He nodded briefly as each name was mentioned and was about to speak when their leader, Dvarim, broke in. He curtly assessed Fingil's state of readiness, then made himself scarce before the ranger could even have a word with him. It was becoming more and more apparent to him that the dwarven race was not to be taken lightly. One wrong step and he felt sure he'd be on his way home in several intricately carved boxes.

He had overheard the comment made by Boffin and so took a moment to answer him. "Aye, good sir. I am known to Cirdan, who dwells still in the Havens to the West and I have a passing acquaintance with several of the border guards of Lord Elrond's realm, though I have never journeyed there. Mysterious folk are Elves and far too cold for my taste. I normally prefer my own company or the company of a few select comrades." He turned then to Truor, who sat sipping his mead quietly. "Tell me your story, friend. You say you are a traveller. From whence do you hail? I can honestly say I've never encountered anyone clad quite so..." he looked the man over curiously, "... haphazardly. Surely there must be a story or two in that!" He then leaned a little closer to Truor, keeping his voice low. "And you say you know about dwarves. Are they as handy in battle as they look?" The fact that Dvarim had eluded him so swiftly was cause for concern and he began to wonder if he had bitten off more than he could chew.


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## YayGollum (May 25, 2006)

Boffin beamed at what he took as a strange sort of compliment from Kiril, but when he figured it out, he flinched and switched to rolled eyes and an amused smirk. Instead of feeling sorry for himself when Dvarim mentioned dead weight, though, he took a deep breath while reminding himself that he'd find a way to demonstrate his usefulness, at some point. Maybe not in combat, which he hoped to avoid, but if they had to deal with elves? Or maybe if the eastern clans were so different that only he, the only open-minded one of the group, in his opinion, could relate to them? But that would be too unlikely, he decided. 

His eyes glittered with hope and interest when Fingil responded, but when he found that the guy wasn't a large fan of elves, too, he closed his eyes in despair. Even a Ranger, of a kind of human that several elves had spoken well of, found his passion disagreeable? All of the new drinks getting passed around interested him, though. Getting happy and drunk would be a good way to get by, until he could prove himself, he thought. He obtained a portion of ale and tracked Dvarim, wishing that he could prove himself to someone that famous.

Truor, not the type to believe every superstition and myth that he heard, made no effort to hide his scoff at Fingil's remark about Valar. He hadn't heard Boffin's quiet hope, which made his eyebrow rise at talk of elves, but once the idea of telling stories was in his head, he forgot all about his misgivings. Halted from launching into a tall tale by Fingil's private question, Truor frowned and tried to lower his voice, too, a task that he was very unused to. He eventually gave up and started giving a speech. 

"Hm? Well, yes! What, you don't get many Dwarves out here? Too bad. I've never fought in a fully pitched battle with any, unless you count the occassional bar fight, which they sometimes would. Don't count them out just because of their size! They've got several times the strength and spirit of many men I've fought! The stubbornness of a Dwarf, that's what I admire! Sure, people call them dull, for never giving up, but what'd you rather have by your side? The, well, I guess, purity of a Dwarf's actions or the cowardice, the deceptiveness, the, um, indecisiveness of anybody else? Huh? Hey, I'll admit that I've got all of those qualities together. I've even seen a Dwarf or two with the same. But, yeah, Dwarves are good in a fight. So's anybody who's got the experience. All I'm saying is that they've got my kind of outlook."


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## chrysophalax (May 26, 2006)

"If Kiril's actions are anything to go on for stubbornness, then I fully agree with you. And I would never use the word "dull" to describe these folk, either." He took a long swallow from his tankard and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I would not want to find myself at the wrong end of any dwarf's axe, is my thinking. " Fingil found that he and Truor had become the subject of much speculation among their erstwhile companions. Several of the dwarves kept darting speculative glances at the two men and he found that being the cause of so much scrutiny was a bit unnerving.

"Save my seat if you would, Truor. I feel the need to stretch these long legs of mine." Truor shrugged non-committally as Fingil slipped from his chair and vanished up the staircase to the rooms above. He had felt a sudden urge to check on his possessions, since he very rarely spent the night anywhere but out in the open. Not that he had much really, only a large, weather-beaten rucksack, which held a few personal items, a kit for field dressing and a change of clothing. 

His sword he had left standing next to the head of the bed. When he opened the door to his hired room, he saw with relief that nothing had apparently been disturbed. This inn could be dodgy at the best of times, but he himself had never suffered loss at the hands of either patron or staff here, since his own rather shady appearance normally provided all the protection he needed. Fingil crossed to the bed feeling abnormally skittish, guilty almost. The ranger sat and forced himself to admit that coming up to his room had only been a ruse, a means of confronting his own doubts, away from the others. Here he was, about to abandon his nephew and his cause and for what? To act as guide to a party of dwarves wo were bound for regions unknown? What reason did he have for shirking his responsibilities? His head was starting to ache now from both ale and stress. _I'm bound to fulfill my wager, but can I convince these strangers of the danger that will most certainly erupt throughtout these lands within a very few days, weeks at most? And what happens if I can't?_ 

Shoving his thoughts aside, Fingil took a deep breath and threw some cold water on his face. _Maybe a good meal a few more pints will make me see everything in a better light come morning. If not, at least I probably won't be able to remember all my problems!_ With that he, descended the stairs and resumed his place at the table, after hungrily ordering food and making sure that more ale would be flowing.


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## Ghorim (May 27, 2006)

Truor and Fingil did themselves no small favor by complimenting the battle prowess of the Khazad. The soldiers banged their fists on the table in assent to each compliment cast their way. One might have expected a member of the party's military escort to add a few words of agreement, especially Kiril. But the group's most outspoken member seemed to have run out of energy and saliva from all of his verbal acrobatics, and leaned back heavily in his chair. Surprisingly, it was the noble Froli who chimed in to bolster the claims made by Truor.

"Indubitably, my good sir! I've made the rounds back in the mountains of our home and examined many a military unit as they conducted exercises. Granted, I've never seen a mannish regiment at work, save for the few that have hurried by our path on this journey, but I think our race's infantry to be exceptional for a variety of reasons."

"Part of it is the conditioning. Our immortal Lord Mahal, with discerning eyes and loving hands, fashioned us to withstand the most extreme rigors of this world, and that immaculate design shows in the tireless ethic of these fellows. It allows them to march for leagues without tiring, and in battle they are relentless, decimating the enemy's line with what can only be called an insatiable hunger that goes beyond the mere fulfillment of duty." 

"But perhaps more important to our army's success is the inherent trust that each soldier has for the other. Men covet each other's kingdoms, and will without a thought raze a kinsman's house to the ground if his king commands it. Elves, too, have kinslaying and faction engrained in their history. But though the children of the Seven Fathers have scattered throughout the lands in search of fortune, we all retain within our hearts a certain link. I believe it to be the mark of our shared creator, impressed upon each of our spirits. Certainly, we still quarrel. But these disputes are strictly diplomatic. Civil war, for us, is unthinkable, and the slaying of kin more reprehensible than any other offense."

"Watch a regiment at work and you see that collective mindset. Every foot soldier is prepared to sacrifice for his fellows without a thought. They move in agitated excitement, but with a purpose, shared and unspoken. 'Tis a truly magnificent vision to behold. I believe our army is built to foster this sort of unity, as well. Soldiers rarely transfer out of their units, and the lifespan of our kin ensures that they will spend a good many years forging an unbreakable sense of loyalty to their comrades. Why, take our two elder army representatives, for instance! Sir Thuri, how long have you and Sir Dvarim served in the same regiment?"

Thuri, who was once again packing his beloved pipe, had paused at Froli's sprawling speech, and responded to his query as a thoughtful expression lightened his graying features.

"Well, we don't serve together any longer. I enlisted a few years after he did, and... hmm! It was quite awhile before Dvarim graduated up to the First Division. I'd say... well... over one hundred summers passed as we trained and fought together."

Froli nodded with an enthusiastic smile. "One hundred! That's longer than a Man's lifetime!" He turned to face the opposite end of the table. "And what of you and Sir Kiril, Sir Halak?"

"A little over half of that," said Halak with a nod. "I've had the pleasure of enduring Kiril's antics for a good sixty years or more."

"Ah! So you see," said Froli, turning back to the two men, "our troops have many, many years to develop a true sense of brotherhood with one another. I'm of the belief that the average soldier in our army is of comparable prowess to his mannish counterpart. But two dwarvish soldiers are as good as four Men in combat. Three Khazad might as well be eight Men, and so on. The reason for this disparity is the exceptional camaraderie that our troops display, which can only come from decades of experience and the benefit of a fierce loyalty to their race."

The five soldiers listened to Froli's explanations with an amused attentiveness. Certainly, none of them doubted that he had a self-serving agenda for all of these glowing descriptions. He wanted to butter them up so they would stop using his bloated figure for verbal target practice. And yet beneath those words lay a heated passion that none of the troops could deny. For all his elitist detachment, Froli seemed to have a genuine affinity for the army and its members. Of course, he had painted an overly rosy picture of relations among the forces, his perspective blurred by the loftiness of his perch. But none of the soldiers felt the need to adjust his more ignorant perceptions. On the whole, Froli had spoken accurately, and that was good enough for them. 

Fingil took leave of the company after Froli had fallen silent, and the conversation for a time turned to the basic matters of the journey. The soldiers were curious as to whether they could expect more nights further down the road with only the sky as their roof. As used as they were to sharing cramped quarters with their comrades, the group seemed unanimous in its desire to have some more individual space when it came time to bed down. Certainly, none of them minded sleeping on the ground, though they all expected some complaints from the civilian contingent on that point. For his part, Dvarim remained noncommittal, stressing that it was up to Fingil and even moreso Zubrim on where to direct their party. His mention of the bluebeard sparked a round of speculation as to where the guide had ventured off to.

"He's probably spending the night in the best establishment in town and leaving us here in this hole," said Halak.

"His old hunter instincts probably have him scouting for game in the city streets," said Malkin.

"Whorehouse," said Kiril confidently, offering a devious smirk.

When Fingil returned, Dvarim seized the opportunity to uncover the past of this fellow who now shared the responsibility for this journey's course. The old commander had noted that Truor had ducked Fingil's questions as to his own experiences, but the dwarf was far more interested in this ranger's background. Upon the unwitting man's head he unleashed a ferocious volley of questions.

"So then, Fingil... I believe we're all curious as to your qualifications. Whence hail you? How many years have you honed your craft, and who has aided you in that development? What degree of experience have you with the lands east of here, especially beyond the Misty Mountains? Just how far in that direction have your travels taken you? What can we expect there?"

Implicit in all these queries was the basic question of, "Why should we trust you with our fate?" 

The ever-perceptive Malkin had a few questions of his own with regards to Fornost in particular, and what Fingil might know about the stirrings among the area's armed forces that had him and Truor so confused and concerned. But the young soldier figured that his questions coupled with Dvarim's would be too much for the ranger to answer in one breath. So Malkin patiently allowed the beleaguered fellow to weather his commander's interrogation, reserving his own inquiries for later...


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## chrysophalax (May 27, 2006)

A barrage of questions greeted the ranger once he had settled himself at the table. A large tankard appeared before him, which he thirstily downed before answering. "I hope that wench is quick with the food! I can see that speaking with dwarves is going to require some sustenance." In truth though, Fingil was beginning to feel an unwonted sense of camaraderie with this group of soldiers, which puzzled him, since he had always been very much the loner. He looked down along the length of the table and his gaze was greeted directly by direct, assessing stares. _You'd think I was back studying histories with Earandur._ he thought as he recalled the elven tutor the two young men had had growing up. He'd never imagined he'd ever see quite so penetrating a stare as that again. He was wrong.

"My qualifications. Ah...well, I am first and foremost, a swordsman, thoughly I am no mean hand with daggers, in essence, I grew up man and boy, with a blade in my hand. Though I can claim only forty years on Arda thus far, my venerable friends, I am descended from a long-lived house of men and am...was...brother to our king, Earandur. We are Numenorians, remnants of the Elf-friends. Many of us live still, on rare occasion, close to two hundred years, which I know is little to you, but very long for men. We are called rangers by other folk that dwell in these lands and we guard and protect our realm jealously. 

My comrades and I patrol all the borders, from the Tower Hills at the base of Ered Luin, to the southernmost tip of the Greyflood in the south. Westward, I have travelled to the feet of the Misty Mountains, just below where, it is said, dwells Lord Elrond and north to the Ettenmoors. With all these lands, I am well acquainted and can guide you through them, even on the darkest night. I have no knowledge, except by messenger of the lands beyond, though I would be eager to explore them." A large trencher, filled with a fragrant, meat-laden stew was placed before him and he tucked in, heedless of his audience for a few breathless moments. When he finally came up for air, he saw several amused grins on the faces nearest him. "Likes his grub well by the look! Boffin, you may have a rival here soon!" said Kiril heartily. "Don't mind us, long-legs. We'll wait."

Fingil bowed his head to Kiril in mock-salute and rapidly finished his meal. It had been nearly three days since he'd last eaten a solid meal and he was grateful for this one. At last, he shoved back his chair with a belch. "Ahhhh, excellent! Now, anymore questions...because I have a few myself." He wasn't about to let this opportunity escape again, not with Froli's words echoing insistently his head. _Civil war, for us, is unthinkable..._


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## Ghorim (May 28, 2006)

Fingil's replies produced more than a few points of interest for the listeners at the table. For each of those gathered, however, those pertinent points took on a different form. Kiril heard only the ranger's age and sniggered.

"Forty? Ain't it past your bedtime, junior?"

Halak's attention caught on the ranger's lineage. He removed his helmet, unveiling a lively mane of dark brown hair.

"Brother to the king!" he exclaimed with no small degree of surprise. "Well, to be at a table with royalty is quite the honor. Though... from the sound of it, your brother is no more. My condolences."

The dwarf spoke these last two words out of more than mere reflex. He did not throw them away, but rather uttered them with a pointed sincerity, as his dark eyes held rock steady upon Fingil's. Halak felt the ranger's loss reverberated through the memories of his own brother's demise. The soldier's thoughts drifted to those empty pegs by the door in his mother's decaying house. The luster departed from Kiril's grin as his glance floated Halak's way. He discreetly offered his friend a brief pat on the shoulder. 

Froli also dwelt upon Fingil's bloodline, and suddenly felt ashamed for having ever suspected the man to be a petty thief. Still, the ranger certainly hadn't behaved in a manner becoming of a fellow of his stature! Why, he must have committed at least a dozen breaches of proper etiquette in his singing match with Kiril. And what shoddy table manners, besides! These... Numenorians must have diminished expectations for their leaders, Froli thought to himself. All the same, he felt a great deal more comfortable with Fingil guiding the way than he had been before this revelation.

Dvarim, meanwhile, arched a brow at Fingil's royal claim. 

_And what is the brother of a deceased king doing out here on his own?_ 

True, the rangers were lone wargs by trade, but it still did not make much sense to the old soldier. Shouldn't a member of the royal family be engaged in more important pursuits than verbally jousting with strangers in taverns? It seemed that the Numenorian line of succession must have passed by Fingil. Perhaps he had another older brother? But no, if that were the case, the ranger would have maintained that he was _still _brother to the king. So perhaps there was a son of Earandur... a nephew to Fingil... 

Dvarim was about to ask for some clarification on this matter in no gentle terms, but his subordinate Malkin seemed to have a more pressing query of his own, and pounced upon a brief lull in the conversation to ask it.

"So you're better versed in the lay of this general region, it seems," said the young dwarf, lightly jabbing his index finger upon the table. "Perhaps you could tell us more of its current state, then. A great apprehension continues to tug upon my thoughts as I watch regiment after regiment of mannish troops sweep past our party along the roads. They move in tight formation, and their faces are fevered... they are engaged in something greater than simple drills. Among the civilians as well, something seems to oppress their every motion, as if a hidden hand has taken a deadly grip upon their spirits." 

"I know that I am not the only one in this party who has taken notice of these rumblings. And Truor asked me of this very matter when we were stationed at the bar. I could offer him no information, but perhaps you, Fingil, could either settle our fears or at least verify them. What plagues these lands, and how will it affect our progress East?"

All eyes once again trained upon the ranger after Malkin concluded. Fingil, unfortunately, was not escaping this grilling without having to face the matter that had racked his own thoughts for so long...


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## chrysophalax (May 28, 2006)

With no little trepidation, Fingil leaned forward conspiratorially. Instinctively, the others drew nearer, even Truor. "This is the way of it." said Fingil. "Months it has been since my older brother died and...I thank you for your kind thought...Halak, is it? It was a hard thing to lose him, but an even harder thing has been watching his younger sons trying to wrest the kingdom away from it's rightful heir, Amlaith, as he wishes to style himself. He has no desire to continue on in the old ways and so does not intend to take an Elven name when..._if_ he assumes the throne." His hands became fists for a moment and he closed his eyes as though recalling something painful.

"Earendur's sons have all attempted to sound me out, hoping to curry favour with me. And, yes...of course I lead many of those who remain and yes, I know to whom I will give my allegiance, but...there should _be_ no choice! The realm should go to Amlaith, whole and intact. Instead, his power-mad brothers wish to tear Arnor to bits, each wishing to rule, no matter the cost and it sickens me." Indeed, Fingil looked as though he had eaten bad meat, for he had become pale and wan, though it was more from anger than anything else. "It has been in my mind to ask for your help, though I know this is no quarrel of yours." He looked down at the remains of his meal and pushed it away, wondering how he had ever had the heart to eat it.

"I have no wish to be made a pawn, don't you see? My men are in danger as long as they can be used and I will not cost such loyal men their lives!" He looked again more deeply into what he hoped were the eyes of friends. "I know I must look to you like some wandering wastrel, but I assure you, I am merely laying low. I have no desire to declare myself openly until or unless I must. In the meantime, those under my command have gone to ground and will not re-emerge until I get word to them." He paused only a moment, then finished with a rush. 

"I ask your counsel in this...as fellow warriors. Should I stay and fight to assure the succession, or is it wise to remain aloof and let my beloved land be torn apart? In any case, I will honour my commitment to you, but it is also in my mind to join with you in order to seek out possible help from those of my kin who dwell in Gondor. Tell me, all of you...what must I do?"


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## YayGollum (May 29, 2006)

Boffin's urge to join the army, after hearing Froli's speech, was quickly extinguished by way of only the lightest contemplation. He shook his head to clear it, which was still too easy for him. Since the animosity seemed to have died down, he was not afraid to find himself a perch at the bar, to drink without getting distracted. 

When Fingil ended up asking for opinions, Boffin's eyes grew wide with confusion and amazement. After placing his mug back on the counter and speaking up ---> "Neither sounds good! Are your nephews so young that they won't listen? Oh. Right. I guess so, since things have progressed to this. I'm sorry. But what can we do to help? Uh, we're really only passing through, but that's not a good excuse. Oh... Ask the elves!" His awkward reaction ended up where he was comfortable again, with him beaming at his own end-all answer.

Truor, on the other hand, edged away when help was asked for. Thoughts---> "It's not my problem! I'm just passing through, sampling the flavors! I figured they just had an active military, not that a war'd be breaking out! Argh! This guy wants to get to Gondor, too, and that's not where they're headed. These Dwarves should know better than to get too involved, though. I'll just slip out with them, then." He didn't wish to seem cowardly in front of the Dwarves, so he weaved his surprised flinch into a sniff at Fingil's abandoned stew before addressing him. 

"Ugh. That's the best they've got? Now, look, you're asking something that a bunch of wandering warriors aren't the best to answer. I'd say that it sounds like your eldest nephew's problem. If he doesn't know that, you should knock some sense into him! Let him fight for what's his, get those brothers back in place! Froli, you tell him!" Proud that he had learned at least a couple of their names, even though Froli was especially easy to identify, Truor waved the floor into the Dwarf's possession, since he assumed that he was the group's best orator. 

He then hid his face behind his mug, which he looked worriedly into. After a good gulp, he took a second to wipe the sudden sweat of panic off of his forehead, then glared wearily at Shadowflaps. "Why didn't you know about any of this?" The bird had flown back to the rafters and had been expecting a complaint. He loudly explained that they hadn't even been there long, and there weren't even any other Crebain around to contact. He suggested forgetting about the Dwarves and evacuating as soon as possible.


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## Ghorim (May 30, 2006)

Just as the group had collectively leaned in to absorb Fingil's words in a tight, secretive circle, so their heads dispersed upon the speech's conclusion. Each member of the party seemed to weigh and measure Fingil's options in his own mind. Only Dvarim remained fastened in his posture, for his mind was already decided on the matter. But Boffin spoke first for the group.

"Neither sounds good! Are your nephews so young that they won't listen? Oh. Right. I guess so, since things have progressed to this. I'm sorry. But what can we do to help? Uh, we're really only passing through, but that's not a good excuse. Oh... ask the Elves!"

"Ask the Elves?" asked Kiril, his dark caterpillar eyebrows shooting up as he repeated Boffin's proposed solution. He glanced at the fat dwarf queerly, and for once the blackbeard was left vainly searching for the proper words to fill his mouth. 

Truor went next.

"Ugh. That's the best they've got? Now, look, you're asking something that a bunch of wandering warriors aren't the best to answer. I'd say that it sounds like your eldest nephew's problem. If he doesn't know that, you should knock some sense into him! Let him fight for what's his, get those brothers back in place! Froli, you tell him!"

The noble blinked a few times as Truor turned the hot light of the group's attention fully upon his face. As far as Froli knew, Fingil was just asking for the soldiers' opinions! What had he to say of military strategy, of the strange martial code of honor that seemed to bond all warriors throughout the realms together into one exclusive fraternity?

Froli instinctively collapsed back into his owl pose, clearing his throat with a great deal of staged effort. "Well... it's quite the conundrum that you've stumbled upon, Sir Fingil! And once again it all seems to prove my previous point about you Men and your feuds. Relatives shedding each other's blood, no less! Surely your brother must have named one of his sons as the primary successor? Would not the others abide by his wishes? Hmm... but yes, as for staying or going..."

"I see not why it ought to be an issue!" cried Dvarim, launching a surprise raid upon the conversation with his characteristic intensity. He leaned in further toward Fingil, and suddenly he was once again a drill sergeant, chewing up an incompetent private under his command. "What exactly obscures the correct choice in your eyes, ranger? Let not the word 'cowardice' leave my lips, for surely you would raise all of Mordor in protestation. Is this not the land that bore and raised you? The land you learned to wield sword to defend? What then would lead you to abandon it in its greatest hour of need? If you believe so strongly in this nephew of yours - Amlaith - then go to him! Stand by his right hand in a display of your blood loyalty! Do not lurk in the shadows in hiding!"

The commander spat upon the floor, and continued his diatribe. "Laying low, indeed! You enter into a frivolous rhyming contest with my fool of a subordinate here? How have you time for such games when the heart of your nation is being gouged out of its bosom? And what's more, you agree to accompany us on a mission completely unrelated to the crisis of these lands. What were you trying to do... escape the responsibility of your position? Why, if I were in your favored nephew's boots, I'd..."

Here Thuri could listen no longer. Among those gathered, only he could have ambushed his commander in the middle of such a rant, with Dvarim's agitated spittle flying every which direction and his eyes bulging furiously. Old Thuri's words came flowing as a mountain stream: both gentle and yet doggedly insistent in charting its course, dousing the hot coals of Dvarim's infamous temper.

"There are many strategic advantages to be had from drawing little attention to oneself... it is more a show of cunning than of cowardice. Yet I think Fingil here would be the first to admit that he violated both his aims of stealth and of seeking a proper resolution to this brewing maelstrom by facing off against Kiril as he did." Thuri, such a striking counterweight to his friend Dvarim, took the time to blow a gentle smoke ring from his pipe as he paused between words to think. The wispy circle gradually rose toward the ceiling, undulating and eventually dissolving into mist along the way. 

"The policy of our folk is not to tamper with the affairs that rest solely in the hands of Men or Elves. In short, if it has no tangible effect on us, we keep our noses out. Some call this selfish, isolationist... but it is merely practical."

The old dwarf took another contemplative puff on his pipe.

"Nae, I believe all are agreed here that we cannot directly intervene on behalf of any of the candidates for the throne, even if one is as clearly deserving of the title as you claim, Fingil. To do so would be to inject ourselves into what could turn out to be a messy conflict. Men may yet throw the lives of their own away in vain contests for power, but the Khazad have yet to stoop so low." 

Thuri ashed his pipe upon his empty plate now, his features still creased with concentration as he mused upon this matter. This time, no one attempted to charge into the silence left in his wake. There seemed an exceptional reverence for the soldier amongst his kin. Even Dvarim looked to his friend in respectful silence, though in simmering rage he contained within his clenched jaw the forge fires of the entire Ered Luin.

"I suppose that is the favor you would have asked of us had you bested Kiril?" asked Thuri, the notes of his voice light with amusement. He ran an idle finger along his broad mustache, following the route of the hairs as they curled upward along his wrinkled cheeks. "But nae, 'twas never to be. We follow the doctrine of our kin, and besides, we have a mission of our own to fulfill, and cannot afford to mire ourselves in any unnecessary affairs." 

"Perhaps you misunderstood our route, Fingil. For I disagree with Dvarim in that I believe leaving this realm might serve your purposes, if you could find allies abroad to rally behind Amlaith. But where we are headed, I doubt you shall find any such support. We plan to go dead East, through Khazad-dum, past the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills into the farthest Eastern reaches of the land. There supposedly dwells what some call the lost tribe of the Khazad. We hope to reopen commercial and diplomatic ties with this group. Gondor, which you mentioned, lies nowhere along this path."

"My opinion, and of course it is but mine alone, is that you should part ways with us and head for Gondor. Explain the circumstances of this botched succession to their king. If the right is as clearly on Amlaith's side as you say, then you should not fail to acquire some sort of assistance from the South. Then you must gauge the battlefield, which in this case covers the whole of Arnor. You care for the lives of your troops. 'Tis a praiseworthy sentiment. So, ensure that their efforts will not be diverted in futility. I will say no more of what strategy you should adopt, for I fear I've already involved myself too much in this matter by giving you such advice." 

"I understand that you are obligated by a shake of the hand to accompany us to our final destination, but I think it clear that Dvarim would prefer you fulfill your duty to this realm than your duty to his hand. We can release you from your oath in the name of the greater honor. Then you can concentrate fully on supporting Amlaith's cause. Of course, there is more than one way to win a war..."

And with this, Thuri gave a sharp gaze to his commander. His eyes were a placid lake on the surface, but Dvarim could sense something dark and powerful beneath their bluish-gray exterior. His lips locked together, though not without indignation. For a time, there was silence at the table.


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## chrysophalax (May 31, 2006)

Fingil's face grew taut and controlled as the Dwarves said their piece. He made a mental note to himself never to ask the opinion of a dwarf again unless absolutely necessary. Silently, he listened until they were done, then he once again leaned forward.

"A policy of non-interference you say? Cowardice, you say? I say you nay on both counts, sons of Durin! Never let it be said that all lore died with the breaking of the land, for many tales have I heard of the dwarves in elder days joining forces with men and yes, even elves when there was need. I have also heard tell that Thingol of Doriath was slain by dwarven hands. Is this not so? It may be different among your folk, but I count regicide as a vile and treacherous act." A harsh growling started all along the table and Fingil held up his hand.

"Nay, nay. You had your say at my expense, now I will have mine. Neither of our peoples are completely virtuous, but by the same token, neither are they completely evil. I asked for counsel and I recieved the same. I can ask no more. You now know that, for a time at least, you will be travelling through a land more unsettled that you had thought. And yes, it is true that in my desperation...desperation, _not_ cowardice, I thought to persuade you to come with me, to possibly meet with Amlaith." He ran his fingers through already tousled hair. "To be honest, none of Earendur's sons are as capable as he was. I fear for my people, no matter who takes the throne. All of his sons have forsaken the old lore and many of their father's teachings. To them, elves and dwarves, dragons and orcs are more myth than reality. I had hoped to persuade at least Amlaith otherwise."

Fingil looked each of his listeners in the eye before he continued. "There is one primary reason for keeping the realm of Arnor intact, but I am not at liberty to tell you why, not yet at least." He turned then to the venerable Thuri, who sat gazing at him solemnly. "You mention there being more than one way to end a war. Don't keep me in hope if you have none to give. Tell me your thoughts!"


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## Uminya (Jun 3, 2006)

Pausing at the door of the tavern, Zûbrim let his hand rest on the knob and he heaved a heavy sigh. His ears were as tired from straining to listen in on conversations as were his feet from creeping about the dark places of the city. He tugged at his beard and shook his head, then opened up the way and stepped in, trying to put on something more like a solemn expression rather than the appearance of faint apprehension. He spotted his companions right away (_along with some more luggage_ he figured) and moved towards them, darting his eyes around to give the humans a suspicious look before leaning in towards Dvarim.

"_I am going to sleep. We must be away long before sunrise, and as quickly and secretly as possible,_" he hissed in Khuzdul, casting another glance at the men, "_Let's hope we haven't invited all the three kingdoms along with us by morning._" While perhaps it was intended at a sleight to the two newcomers, there was something in his voice that indicated that it might be something more sinister. He nodded to each dwarf around the table (except Froli) and then turned on his heel to make way towards their lodging for the rest of the night.


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## Ghorim (Jun 4, 2006)

Thuri settled back in his chair as Fingil spoke, resting his head in his left hand, with his second and third fingers pressed against his temple. His eyes, ringed with dark lines of age, held firmly on the ranger. Their gaze seemed to bore past the speaker's face, in search of the thoughts that lay behind the words. At the mention of regicide, Thuri's brow furrowed, and his eyelids fluttered briefly, but otherwise his posture remained static. The others grumbled quite audibly, and Dvarim went so far as to slam his bare fist upon the table, his bony knuckles making a thunderclap upon the weathered wood. When Fingil concluded, Thuri leaned forward once again. His left hand fell back to the table before him, the fingers interlocking with their counterparts from the right side.

"I've heard tell," Thuri began, his voice growing darker now, the words slightly obstructed by phlegm, "that rangers can be quite elusive. You've certainly proved that rumor true, Fingil. How can I get a handle on you, I wonder? I provide reasonable advice, the best I can manage, and yet you sidestep my suggestion of consulting Gondor. Worse still, you move in for an attack! What's this of King Thingol, lad?"

Only here did Thuri allow his own frustration at the remark to fully show, as his wrinkled brow collapsed down once again into an agitated 'V.'

"I believe that in your youth and ignorance, you've failed to recognize just how darkly that king's massacre looms over our folk's history. Do not idly cast that name about, ranger! Perhaps you think that we've wronged you or your kin with our words here tonight, and aye, some at this table have. But let me say this for all to hear: the insult matches are over for this evening. We discuss these matters honorably, henceforth!"

Thuri seemed to be growing in physical stature as he delivered these sharp words. It was almost as if the table was now orienting itself toward him, and the fiery lights of Dvarim and Kiril were receding into the night. They and the others were all mere spectators now. 

The old dwarf cleared his throat of that nagging blockage and continued. "Now allow me to respond to your arguments. The occasions to which you allude, when the Khazad came to assist Men and Elves in times of duress... these events all involved an assault by forces of the Shadow, from Angmar or Mordor or elsewhere. The evil of the foe and the virtue of the allies were both plain to see, and these attributes illuminated the course of action for our leaders when the time of decision came. Poor friends we would be, indeed, if we did not lend axes and shields to the defense of the realms against the Darkness!"

"But in this particular situation, we would not be cleaving the necks of orcs or carving up the fleshy torsos of trolls, but slaying Men on behalf of other Men. You can see, Fingil, why there would be cause for us to hesitate. In fact - and perhaps you will be pleased to hear this - the slaughter of Thingol plays no small role in our reluctance to slay servants of the Light, regardless of their motives. And... aye, what of the motives at work here? Who are we to judge which warring faction is the purest of cause, and take up our weapons to assist them? For in the pursuit of personal power, no fellow's spirit - be he Dwarf, Man or Elf - can go without taint. You yourself, Fingil, have said that none of the heirs of Earendur is particularly praiseworthy. Nae, we shall not fight under the banner of any faction against another. Understand, Fingil, that this is a refusal that lies beyond the influence of negotiation."

The other soldiers nodded and grunted their assent. At this point, Dvarim withdrew from the circle, folding his arms and glowering moodily.

"Now diplomacy remains an option, as you have mentioned, Fingil. I have my doubts as to how great an impact our consultation with Amlaith could have 
upon him, though our party is in many ways designed for a diplomatic mission. You say he thinks us, the orcs and the Elves to be myth? Well, if he continues that opinion of the _rakhas_, then he's in line for a nasty awakening. And if your nephew thinks the Khazad not to exist, that we are some imagined mountain fairies or other... well, I can only conclude that he's lived his early years with his head buried between two rather thick stones!"

Thuri chuckled dryly, and some of the others joined him. The notion struck them as so absurd, that a few of the dwarves wondered if Fingil were merely inventing reasons for them to meet his nephew. Just before Thuri began speaking again, the familiar form of Zûbrim emerged from the crowd. He went straight for where Dvarim stood isolated from the others, and whispered a few words in the commander's ear before heading for the staircase at the other end of the room. Taking this all in from the outskirts of his field of vision, Thuri continued in his talk with the ranger.

"If he does not think us real, then I hardly see how our opinions would hold much relevance to him. All the same, if he dwells somewhere that roughly lies along our path - that is to say, to the East - then perhaps we could afford a brief delay and detour to help set him straight. For I agree that a stable, united Arnor is in the best interests of all the realms, including our own. I hope you'll be more forthcoming of your own reason for holding this opinion, sir ranger." 

"Understand that I was not attempting to forcefully dispel you from this party in suggesting you travel to Gondor. I merely felt that this course of action would do the most to assist your cause. Considering how volatile our surroundings are, I'm sure we would all appreciate your accompanying the party and lending your knowledge of the area, at least until we reach the Eastern borders of this land. But I should think that your personal obligations would prevent you from following us any further, aye?"

"As for winning a war... I hold no great insights that will dam the flow of Arnorian blood that regrettably seems fated to come so soon. I merely meant that in your efforts to assist Amlaith, you can either act boldly and without concealment, as some of my esteemed comrades would have you do, or continue to act with discretion, as I would advise. Beyond that, it lies in your hands, Fingil. I cannot direct your will. But at any rate... what say you to my suggestions? Does Amlaith's base indeed lie along our path? Do you truly believe that our presence in his halls will have a positive consequence of any sort? Shall you go South to Gondor, or East with us? And just what should we know about Arnor's importance to the rest of the land? Do not dance around my queries this time, if you will."

While the others awaited the ranger's latest response, Dvarim moved up beside Malkin and muttered quietly in his ear, using Khuzdul as Zûbrim had done earlier.

"I did not like the tone of our guide's voice as he spoke to me just now. He's discovered something rather upsetting, I believe. Go upstairs after him and see what he has to say about his whereabouts over the past little while. I must continue to attend to our... guests."

Malkin nodded and wordlessly stood, leaving the company and marching up the stairs in pursuit of the blue-bearded huntsman. Not knowing which room was rented to the travelling party, the young dwarf found himself trying each knob as he went. Thankfully, the first unlocked door proved to be the correct portal, and Malkin entered the dwarves' room to see Zûbrim in profile, sitting on one of the beds and staring pensively at the opposite wall. It was a fairly expansive room, by inn standards, but the beds were bunked to save space. The other furniture was sparse, with small tables between each set of beds, a chest of drawers residing beneath the window on the room's far end, and a couple of rickety looking chairs by the door. A few candles, positioned at various points in the room, lit the scene.

_More and more it seems like the barracks back home,_ thought Malkin.

But now the soldier trained his attention fully on the guide, of whom he still knew precious little. Malkin leaned against the doorframe casually, and though his words might have been mistaken for chitchat, they carried a measured gravity that suggested a more definite purpose.

"Hail, Zûbrim!" Malkin began. "How was your walk?"


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## Uminya (Jun 4, 2006)

Zûbrim looked up at Malkin wearily and then gestured encompassingly to both a bunk and a chair in a vague invitation to sit. He continued to refuse to use the human language and spoke in Khuzdul, "My walk, my walk...pleasant stone and air cannot compensate for ill news." He stood and moved to the shuttered window, peering between the thin wooden strips and letting out a sigh.

He spoke without turning, in a soft voice, "I have heard many things in my prowl about the city. I say prowl, because that is what I did, as a thief in the night." Pausing, he shook his head and turned back to Malkin, "But I stole no solid thing, only knowledge. These men that you have seemingly invited into our company...what of them? Who is the tall one; his name? Do you not think him to have a strange look about him?"

Not waiting for an answer, he went on, "I trust him none. The other perhaps...but not this tall man. Humans of high lineage and high aspirations have time and time again proven--throughout the ages--to be the most likely to fail in their nobility and fall. All of those tall, proud men...hmph." He scoffed and pointed out the window, "This place is about to turn into a bloodbath. Man against man. The eastern kingdom of Rhûdaur--as they call it--does not approve of the new King Amlaith. Cardolan, to the south, swears that anyone that interferes with the throne will suffer. Arthedain says that anyone who denies the king will be destroyed, and seems convinced that both of the others are plotting to overthrow."

He shook his head vigorously so that his beard wagged back and forth, then crossed his arms and sat down on the edge of his cot again. "It's madness. And what's worse is that we're likely to get caught right in the middle of it. What's worse than that is that we're quite unsafe on the road, and so we're going to have to make our baggage try and keep up with us on the wilderness paths. We'll have to foot it to reach the Gate before the weather turns foul."

There was a long pause as Zûbrim closed his eyes and pondered, until he finally opened them and looked at the other dwarf, "What do you think? Mind you, Dvarim has the final say, but I'll be content for now if you tell me what you think...or what you think he'll say."


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## Ghorim (Jun 4, 2006)

Malkin followed Zûbrim's invitation and sat upon one of the chairs, which immediately voiced its complaints with an audible groan. The soldier placed his helmet upon his right thigh, and adopted an expressionless military countenance as the guide spoke his piece. When his time came to reply, Malkin ran a hand through his fair-colored hair and glanced at the ceiling in contemplation before returning his gaze to Zûbrim.

"Ill tidings have us hemmed in rather well, it seems," he said. "What a poor stroke of fate that we should pass through this land now, when all of its tensions are set to boil over. But we'll move swiftly, no matter the path we are forced to take. You underestimate our... baggage, as you call them. Brian can keep pace, Owin is haler than he appears, Boffin likewise has more in him than one might think, and... well... Froli can be carried, if necessary."

"That ranger, however, could complicate our route. He calls himself... Fingil."

The soldier regarded the name as it left his lips, seeming to weigh its merits for a brief moment before continuing.

"You missed a great deal of revealing behavior on his part! He took offense to the singing of my comrade Kiril, and the two locked wits for a time with an exchange of rhymed insults. A pity you missed it, really. More interesting, however, was the wager that this man made with Dvarim beforehand: if he were defeated, he would accompany us along the journey. We would not have had him along otherwise, for he does indeed look poorly. Kiril bested him, however, so now he's aboard, at least for the time being."

"Imagine our surprise, however, when he claimed the recently departed king of these lands as his brother! The others seem to be humoring him on this assertion, though I've my doubts as to his lineage. I agree with you in that he's not the type to be trusted. Kiril seemed won over by the fellow's stubbornness, but he's a... gregarious sort, aye?"

"At any rate, this Fingil wants our advice on how to handle his own business. Dvarim and Thuri have offered him some, but he doesn't appear satisfied by their suggestions. He seems set on having us meet his nephew Amlaith, for reasons that are yet unclear to the lot of us. At present, Thuri is negotiating with him on that point. I trust his wisdom, though ultimately, as you noted, Dvarim closes all matters with his say. And he does not want this Fingil to accompany us, that much is clear."

"Now... my opinion? This mess is past the point where we could do anything to clean it up. Fingil can challenge and stoke the pride of my comrades all he likes, but they're bound to see the truth of the matter. Meeting with Amlaith, even in the name of diplomacy, could mark us as targets for the other factions. I cannot see this council having enough benefit to justify such a risk. We need to charge East without delay."

The young dwarf paused, and chuckled quietly. "Aye, I hear that the air is thinner up where Men's heads reside. Their thoughts are often confused... and it seems that the delirious aspirations of a powerful few will tear these lands asunder. It saddens us all, but we mustn't let our own thoughts be deluded in thinking that the ten of us alone can do anything to ease matters."

He nodded quickly as a sign of conclusion, and stood in a crisp motion of militant grace. "That is my say. I am returning to the company downstairs to see how matters with the ranger play out. Perhaps you would like to come along?"


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## Uminya (Jun 5, 2006)

Zûbrim grunted, "So much for getting some shut-eye." He dropped his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up quickly. He tossed his cap into the air and then caught it before flopping it onto his head, then moved to the door, kicking it a bit after passing through to give Malkin time to follow after before it closed. He moved quickly down the stairs, giving the humans he saw a sour, tired look, then moved back to the table. He crossed his arms, eyeing the humans yet again, then spoke loudly in Khuzdul.

"If you've any sense, you'll be ready to leave this place in the morning. Do not get involved in the affairs of the humans. They cannot be trusted, and our mission is not to dawdle in this land of long-shanked ruffians. We have a long journey, and I believe that every moment we linger in this land we risk failure. Failure not to ourselves by dying, but also by failing our people, the fathers of our houses, and our king. We MUST NOT get involved in this."

He grumbled something, then went on, "Remember what we came for, and remember that by delaying, not only do you delay arrival at the halls of our kindred far away, but also you delay our arrival in the halls of our cousins in Khazad-Dûm. Let that be your inspiration to dally no longer than neccessary in this confusticated land of men!"

Turning his eyes to Truor, he inclined his head in a slight gesture of respect and spoke in the common tongue, "You look as the stories say, from the upper vales of the An-du-in. Your people are a sturdy folk, yes?" He slid his eyes over to Fingil, then on to Dvarim. He cleared his throat and then grumbled with a faint grin, "So is the drink here as terrible as I hoped?"


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## chrysophalax (Jun 5, 2006)

Fingil had been about to answer Thuri directly, when Malkin and the one he had heard referred to as "their guide" returned to the table. The guide opened his mouth and for the first time, Fingil heard what he could only imagine to be Khuzdul openly spoken. This he wondered at, for he had heard from the elves that dwarves only spoke their own language in the presence of other dwarves. What could be so secret that this breach in protocol had occured? The speaker stared at him appraisingly, as though he were meaningless and posed no threat. Others had made the same mistake.

He returned his attention to Thuri once again. "Many of your critcisms and observations are well founded, yet do not judge me so harshly too soon. Fair heart may become foul if it only has itself for counsel and my heart tells me that the time has long past when wisdom might have prevailed. Indeed, I fear that Arnor as it has been will very soon be gone forever. Greed has overthrown my nephews and I..." The sound of shattering glass, followed by a loud curse caused many to jump. The landlord slammed open the half-door at the bar and stomped upstairs to see what had happened, grumbling as he went. The raven sought refuge in the rafters and squawked loudly down at Truor, who seemed to be of like mind.

Fingil rose to his feet. "Wait but a moment, my friends and I may have news for you. I believe the answers to all our questions are about to be answered!" With that, he drew his hood up and left silently through the back door, leaving the others to guess among themselves what he was up to.

Malkin had only recounted half the song contest to Zubrim when Fingil reappeared, looking grim. Kiril silently passed him a full tankard and he took it with a nod of thanks. He stared into it for a few long breaths, then downed it in one. "Right. That's it then. That non-so-subtle breakage of glass was one of my companions, Haldad and he has brought ill tidings. The fighting has already broken out to the north and west of here, but not many have been slain, as yet. This forces my hand and I have instructed Haldad to send those men of my company into the forest glens and mountain passes east of here, closer to Imladris. Elrond will countenance no fighting on his doorstep and there at least some remnant of Numenor will be able to live in safety. _That_ my friends has ever been my priority, not the saving of a kingdom, but the saving of a people and a way of life. We are few in number now, but while some of us survive, there is yet hope that sanity will prevail and peace will be restored."

A weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders and Fingil was inwardly glad that fate had stepped in to make up his mind for him. "It seems our path lies eastward and I am as ready now as I will ever be. Once on the road, I'll tell you the course that will best suit your needs and our safety. Are we agreed?"


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## YayGollum (Jun 6, 2006)

Kiril's reaction to his suggestion was apparently too surprised to show much of his opinion. Boffin, ever hopeful, grinned and stared at the ceiling to compose his thoughts, deciding how to preach about the superiority of elves to the guy, when he came upon a chance. He missed a few things in the discussion, subsequently, but once he zoned back in, he found that his opinions were no longer necessary and that the humans were smart enough to know where best to hide. 

Zubrim's entrance and instructions in the secret Dwarf language induced a panicky sweat and wringing of fingers, since he could only translate pieces of it. It sounded important, and he didn't want to look incompetent, so he tried to calm his nerves and remain observant. He wanted to welcome the Ranger to their group but reflected that Zubrim might have requested something contrary. Tired, full, and a bit stressed, Boffin fished out a few coins, handed them to the bartender, waited with innocent and expectant eyes for some change, then shrugged and hopped off of his stool when the guy gave a grin and a quick bow before rushing away. 

Wearily and to the general group ---> "Ah, I'll be heading off to sleep, now. We'll probably be marching early, as usual, and I'd like to take advantage of a bed, while I can. Nice to have met you, Fingil, sir." After a nod and a yawn, he trudged up the stairs and collapsed on the first bed that he found. To quell his fears of combat that they might come upon, he started counting in Quenyish to put himself to sleep.

Truor was having a wonderful time as he revelled in good, honest, and Dwarvish personalities. He echoed most of their enthusiastic views throughout the episode, but did hang back a bit when they dipped into subjects that he knew little about or preferred to remain neutral towards. He politely looked away and pretended to be interested in a card game going on a few tables away as Zubrim made some speech in the secret Dwarf language. When the guy acknowledged him, he assumed that the Dwarf meant that he had heard stories of Truor, specifically. 

Since he'd closed his eyes to congratulate himself on tales well spread, he didn't notice that Zubrim had already turned to someone else. "Just as sturdy as yours, I'd say." With a wink at Shadowflaps and thinking himself achingly clever for his best attempt at sneakiness, he located Zubrim again and raised questioning eyebrows once he caught the guy's eyes ---> "So, when are we looking to leave, tomorrow? You seem to be the one in charge, sir. Or is it Dvarim here? Truor's the name, if you missed it, by the way."

The changeling wondered how these Rangering types came up with their secret signals, then shook his head in confusion. Relieved that the far scarier than travelling to meet some lost Dwarves business of choosing a side in a war seemed to be closed, Truor bobbed his mug at Fingil. "Sounds good to me! I'm already packed." He then wondered how these Ranging types looked at obligations to families and countries, since, even though the guy's main interest sounded secure, his nephews would still be going after each other's throats.


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## Ghorim (Jun 9, 2006)

Thuri walked a taut and delicate line in his debate Fingil, balancing the obligations of his mission, the provoked tempers of his comrades, and his concern for the ranger's plight as best he could manage. So when Zubrim barged in from upstairs and fell upon the table with a fiery tongue, the old soldier was understandably upset. He felt like a glass worker whose meticulous project had just been dashed to pieces at his feet. The guide's words seemed to embolden Dvarim's desire to withdraw from negotiations, and the commander very well would have interrupted Fingil's response had a sudden commotion not beaten him to the punch. 

The soldiers were already on edge as the talks with the ranger grew more grave. Upon the crashing noise from upstairs, five sets of hands immediately went to their axes. In order to not further enflame the suspicions of the tavern patrons, the warriors had kept their deadly tools stored beneath the table, out of hand, but always within reach. As Fingil went to investigate, the soldiers all rose in a grim silence with hands tight around their axe handles. They held their positions like a small garden of statues until the ranger rejoined them. All save Malkin, who tried to ease the tension in the air by recounting the contest of words that Zubrim had missed. Upon his return, Fingil explained the source of the noise, and that although the war had already begun in earnest, he was now no longer tied to the lands of Arnor.

At this stunning development, the dwarves naturally had quite a few choice comments. 

"A comrade of yours, you say? I thought you rangers did things more discreetly," said Kiril, lowering his weapon and placing his right hand upon his hip. 

"A desperate hour such as this may call for uncharacteristic tactics," said Thuri, who saw that matters had passed out of his hands now. He turned away from the ranger and sat once again, gazing at the grain of the table's wood in meditative silence.

"That's odd, Fingil," said Halak, with a dark expression. "As soon as the fighting starts, that's your signal that it's fine to leave the land?"

"That's the most uncharacteristic tactic of all, I'd say!" roared Dvarim, launching on the offensive again. "Aye, this has worked out very well for you, hasn't it, ranger? That at the very moment of decision you should receive the word that secures your retreat from Arnor! Well, I suppose your beloved Amlaith shall have to fend for himself, then."

Dvarim marched around the table to approach Fingil. He did not leave his weapon behind. 

"I do not tolerate cowards well, ranger. But let it never be spoken that a Dwarf failed to honor a handshake. I would never besmirch the name of my folk to make things easier on myself."

The commander glanced over his shoulder at where Zubrim stood. The guide was clearly as aggravated by this development as he was. Things were not about to get any easier for the both of them. 

"You may have some knowledge of these lands, though, I shall not discount that," continued Dvarim, returning his gaze to Fingil. "You shall consult with our guide Zubrim on the course we are to chart, but he holds the last say in all matters concerning our route, understood?"

There was a practiced manner in which Dvarim uttered that final word. He had been using it on subordinates for years now, and had honed it to the point where he could make his target sound like nothing more than an ignorant child with his delivery. Fingil clearly took exception to the mocking tone. Things might have become more heated in that moment, had not Boffin, ever oblivious, wandered up from the bar and drowsily announced his intentions to turn in for the night. Watching him stumble up the stairs, Dvarim turned back to the others.

"For once, Boffin's got the right idea in his head. We'll be leaving well before sunrise. This land is no longer safe enough for us to travel at a leisurely pace. Henceforth, we are in a sprint for Khazad-dum. Expect tonight's rest to be more akin to a short nap than a full night's slumber."

He removed his helmet and inclined his head to the company slightly.

"I take my leave for the evening. Zubrim, Fingil... you shall conference on our itinerary for the next two days. As for the rest of you, I advise that you seek your rest as soon as you can."

The commander began to move for the stairs, but then turned back, his stern expression coming to rest on the stout form of Truor.

"Should you wish to accompany us, Truor, I shall raise no objections," said Dvarim coolly. "But expect to be roused early tomorrow. If you cannot keep pace, then I see nothing that necessitates keeping you on board... and the same goes for your... companion."

The commander gave a brief, none-too-friendly look at the raven before he turned swiftly and resumed his course toward the party's room. Froli practically leapt out of his chair to follow, though his legs, reduced to rubber from days of unfamiliar strain, nearly buckled under him as he reached his feet. The noble had been too petrified to retire without an accompanying soldier to ensure that thieves did not ransack their room. But there was no question that he was wholly exhausted, and upon hearing of the long, painful marches that awaited him, Froli felt that he had to race to knock himself out for the night. Owin also stood to follow, though his grandson remained entrenched in his chair.

"Come, Brian," said the elder in the simple, stern manner of a grandfather.

"But grandfather, sir..." Brian began, though he seemed to already sense he was protesting in vain.

The old dwarf reached down and gave a sharp tug on one of the lad's ears, indicating that debate was indeed futile. "Come!"

Kiril smirked, leaning one elbow on the table as he watched this exchange. "Listen to your grandfather, boy! It's well past your bedtime, I'd say. Feel fortunate that you got to sit with the adults for so long!"

Brian's cheeks flushed a hot red, and he stood meekly, muttering a 'good night' to the table before joining the procession upstairs. 

"Ahhh... that lad," chuckled Kiril once the other dwarves had disappeared up the stairs. He trailed off without completing his thought, and there was an uneasy silence. Zubrim and Fingil were eyeing each other warily, neither making a move to begin their compulsory deliberations. 

Kiril shoved his tongue into his cheek as he noted this stand-off, and turned to his comrades to gauge their expressions. Halak wore a thick scowl. From the start, he had been unimpressed by the ranger's conduct. But when Fingil invoked the name of Thingol in questioning the character of the Khazad, Halak had simply heard enough. The fact that the two of them were linked by the loss of a brother was obscured beneath the intensity of Halak's grudge. Thuri and Malkin, meanwhile, were still undecided on Fingil's character. They stayed behind, curious as to how he would carry himself following Dvarim's latest string of insults. 

Unsure of how to defuse the situation, Kiril glanced over at Truor, who merely shrugged. Shadowflaps gave the dwarf a clipped squawk, which Kiril interpreted as an attempt at provoking him to speak. Muttering a few oaths in the direction of the raven, Kiril nonetheless took its advice and turned to the guide and the ranger. 

"Now come, you two! We'll have rather sorry odds of making it to Khazad-dum unscathed if the two of you don't cooperate. You both know the lands as well as an eagle would. But Zubrim's been studying them extra carefully for months in preparing for our journey, and Fingil most likely has a better notion of how to avoid the troops in the region. Of course, it's all a matter of luck in the end, but we might as well give ourselves a decent shot at a safe trip, aye? Now shake each other's hands and get on with it, already! No one's asking the pair of you to kiss and make up, but you'd best be able to work together, at the very least!"

Upon the completion of his speech, Kiril quickly filled up a flagon from Fingil's keg. He might have been breaking orders, but dealing with all of this nonsense over Fingil required a stiff drink. Couldn't any of the others see that this ranger was a fine ally to have?


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## Uminya (Jun 13, 2006)

Zûbrim eyed the ranger, then stuck out his hand in a gesture towards him and spoke gruffly, "I said no words about you, ranger, that were ill. But about your people, humans, I have little trust. For while the elves are full of themselves, they at least keep their grudges for a thousand years and will not flop back and forth from day to day as they wonder best how to deal with the death that looms near on their horizons." He reached up to stroke his beard, "I hope that the stories about how the wise men of the Star Land in old days are true, and that you may prove to be as noble as they. Should you prove to be as one of the...less noble...well, I am sure that if you don't have an axe on your mind, you'll have an arrow through your heart."

He suddenly shook his head and rubbed his cheek, "Agh, but don't mind my dark words." Giving the man a more friendly look, he stuck out his hand again, this time offering a handshake, "I'm sure if you had some sneaky plan, you wouldn't be wanting to go where *we're* going. Wrong direction, mm?" As Fingil warily shook the dwarves hand, he nodded and gave a bit of a grin, his gaunt face taking on a strangely friendly look.

"So shall we rest and discuss our plans for travel while we're on the trail in the morning?" he asked, raising up one brow, "I've a mind to enjoy a bed while I can. Won't be getting one again for a long bit, I deem, and I don't like to run from armies without a good night's sleep before!"


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## chrysophalax (Jun 13, 2006)

"I have no axe to grind with any of you. I may have earned your friend's diatribe against me, but my folk are hardy and well used to being misunderstood." Fingil shook hands with Zubrin, noticing as he did, a glint of approval in Kiril's eye. He then drained his tankard for the last time. "You will find that I will be ready, have no fear on that account!" He turned then to Truor, who was busy trying to wheedle a late-night morsel out of the landlord. 

"I'll be glad to have you along, Truor. You have a way with tales and I look forward to hearing much more of your adventures. If any of you need me, you'll find me in the stable. I find the sound of sleeping beasts quite soothing. Until dawn then, and yes, we can talk on the road of our general path, Zubrin, but my suggestion is that we make for the town of Bree, or possibly Archet just to the north initially. There we may be able to gather news without attracting much attention as the townsfolk are used to traders and the like." Fingil then went upstairs to collect his pack and sword. He could already feel anticipation buildng within him, that sense of being at the edge of the unknown. How he had missed that!

Quickly he came down the stairs and with a nod to what few of his companions still remained in the common room, went out to the stables to bed down for what was left of the night. Familiar, comfortable smells filled his nostrils and he breathed them in gladly. As he settled wearily into the straw next to a fat pony, many thoughts nagged at Fingil, each vying for his attention. Was his decision to leave his brother's kingdom to his greedy sons to do with as they would, the right one? Would he have been powerful enough to have made a difference? One thing he knew for certain was that he did _not_ want to be used by any side as a pawn, or, Eru forbid, _he_ be set up as king! 

Fingil had always known his place and that was on the outside, looking in. Let them tear each other apart with their intrigues and political machinations! The remnants of Numenor had been and always would be first in his heart. Having seen to it that at least some of his people would be safe, he could rest, no matter what the dwarves or anyone else thought of him or his motives. His companions would come to see that not all men were weak and treacherous and that appearances could be very deceiving. With that comforting thought, he drifted off to sleep.


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## YayGollum (Jun 13, 2006)

Dvarim's notice invoked quickly erect posture and a short nod that could have been seen as nervous. Once the guy was gone, he showed a grin to Shadowflaps, who only squawked paranoiacally that the Dwarf bore him some ill will. Before his friend could get very far into his analysis of the other personalities in the room, Truor tossed a "Bah!" at him, then zoned in on Zubrim and Fingil, since Kiril drew his attention there. The shrug of the shoulders was probably only given since he hadn't even noticed a problem yet. Shadowflaps, though, always proud to generously show off his usefulness to those who would pay attention, gave the Dwarf a nudge. 

Fingil's compliment shot Truor's eyes back to the ceiling to call forth a couple of his most popular journeys. He had them gathered well enough for him to show a smirk and nod at the guy before he left, though. To the general group of Dwarves still around ---> "I enjoy the open air and the earth on my back as well as the next, but I believe that the novelty of a bedroom is a far better sight than a stable, when you're at the verge of another long march. oh well. I won't be late. A lot of roads to avoid, dodging these troop movements tomorrow." A jerk of the head brought Shadowflaps back to his shoulder. The two communicated as well as they could, Truor being overly eager and demanding, Shadowflaps being overly paranoid and haughty, about what these Dwarves would lead them to.


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## Ghorim (Jun 15, 2006)

The four soldiers who stubbornly remained at the table could sense the party drifting apart, as the call of sleep grew stronger with each passing moment. They remained fastened to their seats, for want of seeing how affairs with that maverick Fingil concluded for the evening. But theirs was also the obstinacy of children attempting in vain to postpone their bedtime. Soldiers were never much for sleep... it was the one time when they were forced to let their guard down completely. The false promises of dreams held nothing for them; the cold reality of an axe gripped tightly in hand was all that mattered to their lot. 


Yet, ever grudgingly, they had to admit that hours of sleep were to become precious currency to them over the coming days. Perhaps at times they thought themselves physically conditioned to the point where they resided above the demands of their bodies, but that simply was not true. Thuri began their departure, and the other three warriors followed his lead, each standing and pushing in his chair. They all wished Truor a hearty good night, and he already seemed adopted as one of their number, so natural was their tone in addressing him. As Fingil made for the stables, Kiril's head was filled with so many delectable insults that he simply didn't know which one to choose. 


"Ha! And I thought I was just making things up when I sang that you slept with the animals! Well, I suppose you'll be cleaning up after them, too?" 


“Not without receiving healthy coin for my effort,” said Fingil, not missing a beat, and not turning around as he made his way out of the Broken Barstool.


Kiril doffed his helmet to the ranger nonetheless, in recognition of a sound parry. He then glanced to Halak, who was busying himself with draining the remnants of Fingil’s keg into a mug. 


“Ho now!” bellowed Kiril. “Didn’t you hear Dvarim’s orders?”


“Hmmph,” grunted Halak. “Don’t think that your own dip into this keg went unnoticed.” 


He inspected the contents of his drinking vessel with a probing eye... mostly foam, as he’d figured. 


“Might as well be insubordinate in pairs,” he muttered, downing what he could from the mug. “Besides, it’ll help me sleep.”


“What? You got the jitters?” asked Kiril, giving his comrade an elbow.


“Never that,” said Halak tersely, moving past Kiril for the stairs. 


The blackbeard followed his friend’s progress with a watchful gaze, sensing something vaguely amiss in Halak’s demeanor. 


_Just grumpy... some rest’ll do him well._


With one last savoring glance upon the tavern, the stage of one of his finest performances, Kiril marched for the stairs. Most of the remaining patrons were hardly aggrieved to see him go. 


---


Halak always slept with his axe. Soldiers were generally known to keep their weapons close by at night, but Halak actually brought his blade into bed with him, his hands resting on the handle as he lay upon his back in a corpse-like repose. His comrades ribbed him for it, calling it a child’s habit. Kiril was convinced that one night his friend was going to accidentally cut his throat in his sleep. Halak never felt the need to explain himself to the others.


_Your axe is all you have in this world, lad. I won’t always be about to guide you. But trust your weapon, trust in your ability, and you shall never be misled._


Did Halak even understand his father’s advice back when it was given? No, but he stored that exact sequence of words in his memory nonetheless, a precious fragment of the time he spent with that blurry, half-forgotten figure. 


_The axe did not go to Holmin; it went to me. I couldn’t even lift it yet, but it went to me._


Halak’s brother wouldn’t touch their father’s blade. His face seemed to grow ashen whenever he gazed upon that weapon for too long, as if he saw his departed elder’s face reflected in its sparkling blade and not his own. Or perhaps he could already glimpse his own end in the polished metal, could see Death’s skeletal wings spreading over his own head. In time, it was Halak who took up the heirloom, his father’s only possession to speak of. 


How many times had he tried to envision that mighty form laid low by an orc’s blade? It was always a slow vision, as he watched the weapon slip from the gauntleted hands and fall to the muddy ground. 


_Did he think of me as he fell?_


But that thought was inevitably chased by another.


_Don’t be so selfish! It had nothing to do with you._


These were things that ought not to still be troubling Halak. Their lingering presence within his thoughts was unacceptable. Could he yet banish them with laughter, as Kiril had taught him to do? Most times, aye. But the nights were growing worse, ever since the morning when he closed the door on his mother, leaving her side in her greatest time of need.


He saw her walking in the city’s streets now, himself lingering well behind, strolling the familiar thoroughfares leisurely. He was fixated upon her form; only peripherally did he notice the others falling upon the cobblestones. All about him, the city dwellers were collapsing in dying throes, their hands grabbing at the air as their knees buckled and their eyes blackened. 


_It’s a plague._


The thought struck Halak dully, its full weight not apparent until he realized that his mother was also in danger of succumbing to the illness that was sweeping the streets all about him. He hastened his pace, but his mother seemed to recede all the further toward the horizon. The dead were impeding his path now. Yes, he was scrambling over piles of bodies, suddenly seized by a desperation to reach his mother and carry her from this dying city. He called to her, but no sound came from his mouth. All was horribly silent, save for a faint ringing in his ears. A sickly yellowish hue now hung in the air. The mother's back remained turned to her son. But she halted suddenly, and a great light fell upon her frail silhouette. Slowly, ever slowly, she fell to her knees, and then collapsed over to the side. Halak tried to sprint for her now, but his foot caught on a corpse. He felt himself plummeting, with nothing below to break his fall...


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## Ghorim (Jun 15, 2006)

Halak awoke with such a start that his neck very nearly did meet with his axe blade. Sweat crept upon his skin, only a thin film, just enough to remind him that he had been deathly afraid for a passing moment. The dwarf dragged his sticky palm across his forehead, cursing himself in his weakness. A fine soldier he made, wetting his sheets over night phantoms! And yet fear still prickled his senses, not so easily discarded. Agitated to the point where he knew that sleep would not visit him again that night, Halak clambered down from the top bunk where he had lain, taking his axe along. His bare feet touched down upon the chilly wood of the floor, and he marched past the slumbering rows of bunks toward the room’s entrance, where Malkin sat on his lonely guard duty.


Seeing his comrade approaching in a cyclone of delirious energy, Malkin climbed to his feet quickly. The young dwarf felt a chill pass over him as he saw Halak’s eyes, wildly alight in the room’s darkness. What had seized this soldier, whom Malkin had always thought of as the most steady and unflappable in their company?


“Evening, Malkin,” Halak whispered hoarsely. “Sleep’s betrayed me tonight. Let me take over your shift at watch.”


Malkin, feeling a knot starting to form in his throat, swallowed heavily and shook his head. “I just relieved Thuri not fifteen minutes ago. I’m in no need of a replacement.”


Halak growled, the low, guttural sound just carrying over the snores of the others. “You ought to take a kind offer when it’s given!”


Malkin did not budge, though he felt the foreign sensation of apprehension clutching at his heart. “Settle yourself, my friend. I appreciate the gesture, rest assured. What say we both pull the shift and keep each other company?”


Seeming to remember himself, Halak loosened his posture gradually, reaching up to rub his eyes with his free hand. “Aye... fine, then. We’ll do that.”


The two soldiers sat on opposite sides of the portal, their feet illuminated by the light that trickled in from beneath the closed door. Their shadowy figures made for a strange contrast, as Malkin sat stiff and upright, and Halak slumped in his seat, tired and oppressed. Malkin racked his mind for the appropriate way to phrase the question that hovered over his thoughts. 

He tried to pose his query in the lighthearted manner that he knew Halak preferred.


“I’ll buy you a drink once we reach Khazad-dum if you tell me what’s on your mind.”


“Nothing... nothing on my mind,” muttered Halak darkly, looking like a mourning shadow in the suffocating blackness that surrounded them. “Let’s just get this race East started already.”


Malkin pried no further. Dawn was a long time in coming for the both of them.


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## Uminya (Jun 19, 2006)

In the end, the whole party--new faces included--made their way to some sort of bed for the rest of the night. Before dawn came, Zûbrim rose and woke those that weren't yet up, letting the twilight greet them with a heavy, impenetrable fog that came off of the North Downs. They gathered up their gear quickly and after just a short breaking of their fast, they made their way through the south gate of the city and set off on the great road heading southward that would later be known as the Greenway.

It was a wary time; Zûbrim and Fingil lead them off of the well-kept road and onto obscure side-paths that wound through an increasingly untamed wilderness. The days passed by and they made all haste towards the wooded hills of Breeland, keeping an untrusting eye on the Midgewater ever-looming on their left flank. Little did they see of other men, save for the hamlet or farmstead that they happened to pass by.

Only on one night--black as the void with a new moon--did they see any sign of the rapidly-escalating conflict that menaced on the edge of their collective imaginations. There was a bright glow, far away beyond the Marsh, as though there was a great burning going on. There was little to make of it at the time, and when the morning came, a haze covered the eastern sky and the reek of smoke wafted into their nostrils.

Besides this one event, however, there was little else to note; though the land was eerily quiet. The war-hardened dwarves--and perhaps also the men--knew well that this was the tension of a land waiting for destruction. But for those who had not known of war, hardship, or the woe of combat, this was perhaps the most trying time they had yet experienced. The lonely hills and dales of Arnor offered no quarter for the weary traveller as the ghost of war howled in the distance.

At long last, however, they began their final approach into Breeland from the northwest, seeing a few lamps illuminating Bree-proper as it lay nestled against the western flank of the hill. The whole party--whose spirits were lifted by the prospects of a warm bed and a stout drink--picked up their pace and passed through the West Gate as darkness enveloped the land. Zûbrim and Fingil lead them up the cobbled streets until they stood beneath a carven, white-painted sign bearing a rather rotund pony.

Zûbrim, who seemed to always have a penchant for the anticlimactic, grunted as he dropped his pack onto the ground, "So who's buying?"


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## Ghorim (Jun 20, 2006)

And there they were, dogs on the trail once more, their heads bowed to ward off the oppression of sun and rain. Each morning they tried to beat the sun to the eastern horizon, wiping the sleep from their eyes as they slogged forward. The welcoming sprawl of the plains vanished in a maze of gnarled branches, limbs to the shadowy guardians of the forests that assailed the party on all sides along the back roads. The travelers assumed a tight formation now, even as the more poorly conditioned marchers routinely lagged behind the brisk pace set by Zubrim and Fingil at the head of the procession. Kiril took up position at the rear, prodding along the weary civilian marchers with barked orders and the occasional shove. Froli, Boffin and Owin did not take kindly to this harsh treatment, and continued to churn their legs against the protestations of their enflamed lungs and thudding hearts. Nights brought them little solace, as they now only held the promise of a respite too soon interrupted. 

On one of those brief stops, Owin lay upon his bedroll, feeling his true age for the first time in years. His grandson Brian had simply collapsed beside him, and now drifted through the formless void of exhausted slumber. Owin tried to kick off his boots from where he lay upon his back, but found them fastened on too tightly to yield. He sighed deeply. Loathe to complete the sit-up motion that would allow him to remove the boots by hand, he resigned himself to sleeping in them for the night. With what energy he could muster, he rolled his head to the side to regard the unconscious lad at his right. What was it that he always said to Brian when he had lost some trinket or other? 

“When was the last time you saw it?”

Well, he now had to ask himself a similar question. When was the last time that he saw this journey as a good idea? Aye, it was a struggle to remember. All of the old aches and pains that he had once thought relegated to the past were flaring up again from the first day of marching onward. Each night he sank into a broken sleep, only to have his guard Thuri rouse him what seemed like mere moments later. Oh, but this was an adventure, was it not?

Aye, from the fitful days of his youth, Owin had hungered for the thrills that only the road could bring. He came into the world nearly a month too soon, so hungry was he for a taste of it. His lack of patience made for a sickly childhood. Dwarves, hardy beings that they are, rarely contend with illness for an extended period of time, at least not until their final days. In what should have been the full blossom of his youth, Owin found himself laid out in an infirmary bed, his frail body racked with fever, eating mashed foods for three weeks straight as he stared at the ceiling through his impaired haze. Owin didn’t remember much from that time. Certainly nothing of the comings and goings of his frazzled parents, or the words that the nurses would murmur in his ear from time to time. But the little things stubbornly wormed their way into his memory: the velveteen texture of the drapes that framed the nearby window as he ran them through his fingers, the snoring of the old invalid with whom he shared his room, and a singular thought that arose from the back of his mind.

_As soon as I get out of this bed, I’m going never going to rest again._

It was a ridiculous goal, the kind that only a delirious mind could conjure up, but Owin had by and large held to it, becoming a habitual traveler even as his muscles gradually softened and his endurance waned. This trip, however… could it be anything other than his last? Owin struggled mightily to contemplate this question, but how his thoughts were beleaguered by weariness! He succumbed to sleep, his musings left incomplete for the night.


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## Ghorim (Jun 20, 2006)

It was that very same evening that the fiery glow reined on the horizon while the group camped. Froli had long since engaged in his nightly tradition of throwing himself upon the ground and falling dead asleep, but the increasingly pungent aroma of smoke perked his mind from the depths of slumber, reminding his still sleeping senses of the smoked ham that he frequently enjoyed in his home. Yes, he was back at his dining room table, with the generations of marble busts flanking his seat. He could just smell that ham, feel his mouth water as he took up fork and knife to plunge into the evening’s main course. But what was this? There was simply too much smoke wafting from the dish! Why, that fool of a cook had overdone the ham again! 

“Take it away,” the noble mumbled, half-asleep, drawing the attention of Halak, who was crouched nearby Froli’s dormant form. His eyes had been locked in grim contemplation on the north. All of his armor remained in place. He had yet to sleep that night. 

“Take it away?” he muttered, more to himself than to the aristocrat. “It’s only bound to get closer. That is, unless we hit the trail again, which we soon ought to.”

“Hmm?” Froli’s eyes drifted open, and seeing the unnatural brightness of the evening, thought the sun was now on the rise. Lifting his head and rubbing his vision into focus, the noble realized this was not so.

“What is that?” he murmured to Halak, whose gaze had returned to the reddish-orange mist that hung menacingly in the distance.

“That’s what’s chasing us, Sir Froli,” said Halak quietly. “That’s Arnor setting itself aflame.”

“Are we… in any danger?” asked Froli timidly, his anxiety giving him the energy to sit up a bit.

Halak shook his head, though the noble now noticed that the soldier had a firm grip upon his axe. “Not yet. No one’s on the lookout for our party, remember. They’re more concerned with tearing the other army to bits than picking off a few strays who happen to be passing through. If Zubrim guides us properly, those flames are never going to get any closer to us than they are right now.”

Halak had not forgotten about Fingil, yet still he did not mention the ranger’s name.

_Regicide, indeed! And you, leaving your land’s rightful heir to perish!_

The soldier shook these angry thoughts aside, and settled back upon his rear end, as if to indicate to Froli that it was safe to relax. 

“You’d best grab what shuteye you can before we resume the march. Shouldn’t be long, now.”

Froli lowered his head slowly, but no longer felt compelled to drift off. 

“It’s so frightful,” he whispered, “to imagine what they must be doing to each other…”

“That’s war,” said Halak with a shrug. “That’s a soldier’s lot in this world. At least you see now that we’re not just dots on a map.”

“Excuse me?” said Froli, sitting up once again.

“Dots on a map… from the council chamber, that’s all a division looks like. You draw the routes those dots have to follow, and then we dots do our dirty work out here.”

“Sir Halak,” said Froli, ever cautious in addressing his guard, “do not think that we of the Council do not appreciate the sacrifices that you and our infantry make for the rest of the mountains. We’ve many songs for the exploits of warriors upon the field of battle, but when was the last time that you heard a song commemorating a councilor’s decision to reduce the grain tax? Or… or… to set a limit upon the number of candles in each household?”

Froli smiled a bit to himself. Perhaps it took a bit of time and distance to recognize just how trivial his recent legislative proposals truly were…

Halak shook his head slowly, his demeanor unsatisfied. “Songs and praise… fine repayment, aye, but that… it doesn’t…”

He sighed wearily, his tongue more adept at trading insults with Kiril than expressing the ruminations of his heart.

“Listen, Sir Froli, I’m not going to complain about my station, or yours, or any of those things that neither of us chose, aye? I… appreciate your remark just now, and the words you had for the infantry back at the Broken Barstool. But _your_ appreciation of the soldiering life… well, you need to see all the sides to the thing before you can praise it so highly. Honor and camaraderie… that’s a big part of it, but you’ve never seen… well, you’ve never shoved through a breach in the enemy’s flank, have you? Never seen this fellow right next to you get dropped... never had to hear the news…”

Three orphaned pegs on the wall. 

_“I’m sorry, lad, but your brother…”_

“Well… never mind that. What I’m trying to say, is that if I or any other soldier actually wrote those songs that you speak of… they wouldn’t be so sunny all the time, ya know?”

Halak glanced to Froli, looking to see if the noble actually did ‘know’ what he was getting at. In the noble’s fleshy features appeared a great strain, the folds of his brow and cheeks burdened by the worry that he might have offended Halak, that his ignorance had been so truly profound. For a moment, Froli was no longer just a bloated container of hot air. For an instant, Halak was something more than a simple workhorse. 

Halak smoothed out his mustache, emitting a muted chuckle to ease the mood. “Well, to be straight and honest with you, it’s just dull. That’s what kills the old soldiers. They’re marching in circles day in, day out, wearing themselves down to bone. We drill, we stand guard, we try to keep ourselves entertained, that’s the routine. That… nasty side only comes around once in a great while. I’ve only been in a few battles, myself. But you’ve got to be prepared to leap from one life straight to the other, aye? Those Men who are slitting each other up North… why, not too long ago, they were probably bored out of their skulls, just lying about their barracks…”

“Aye, I can certainly relate,” began Froli, but then froze in apprehension, realizing that he was already falling back upon his old assumptions. “Er… that is to say…”

Halak waved a hand dismissively. “Go on.”

“Well, I’d venture that ninety-five out of one hundred initiatives that the Council hears are of negligible importance to the Ered Luin, at best. Just between the two of us, I rarely make it through a full week’s worth of sessions without dozing off in my chair a few times. They’re the sort of issues that make your beard curl. How many new smithies do we allow to open this year? How much pipe weed are we to import?”

Halak gave an exaggerated yawn. “Sounds about right.”

“But occasionally an issue comes along that rends the entire Council asunder. Our decision could drastically affect the economy, or our diplomatic ties with other realms. Every fellow has his own opinion on which direction to take, and suddenly every councilor becomes quite animated, leaping from his seat to make speeches about the honor of the Khazad and other such grandiloquent nonsense. It’s a jarring transition, to say the least.”

“Hmm…” Halak’s right thumb and index finger held upon his mustache as he mulled Froli’s words over. “I suppose, no matter what his calling, a fellow must be prepared to take on the extraordinary at any moment.”

The noble nodded enthusiastically. “Aye, that’s a fine way of putting it! Just as you must be extraordinary should our party… Mahal forbid… be assailed…”

“And as you must be extraordinary when it comes time to break the bread with our Eastern kin.”

“Ah! I fear I shall be too exhausted by then to muster anything more than an inquiry for the nearest bed.”

Halak chuckled. “You have my solemn oath, Sir Froli, that by the time we make it that far East, you’ll be in the best shape of your life. Weeks of hard marches and slim rations will have you in top form.”

“So there’s a mithril lining in this mess after all,” said Froli in bemusement, wrapping his robes tighter around his still-flabby figure. 

“You just have to strain your eyes hard enough to make note of it,” said Halak, with a knowing smile. 

The two fell silent, and it was not long before the beanpole form of Zubrim marched up behind them, seeing that they were the only two others awake.

“A fine sight, eh?” he said as he gazed toward the blazing horizon, his monotone as inscrutable as ever. “Rouse the others. We’re moving on.”

Halak rose like a stone pillar jutting forth from the ground. “Think you can keep pace today, Froli?”

Froli stumbled to his feet, finding his limbs still blissfully asleep. “Not a chance.”

Halak strolled over to the snoring Kiril and gave him a healthy boot to the ribs. “Well, give it time.”

“As you say,” replied Froli, sounding truly cheerful for the first time since the long march began. He moved to wake only his fellow civilians, as he knew well enough to let sleeping soldiers lie… Kiril’s litany of curses in Halak’s direction reminded him of that old adage’s enduring truth.


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## chrysophalax (Jun 20, 2006)

It had been a hard thing to bear. Each time the party halted for a rest, or while they made camp for the night, Fingil would disappear for a short while. He would find a tall tree or the top of a nearby hillock and watch his birthplace burn. It was not the drifting smoke that blurred his vision as he looked on. Rather, it was guilt. That over-powering, ever present demon that whispered constantly in his mind. _Coward, liar! How could you have left them behind, during the only time your nephews ever really needed you? Convenient that these dwarves happened by just now, is it not? You can run away and never have to look back. If they all kill each other, one of your men will find you and you can return and claim your throne, isn't that right? Isn't it?! Very clever of you, Fingil! Either way, you win!_

"No, that's not how it is at all." he told the darkness as it settled around him. "I care not what happens to me, only to my people..." _Ah, the ones you abandoned, you mean? The ones you claim to love? Why is it again that you warned only your company...because you wished to save them? For what? To live lives of secrecy and insecurity? To be hunted down like rats by rival factions? Spare me then your love!_ In that moment, Fingil drew forth his hunting blade and sadly admired the care with which he had sharpened it. It would be so easy a thing to give in to despair and die, letting those who might later find him wonder what they would. But no, this was not the manner in which a man who called himself a man should end. Toe to toe with an enemy or after a long life well lived, _that_ was how a Numenorian died!

His blade slid smoothly back into it's sheath as his wiped his eyes with a grimy sleeve. "I should be getting back. We'll be moving out soon." he said to himself as he began his descent from a stout oak. Suddenly a shout from below startled him and his foot slipped off the slender branch on which he had balanced. A stream of muffled oaths followed his swift plummet and he was reunited rather decisively with the ground. Fingil had landed flat on his back and was fighting for air when a grinning dwarf leaned over him. Kiril was shaking with silent laughter. "We'll have to do something about those nerves. Ranger. Come on, let's grab some food before Boffin eats it all!" Fingil glared up at him, then shook his head when Kiril's twin appeared. "Ah, nay...not two of you! I have a hard enough time with one." He groaned as Kiril helped him up. "Brilliant. Another thing I'll never live down. Go on, old one. It seems I need a nurse-maid."


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## YayGollum (Jun 29, 2006)

OOC: Here. Something for everyone, maybe?

IC: Outside and after Froli woke him up from a blissfully ignorant sleep, Truor groaned. "Ugh! Don't you people know that if you pack well, you can survive in the wilderness longer, and don't have to rush it so much? Argh! I'm awake! Just give me some time!" He was spooked into alertness after a report from Shadowflaps on the closeness of the battle. 

Careful not to show off much worry, he readied his things for departure and ranted all the while. "I travel for the joy of it. Wanderlust, it's been called. My family hates me for it. They're a bunch of uninteresting sheep, if you ask me. Zubrim, you're our guide, been travelling for a while, now. Were you always just working for your boss, or do you have the wanderlust, too? Ah, I know this road! Probably couldn't draw an accurate map of the thing, but I could tell you what the people along it are like. The last time we were in the area, Shadowflaps here was telling me to skip the human settlements and sample the flavors of the elves nearby. Argh! Not I! I went straight from Bree to the Misty Mountains! Hadn't even heard of Khazad-Dum, at the time. I'd rather sneak my way past Orcs than suffer the hospitality of an elf! Hey! You should have known better!" The last being said while Truor tossed a stick at the raven, who knew that it was coming and was already gone. 

Boffin had been experiencing large troubles with sleeping while the civil war was going on so close by. In his travels, he'd known a few men from this area. He was hoping that they would survive and wishing that he knew where they were, since he'd have no problem with leaving his group to help them. After being knocked out of a depressed mood by Froli, he got up to stand ready by his pony. The packs that Pooftop had been carrying were depleted enough for him to be comfortable, and he figured that he'd be too tired to march very well. Truor's rantings were obviously meant to distract them and lighten the mood, but Boffin ignored them when he found that the guy had something against elves. 

He stroked Pooftop's mane as he waited for the others to move out, thinking about the elf who had given the animal to him. Mutterings to Pooftop ---> "They've never even met an elf, and they refuse to believe that they are the best friends to make. Why, Pooftop? We'd all be better off if we would only listen to them. They're just stubborn old Dwarves, I guess."

______________________________________________________________

Truor, already on his way to the stables with his horse, laughed at Zubrim. "Ha! That's quite a deal you've worked out, Zubrim! You lead them where they want to go, and they cover everything you decide to cost them! I'm surprised that you don't pick the best lodgings available!" Once out front again and on his way inside, he tossed a good-natured rib at them. ---> "Well, I won't wait for a bunch of miserly Dwarves to finish their quibblings when I've got a stomach to fill."

Boffin, who'd passed through this town several times before, was getting bouncier and bouncier with every step that he took closer to the Misty Mountains, although he should have known that the group wouldn't even come close to Rivendell. After stowing Pooftop away, he almost cried out that he'd pay, if they would only make their stay short, but he knew that the Dwarves would do that, no matter what. "I'll just meet you all inside, then. This place should be far enough from the fighting that they still have plenty of food, right?"


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## Ghorim (Jul 3, 2006)

The party swooped down upon Breeland, borne by the hot winds of war. Its unearthly howl still echoed in their heads, which caused a great deal of apprehension amongst the civilians. The soldiers, meanwhile, had learned to block the sound out. They moved as if in time to a festive war march. Their crisp, militant steps echoed the martial crack of the drum, the jangle of their armor plates was the triumphant fanfare of horns, announcing a weary sort of victory as they closed in on what was seemed like the first homely house that the road had offered them.

The trying circumstances of their flight to Bree forged the group tighter, even with two (or rather, three) new members integrating themselves into the party. They were all of them deprived of sleep's restorative gifts, and the only way to manage was to turn the hard march into a group struggle, with each fellow lending an aiding hand to his companions, should it be needed. Froli, attempting to prove his mettle to Halak, put in a redoubled effort to match his guard step for step, and shockingly managed more often than not. 

"He's feeding on all of those reserves in his belly," remarked Halak to Kiril one evening. And yet there was less derision in his tone than when he had spoken of the noble previously. 

Fingil still found himself watched closely at all times, which didn't much surprise him. He knew that most of the dwarves would not welcome him fully until he could illustrate his character in action. 

Truor found the transition easier, and even Shadowflaps was beginning to receive some acknowledgment from the party. Zûbrim respected the bird most among the Naugrim, and frequently reminded the others that the dwarves of Erebor had a long and amicable relationship with the ravens that dwelt upon their lonely mountain. The soldiers, of course, had a difficult time remembering these words when Shadowflaps was amusing himself by pecking at their helmets.

When they at long last approached Bree-proper, the lights of the city intoxicated them from afar, and they made one last heavy push to make it into the town by nightfall. Finally, they stood before the cozy yellows and oranges of the lit inn windows.

"So, who's buying?" grunted Zûbrim.

Anticlimactic, indeed! After days of wearing down their soles upon the poorly-marked back trails, of pulling thistles and other such annoyances from their beards, of constantly looking over their shoulders for assailants, this was their grand arrival? And yet the notion of finally being able to stuff their bellies and partake of a full night of ignorant sleep excited the group's sensibilities so, that the fat pony on the sign was as good to them as the trees and stars etched by Narvi upon the West gate of Khazad-dum.

As Truor chuckled and ribbed Zûbrim, Kiril and Halak exchanged a glance. Wordlessly determining the obvious course of action, they each contributed a hand in shoving Froli forward. The noble, barely standing as it was, nearly went stumbling into Zûbrim, which would have been a thoroughly unwanted scenario for the both of them. He regained his balance in time, however, and dusted off his shoulders as he glanced back at the two grinning soldiers. For awhile on the trail, those two had actually begun to seem like a couple of adults, but now in the twilight of Bree they seemed like an unkempt pair of children once again.

"Now, now!" said the noble, smiling wearily. "You could stand to be more subtle in delivering your message. I shall pay up, to commemorate our escape from Arnor."

"'Twas naught but a strategic retreat!" said Kiril.

Zûbrim scowled, and seemed eager to temper this celebratory air with a few choice words, but he was immediately cut off by a flood of laughing remarks as the troop piled in through the small entrance to the Prancing Pony. He, Fingil and Dvarim seemed the only ones who realized that the party wasn't yet out of the woods, and it was this trio who entered last, their mood a reserved counterweight to the elation of the others.

The interior setting proved to be far more encouraging than the cold decay of the Broken Barstool. There was a roaring hearth and roaring discussion amongst the patrons, chairs and floorboards that did not creak uncivilly when pressed upon, generous portions and generous space for customers to sit and chat. And yet here too, though less obviously, the specter of war made its presence felt. The laughter of the people here died off too suddenly; it seemed too afraid to sustain. Their eyes, though perhaps mirthful, trembled with uncertainty as they gazed out the windows or towards the door. When the dwarvish soldiers had burst in upon the main room, the entire establishment seemed to stiffen at the sight of armor and weapons, only to exhale uneasily when it became apparent that these fellows were all too diminutive to be of Arnorian stock.

Most of the dwarves seemed oblivious to this all. They conversed excitedly as they assembled at a long table near the center of the room, mostly discussing all of the magnificent delicacies that they would order at Froli's expense. But when they settled down to dine, most of them settled for standard, meat-and-potatoes items. Kiril, however, insisted on a full pig for the table, a dish that was long in coming. Dvarim once again imposed his two-drink limit upon his troops, trying to rein in their mood somewhat. When their mirth exceeded his patience, however, the old dwarf shot to his feet with a sour expression.

"You'd all do best to settle your spirits," he said solemnly. "Don't forget, there's still a war on your heels!" And with this remark, he reached across the table and shoved Kiril's resting boots off of the table.

Kiril, not appreciating his commander's treatment of his well-worn feet, scooted his chair back from the table with a scowl. 

"What?" he asked annoyedly. "You think the Arnorians are going to involve this sleepy little place in their feud? What good would it serve any of them?"

Fingil shook his head. "Knowing the commanders of these armies as I do, I wouldn't rule out any course of action on their part, no matter how insensible it might seem."

Thuri nodded his assent. "A grip upon Bree could be crucial for marshalling supplies, or simply adding another territorial feather to the cap of an ambitious heir."

Kiril remained unconvinced. "You think? Well... let me see about that. I'm going to nose about and see if the people here have actually heard any rumblings of the war making its way here. Save my seat, lads, and give me a holler if my hog arrives while I'm gone!"

And the soldier stood in a blur, impulsive as ever, stomping toward the bar as his companions looked on inquisitively. Kiril mounted one of the few available stools, and hailed the tender with a sharp bark. He placed a quick and well-practiced order for a drink (his third, coincidentally), and made the usual bits of small-talk before making his main thrust.

"So, Oswald," (of course he knew the tender's name by this point) "how's the mood in Bree, what with all the sparks flying up North?"

"Hmm... I'd love to tell ya that it doesn't once cross our minds each day, Kiril, but that's just not the way it's been. We're a pretty easygoing folk in these parts, but you can just tell that it's on everyone's mind. Word is that this mess'll be spreading all over the region. You'd be a fool to think that a war like this'd be collared by Arnor's borders."

Kiril blinked in surprise. "Well... er... it's not all that foolish a notion, aye? Why, what would any of those Arnorians want with Bree?"

Oswald shrugged. "Do they need a reason? Besides, we're ripe for the picking, aren't we? Ain't much of a standing militia 'round here. No one's going to put up much resistance if one of the Northern divisions comes prowling around down here in search of quarter or food."

Kiril ran a hand through the thin barbs of hair that stood guard over his growing bald spot. "Ah... well... a shame my comrades and I are on a mission East. You folks sound like you need someone to whip you into fighting shape, just in case..." Kiril knocked on the wood of the bartop, "things get ugly."

"Well, you're here for the night, aye?" said Oswald, scrubbing a dirty glass idly as he regarded Kiril. "I hear tell that they could use some extra watchmen along the borders. Even if it's just one evening, you and your companions could help out, if you're feeling so generous."

The dwarf considered the offer, reflexively stroking his salt and pepper beard. "Well, we've all been running on next to no sleep for the past little while... we're conditioned for it. Ah... ya know? I'm going to run that by the others, see what they think."

And so Kiril did, announcing his findings upon his return to the table.

"Now, I know some of you just want to crawl into bed and stay there until noon or later, but I'm inclined to sign up for a shift. It's the least we can do for the hospitality these folk have shown us, aye?"

"The least we can do," said Dvarim in his usual dour tone, "is pay them adequate compensation and be on our way. Why must you involve us in the affairs of every township we pass through, Kiril?"

"Ah, I just can't get enough of standing guard, sir," said Kiril with a grin, effectively ducking his commander's question. "Now, am I going to be alone in this?" He glanced over the others with a child's curiosity, awaiting their reaction.


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## Uminya (Jul 3, 2006)

Zûbrim looked over the rim of his mug at Kiril as he spoke, saying nothing as the young soldier and his commander exchanged a few words. When the younger asked, "Now, am I going to be alone in this?" the gaunt-faced dwarf turned to him, setting down his tankard with a soft clop on the table.

"I can already tell you what you're going to see tonight," he said flatly--though with a peculiar hinting tone in his voice, "If you insist on staying up, though, I will stay with you just so you don't feel so surprised when it happens." The guide went silent and then leaned back in his chair to give Kiril an unsettling stare with his pale, blue eyes. After a moment, though, he turned to look around the group and then clambered up to his feet.

The hunter looked at Dvarim and spoke softly, "Make sure that nobody unpacks any more than is absolutely neccessary...and I suggest you all get to sleep as soon as you can." He touched a finger on either side of the tip of his beard in the dwarven sign of bad news to come, then stepped off, searching for someone that could get him an apple.

Oswald Butterbur peered down over the bar as Zûbrim approached and rubbed the bridge of his nose, "And what could I get for you, Master Dwarf?" He hesistated for a moment as the dwarfs eyes locked onto him, but gave his usual, amicable smile nonetheless.

With a nod, the dwarven guide held up a thumb, "Just an apple, barkeep."

"Why, of course!" said Butterbur with a nod as he shuffled over towards the kitchen and yelled into it, "Oi! Bring me an--" He was cut short by a hobbit sticking his arm through the swinging doors; there was an apple in his hand. Oswald took the apple with a puzzled expression, then stepped back over to the waiting dwarf, speaking aloud, though apparently to himself. "Always knows what I need, that lad!" he chuckled and scratched his head, then handed the apple down to the waiting Zûbrim. "Here you are! Free for a fine customer, naturally."

The blue-bearded dwarf looked down at the apple and rubbed it on his grey sleeve, then looked up at Oswald, flipping a copper coin up to him with his thumb. "Better take the coin now," he turned around and took a bite from the apple, then spoke over his shoulder with a full mouth, "You're going to need it when there aren't any apples left."

Without another word, he moved back to the table, leaving the Innkeep to stand there with more than a little bit of uncomfortability welling up inside him. But it was short lived and pushed to the back of his mind as the entire inn suddenly seemed to cry out for more ale in a loud clanging of tinware on mugs and fists on tables.

Zûbrim returned, pulling a bit of apple from his mouth and then holding it out to Shadowflaps with a (seemingly) uncharacteristic smile on his lips, "Here you go, little friend, a treat for you." The bird quickly pecked the sweet morsel from his hand and gobbled it down, then squawked gratefully. The dwarf turned to Truor as he sat down beside the man, "A fine friend you have there. I'm glad to have both he and you along the way." He grinned and took another bite from his apple before reaching for his mug.


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## YayGollum (Jul 3, 2006)

While giving Shadowflaps an amused as well as raised eyebrow along the lines of, "Since when do you warm up to company so fast?" Truor shook his head. "Ah, he's just a mercenary, at heart! He'd be long gone, if he didn't owe me and have at least a little of the honor he's always telling me about." After attempting to hurry a few bites of the plate that had been set before him, he licked his lips and sighed, conflicted. "Argh. This break's been a while in coming, but, when you act so mysterious, I can't pass up the chance to tag along. Give me a few more bites, and I'll come with you and Kiril." 

Although he agreed with Dvarim's sensibility and would much rather have sampled another night in a bed, he was stubborn enough to banish comfort from his mind for another night. During their days of travel, his excitement at travelling with Dwarves had dimmed. He had gotten to know them and, even though they were refreshing, they had become just another band of adventurers, in his mind. He had always been fascinated by the mysteries that Dwarves hoarded and since they hadn't been displaying many along the road, his curiosity clung to this new opportunity. 

After a struggle between his curiosity and his appetite during which he even ended up stowing a few tidbits away for later, Truor pushed the plate away resignedly. "Okay. Shadowflaps, think you could check around? I'd love to show that we don't need to be led to all of our answers by others, for once." Shadowflaps squawked something along the lines of that, as a spy, he took offense to that, then hopped to Truor's shoulder, waiting for a ride outside.

Boffin, of course, was ravenously hungry and could only be bothered to remember to be a bit more polite about it only half of the times when someone else glanced in his direction. Once his first plate was gone, he hopped out of his chair to find a better vantage point from which to spot the approaching pig. Understandably distracted, he had missed all of the words passed since they had gotten their food. "Thank you very much, Froli! I will buy at the next town!"


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## chrysophalax (Jul 3, 2006)

Fingil was just sampling the beer he had come to know so well over many years. The Butterburs had long been known for producing the finest brew west of Imladris and the Prancing Pony was always a welcome stop for any traveller with a taste for good food and better beer. This particualr batch ddin't disappoint and he slid a few extra coins Butterbur's way with a sly wink. The fellow looked at him vacantly at first, then his eyes widened as recognition set in. The king's brother was well known in Bree-land and it was understood that he was never to be acknowledged as such, preferring to remain in the background.

The ranger had been about to join the two dwarves outside, when Truor spoke up and said he and his ever-present raven would be joining them. _It's not like they need a small army out on those walls._ he thought, but he had wanted a word with Zubrim before their next stage of the journey. A certan question was nagging at Fingil's mind and he had never been one to let things rest. Therefore, he downed the remains of his beer and called out to the dwarvish guide. "Hoi, Zubrim! A word if I may before you go?"

With a grunt, Zubrim got to his feet and carried both apple and mug over to Fingil at the bar. He stared up at the man irritably, so Fingil got right to the point. "I know your people look to you to get them through this part of your adventure, but unless I miss my guess, I know a damn sight more about where is safe and where isn't right now than you do. In my opinion, we should head south, hugging the eastern shoulders of the Barrow Downs, then follow the line of the Greenway on the western side. Possible troop movement from the south is what I fear most at this time and I feel that we would be caught like foxes in a henhouse if we should travel directly east. If your next destination is Moria, then we must get to the Greyflood, to Tharbad and from thence straight east to the Gate. There should be no danger to you dwarves at the least, as they have traded often with the citizens there and with any luck, I won't be recognised. Think on it whilst you and the others watch from the walls this night and I will be ready in the morning, never fear!"


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## Uminya (Jul 3, 2006)

Zûbrim guffawed and pulled off his hood, swatting it at Fingil's arm and cursing at him in _Khuzdûl_, "You ninny-faced, sod-gnawing, shovel-head!" He grumbled and went back into speaking the Common of Eriador, "Of course we're not going to go marching right towards Rhûdaur! Do you think I was born on a steeple?" He furrowed his blue-hued eyebrows and leaned towards the man, now speaking in a strongly-accented Sindarin, "You think I didn't drop eaves while we were in Fornost? I know more than you think, my long-shanked friend. This dwarf's nose smells more than a moneybag full of coin, and it's nothing so beautiful as that."

He swatted the man's arm with his hood once more and then trudged back to his chair to resume a long-awaited pull from his tankard.


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## Ghorim (Jul 7, 2006)

Cowards and blowhards were equal liabilities to a healthy unit, in Dvarim's book. And here he was, saddled with one of each! 

_This blackbeard's excitability ought to get him skewered much worse than that pig he's about to devour! _

Dvarim dribbled his fingers upon the table in annoyance, resting his face upon his right fist as he eyed Kiril sideways. The commander busied his mind in trying to recall a good example of fatally foolhardy soldiering to sober his subordinate. Thankfully, the guide Zûbrim's words had a similar effect without being nearly as heavy-handed. 

The luster in Kiril's expression departed as Zûbrim made his grave and altogether cryptic prophecy. When the guide departed their company to speak with Fingil, Kiril placed his hands upon his hips as he eyed the bluebeard from across the room. 

"Well well... there goes the doomsayer once again! Always prepared for a funeral pyre, and yet we haven't one of us suffered a single scratch yet!"

Froli wanted to comment on the nasty scrape that an errant tree branch had inflicted upon his right hand, but wisely kept silent.

"'Just so you don't feel surprised when it happens?'" continued Kiril, mocking the guide's tone. "Ha! Little does he know that this dwarf is always prepared!"

"Ahem..." 

A barely discernable noise and faint tap on his shoulder turned Kiril about. There stood two haggard-looking halflings, each with a tenuous grip on the massive steel platter that served as the final bed for the soldier's roasted pig. There it lay in its appetizing repose, the flesh cooked to a fine brown, the eyes gazing blindly into ether from atop the flabby, snouted face, an apple shoved into the jaw for good measure. The servers clung to the dish depserately, with rags to protect their hands from the scalding metal handles, and yet the heat from the dish was still causing them a great deal of discomfort.

"Where do we put it?" asked the lead hobbit in a strained croak that sounded like a plea for mercy.

"Er..." Kiril turned to the dwarves' cluttered table, appearing rather caught off guard. "Well, don't just sit there, lads! Clear some space!"

The others, seeing the pitiable state of their servers, moved swiftly to brush aside the plates and bowls that still bore the stains of their appetizers. Down came the charred corpse upon the table with a seismic rumble, its sheer girth earning the respect of all those assembled. Though his purse had already been severely strained by the expense of this particular dish, Froli nonetheless gave each of the halflings a healthy tip for his efforts.

Kiril hastily settled into his chair to admire the hog, his belly's new best friend and adversary, before he readied himself to tear it apart with fork and knife.

"Always prepared, eh?" asked Halak with a wry grin. 

"Ahhh... stick a fork in that mouth of yours, already," grumbled Kiril. "I'm going to need a bit of help on this one."

"And on the walls tonight, if what Zûbrim says is true," said Halak, initiating the hostilities against the pig with a well-placed thrust of his fork. Froli and Boffin in tandem led the assault on the other side of the hog, effectively outflanking the dead beast.

"Now half a moment," said Kiril. "He didn't actually _say_ anything. He merely dropped hints about _something_ happening, something that he supposedly sees coming! That's how you sound like a prophet, Hal. You make with a few vagaries, keep your options open, and then twist your statements after the fact to make yourself appear wise."

Kiril punctuated his remark with his own stab into the fleshy main course. Halak chewed on his first sample of the hog thoughtfully.

"Well, at any rate, you'll need someone to keep you awake, what with all this pig that's soon to be in your belly. I'll fill that need."

"And that ought to be enough," cut in Dvarim from nearby. "I'll commit no more than four of this party to the watch tonight. The rest of us need to rest up, as Zûbrim says."

The old soldier nodded to the guide as he returned to the table to partake of his tankard. 

"Now... for those of you going out, I expect discipline and common sense from the lot of you. Should there be some provocation, you shall engage sensibly, and not get drawn out into the thick of things. If it is a wide scale incursion from the North, we are _leaving_ this area immediately. You will vacate your positions along the wall in such an event, and reconvene with the rest of the party to the East. This, need I remind you, is not our fight." 

"Should there be no incidents of note, you will complete a shift of sensible length and return here to take your rest. I don't want any of you lagging behind the rest of us on tomorrow's march. It forecasts to be a long day for the lot of us, and you all ought to expect more of the same from here until Khazad-dûm."

The others at the table had temporarily halted their eating and drinking for Dvarim's orders, and his stern, fatherly words brought forth submissive nods and a chorus of, "Aye, sir!" from his subordinates. 

"Now dispose of this damned pig already, you soft-bellied lot of gravel horders!"

Of course, the diners could do naught but oblige such a sharp-worded invitation. The hog never stood a chance.


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## chrysophalax (Jul 17, 2006)

Being both affronted and hungry, Fingil joined in. He pulled a large hunk of meat from the pig's shank, grabbed a large piece of bread to put it on, then sank down next to Kiril, all the while glaring at Zubrim. Kiril, never one to let a man (or dwarf) go thirsty, passed Fingil a brimming mug. With a quick nod of thanks, Fingil gulped it down. Carefully returning it to the table, he then leaned across and grabbed Zubrim by the shirtfront. "Let's get one thing straight, shall we? I have no need to chastised as though I were a youngling! Granted, I am no great age such as you, but I am wise enough in the way of my people. Understand?"

The table ( and those gathered around it) went very quiet, then talk resumed as though nothing had happened. Fingil once again tucked into his meal, having said what needed to be said. Behind the bar, old Butterbur heaved a sigh of relief, for he remembered many years before when this particular ranger had gotten his back up and it had taken a week to get window glass and new tables ordered and replaced.


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## Uminya (Jul 18, 2006)

Zûbrim glowered over the rim of his mug, leaving his grey shirt frumpled where Fingil had grasped it for the moment. He kept his eyes on the human and took a long drink, then set down his mug gently before moving his hands down to the bottom of his shirt and tugging down to smooth out the garment. With an icy tone in his voice, he laced his fingers together and the set them on the table as he spoke, "I did not speak to you as a youngling, human, and will continue to not do so as long as you stop speaking to me as though I were a cave-dwelling troll." The volume of his voice raised at the last few words, and stayed at that volume as he went on, "I've wandered the world since before it ever thought of you, and I will not be lectured on a land that I know quite well. This may be your home, but it was the home of others before, and before them were others. Do not think that in so short a span that you have become master of all you survey, human, because once we leave your happy little home here, the only thing we're going to have is eachother. So go ahead. Be the expert, for now. But I tell you that we are going into lands where nothing you know applies, so have an ear and an eye!"

Strangely enough, the dwarf stood up in his seat and bowed to the human, then hopped off, calling over his shoulder as he whirled about on a shod heel, "I'm going to the wall. Don't let pig and ale dull your wits too much." Zûbrim stepped over to the door, then turned around briefly, muttering, "I hope they haven't forgotten how to fight in the dark..." Pushing open the door, he took another bite from his apple and headed out into the murky night.

The air was thick with moisture, and the lamps of the streets glowed eerily in the heavy air. A fog was rolling in from the west, off the Downs, much to Zûbrim's frustration; already wisps of it were floating down the streets like ghostly birds. He made his way to the west gate, which lay between the village and the highway that ran from the south to Tharbad and north to Fornost. The guard seemed to have heard tell of dwarven assistance, and clapped him on the shoulder before gesturing to a ladder that leaned against the palisade, "On up there, ye'll be fine enough for a night o' watchin'! I've no doubt a narrow fella sech as yerself be havin' a hard time stayin' on the narrow plank, but have a mind! I've none of a mind for scrapin' ye off the 'Edge."

The guard turned around, chuckling to himself and resuming his post at the guardshack. Zûbrim hung his bow over one shoulder and then ascended the ladder, crawling onto the smoothly-planed gangway that jutted out from the backside of the wall. It seemed fairly new, judging by the woodwork. Maybe ten years old, if the planks' wear were a good indicator. He slapped the nearest post, which didn't move at all--to his satisfaction--and then nodded. There was a narrow shelf no more than eight inches wide that ran along the inside of the parapet, with regular holes in it that were obviously made for holding arrows. Standing on this, and leaning through a crenel, he found that he could easily shoot over the wall at...anything that he might happen to see that night.

He made himself comfortable, pulling the arrows from his quiver and dropping them into the hole, fingering the fletching idly as he waited for the others to arrive. After a time--as the fog flattened itself against the ground and seeped into the town--he could hear a small calamity in the dense air as a contingent of his companions finally made their way out of the inn. The stars above were hazy, distorted by the night's air slightly. They offered little comfort to him, and he turned his eyes down to watch the party as they approached and began clambering up the ladder, talking to eachother jovially still.

Zûbrim's mouth opened to scold them for talking so much, but the only thing that could be heard was the ear-splitting blast from what must have been a tremendous warhorn, its low quaver rolling through the valley of the Baranduin like thunder. The dwarf leapt up to his feet and peered out into the night, but saw nothing. Echoes came from all directions, but he was fairly sure that the sound had come from the south. There was a long, eerie silence, and the warriors--already having drawn their weapons--waited anxiously. They began to wonder if there was some trick of the night air playing with their minds when a high-pitched note came sailing in from the air to the north.

The call was not an answer: it was a challenge. The night had just begun.


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## YayGollum (Jul 19, 2006)

Truor, with his crossbow out and ready, sidestepped around on the wall, trying to get a better view. His vision wasn't the best, and he was still feeling a bit sick from not leaving the inn soon enough to miss witnessing the pig being devoured. He had never even taken the time to get to know any, but had always heard that they were surprisingly intelligent. When the second horn sounded, he automatically jerked his shield into readiness. 

After a couple of beats with no immediate threats making themselves known, he checked the faces around him, then looked down at the human guard that had greeted them. Seeing that the guy had also reacted to the bad news, Truor let a nervous grin loose and headed back down the ladder. "Looks like we are no longer needed as watchmen. After that, the city should be a lot more interested on defending itself, I'm sure. Ah, we don't have to rush out there to defend any Ranger's men, do we? I'll just be heading back to the inn, now. Must be sure that our companions have been alerted, of course!" 

Shadowflaps, who still hadn't seen any actual combatants yet, squawked a scoff at the guy and steeled himself on the wall, waiting for incoming information, and not stupid enough to fly too far yet.


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## Ghorim (Jul 19, 2006)

Halak had forgotten something... some bag or other, one of those nondescript items that were entirely too easy to misplace. It wasn't with the rest of his supplies inside the Prancing Pony, so he could only assume it was still lashed to one of the ponies, or else lost along the trail. So he found himself in the musk and filth of the inn's stables, wandering past row after row of identical equestrian rumps. Halak was looking for one of the shorter beasts housed here, but that was about all he had to go on. He had to enter more than a few stalls, tiptoeing around pungent booby traps to search for his missing bag, which led to a fair share of awkward conversations with the stable dwellers.

"Don't mind me, lad, just passing through..."

Naturally, it was the last stall that rewarded Halak with his marginal prize. This final pony was just as anonymous to him as all the others, but evidently it was one of the beasts that had accompanied him and the rest of the party all the way from Ered Luin. For there, lying beneath its discarded saddle, was that meaningless little brown bag. Within it dwelt a hodgepodge of little worth: spare packets of cram, a length of rope, as well as a few interesting rocks that Halak had stumbled upon along the journey. 

Perhaps collecting stones as trinkets was a bit of a boyish hobby, but this pastime had yielded at least one item of practical value in the past. As he beat a cautious retreat from the stall, Halak laid his axe upon the earthen floor of the stables and rummaged through his bag for the one particular stone that he sought. He knew it by feel, his hands grown intimate with its smooth surface. After a few moments, Halak’s fingers struck their goal: his whetstone, as pristine and efficient as the day he found it during a soggy morning’s jog.

The stone found, Halak tossed the bag back to the ground - unwittingly crushing his reserve supplies of cram beneath the collected stones - and once again took up his axe. The dwarf sat upon a crate that rested just outside one of the stalls, and drove the spiked pommel of his weapon deep into the ground to steady it. Now his well-practiced eye danced along the blade’s edge, searching for minute imperfections. He wanted his weapon immaculate for that night’s festivities.

Sharpening the blade in his hand was akin to keeping his father’s memory bright and vivid in his mind. 

_Your axe is all you have in this world, lad._

Halak smiled faintly. He would have something to say to that now.

_No, father. There are other things._

The army had been his father’s religion, his salvation and final burden. The father had invested himself in it fully, and though his young family was not forgotten, it remained secondary. How... and when did he lose sight? 

Halak wanted more than just this axe. He wanted to see his own form re-imagined in that of a child, his better traits combined with those of his lifelong love. A wife to extinguish the raging desires, to whisper away the night terrors, a bosom that Halak could collapse into when overcome by the weariness that always seemed to plague him. She would bear him a grandchild for his mother, bringing her the joy of which her twilight years had been so cruelly deprived. All of these fantasies whipped through the dwarf’s head as he rubbed the whetstone along the blade. This task was mere habit for him now. His thoughts could soar unfettered.

Once the axe’s edge met with his satisfaction, Halak slowly stood, grounding his mind for the coming hours. War. He was preparing for war. He had already pulled his tufts of dark brown hair into a tight braid that descended from the rear of his helmet like a tail. His hands, now steeled in gauntlets, settled into a familiar grip upon the axe handle. Halak eyed the weapon as he stood, inspected his posture, took a heavy step forward. He gazed dead ahead with that soldier’s ironheaded resolve. Now the axe began to move, at first in arcs as gentle and smooth as the arched ceilings of his home. The motions were economical, perfectly geometric, in short: thoroughly dwarvish. 

With his weapon, Halak sketched a blueprint for his battlefield designs. The speed increased; the diagram became more complex. And yet all the angles still had to add up, lest he leave a fatal opening in his defenses. He moved in circles across the stable floor, his axe losing its rock solid appearance with its increasing velocity. Aye, he felt ready for whatever was to come. The blade flew perfectly free, deadly in its graceful swoops, splitting air in twain... but instantly, shockingly, a jarring obstacle met and intercepted it. 

Halak’s eyes shot up, their meditative tranquility suddenly shattered. Another axe had split through his designs unnoticed, and now he found his weapon and this foreign blade locked in a stiff, martial embrace. There stood Thuri, with his venerable, stony gaze peering inquisitively upon the younger soldier’s frozen stance.


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## Ghorim (Jul 19, 2006)

“Decent form,” said the old soldier gruffly. “But your perceptiveness is sorely lacking.”

Halak felt his limbs melt into a casual stance as he saw that it was only his comrade and not some mysterious assailant. With a solid tug, he released his axe from the metallic entanglement.

“You’re getting stealthy in your old age, my friend Thuri!”

And yet the old soldier did not ease his posture. He took another step forward, inexplicably menacing in his air. Halak’s relieved expression fled.

“What’s this? You want a spar, now? My apologies, sir, but I just sharpened my blade, and I don’t much want to dull it without need.”

Nothing eased in Thuri’s demeanor. “Tell me, Halak... how much sleep have you gotten over the past week?”

Halak cocked his head, and slowly raised his weapon once more, as if to assist in warding off his superior’s words.

“I’ve gotten enough shuteye to keep me on my feet, don’t you worry.”

“And yet I’ve never seen you at rest since we departed Fornost. You’re always taking the first shift at guard, or keeping others company for theirs.”

“We’re all doing with less sleep than normal, Thuri. It’s been a rough slog.”

“You’re not fit for battle, Halak.”

Halak shook his head slowly, prickling at such an accusation. “Never say that of me, Thuri. I’m ready for my duty tonight. And if Arnor comes knocking, so let them! I’ll hold the line. Did I not prove myself to the company in the North? I held the front alongside all you graybeards. We didn’t sleep then, none of us did! Don’t pull me back.”

Thuri closed his eyes briefly and smiled softly, remembering the young Halak as he stood firm on the misty slopes, relaying orders along the line with the barks of a seasoned veteran. A thick fog erupted into the frigid, yellow air, bursting from the young, scruffy-bearded soldier’s mouth with each shout. They all whispered... wasn’t it just like Halrik was standing next to you? Wasn’t it just like Holmin?

The old soldier’s thoughts returned to the stables.

“I never questioned your abilities, or your history of service. But something has been hounding you for this whole march. And as it is, Halak, I don’t want you on the wall tonight.”

“I’m prepared, sir. I’m in fine fighting shape.” Halak’s axe was rising higher. 

Thuri lowered himself into an offensive stance, his weapon angled in a striking diagonal. 

“And even with no sleep, you’d be likely to think that. But it’s peculiar, when one goes without rest for a few days straight...”

Thuri took an aggressive step forward, prompting an instinctive swing from Halak. The elder soldier, no longer so fleet of foot, was nonetheless well out of the way by the time the blade passed by.

“... he doesn’t realize that his movements have slowed.”

Thuri struck this time, a conservatively placed blow aimed at Halak’s midsection. As anticipated, the younger soldier snared Thuri’s weapon, and with weapons locked once more, the two warriors pitted their weights against one another. At first, they seemed deadlocked, but gradually Halak’s footing began to give way. Sensing his advantage, Thuri sent Halak stumbling with a shove of relative ease. 

“His strength departs him, and yet still he does not realize.”

The old dwarf marched forward without remorse, his axe raised high, with the blade at head level. 

“And he does not react...”

Thuri rotated his axe blade, a quick glimmer of a movement that caught Halak’s gaze in a singular moment of distraction. The old dwarf saw that brief flick of his opponent’s eyes, and acted upon it, lowering his right shoulder and driving it into Halak’s chest. The young soldier fell backward into a pile of hay.

“... until it is too late.”

Halak coughed violently in a struggle to fill his lungs, sitting up briefly with the effort before falling back down upon his straw bed. Thuri stood over him, leaning on one of the stalls with a strangely casual air.

“Perhaps you could catch a few winks while you’re down there,” said Thuri, making one of his queerly gruff-sounding jokes.

Halak coughed again, and despite the odd and humiliating nature of his predicament, managed to fire a volley in return. “Well... I think you woke me up right good. I’m off to the wall, then!”

Thuri’s axe made a slow descent to hover just above Halak’s throat. “Please, do reconsider.”

---

“There’s been a change of plans,” said Thuri as he marched up to the table. Boffin, Froli, Brian and Owin had all scuttled off to bed at Zûbrim’s suggestion. The guide himself was already at the wall. Those who remained noticed a haggard-looking Halak approach just behind Thuri, still rubbing his chest and coughing a bit.

“I’m taking Halak’s place on the wall this evening.”

Kiril stood up, looking aghast. “Hal! What did this old badger say to you?”

Halak gave Kiril a brief glance and simply shook his head, appearing astounded all around. “He pulled rank on me.”

And with that, Halak was off to the party’s room, carrying his axe and that useless brown bag with him. 

Thuri glanced to Malkin as Halak departed. “Make sure that he gets some sleep tonight.”

Malkin glanced up at his elder with an amused smirk. “What? Should I tuck him in, then?”

Thuri raised a finger and clicked his tongue admonishingly. “Too much time around Kiril!”

The blackbeard himself, meanwhile, was looking rather cross at this last minute change of the guard roster. He knew Halak had been forced into bed for the night. Only Thuri was crafty enough to pull a reversal like that. Kiril eyed the old dwarf curiously as they each geared up for the shift at watch, but Thuri revealed no secrets. The two had fought together for many years now. They were friends enough, but Kiril only knew as much about Thuri as the old fellow wanted him to know. 

_Dry wit. Smart fighter. Smart talker. Must’ve had an education, what with all those words he tosses around. Takes charge in a jam. A family dwarf. His younger daughter looks good enough to take back to the barracks._

That was the extent of his archives on Thuri. Of course, the graybeard knew a great deal more about Kiril...

“Go on!” ordered Dvarim sharply. “Zûbrim’s waiting for you others at the West gate. Complete your shift. And remember, should things go awry, engage _sensibly_.”

Out went Thuri, Kiril, Truor and Shadowflaps into the night. The lights of Bree and the thickness of the air made the stars seem a bit more distant that evening. The night clouds enveloped the moon in an ambiguous swirl. There was an ominous mood that seemed to hang just over their heads, but it could not dampen Kiril’s spirit. He continued to talk in animated, bouncing syllables. His voice, reassuring Truor that pigs did indeed deserve to be carved up and swallowed, was the only sound save for the crunches of earth beneath their boots. The western boundary of the township loomed ahead, a dark, hulking mass in the foggy night. Truor and Thuri proceeded immediately up the ladder, while Kiril tarried for a few moments to converse with the guard in his shack. After a time, he went for the ladder and clambered up to join his companions, calling out as he went.

“Where’s that Zûbrim? I want him to see the expression on my face when _exactly_ what I expect to happen happens, which is, of course...”

Nothing? Oh no, Kiril would not have so restful an evening. The horns sounded. They were all in for a workout.


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## chrysophalax (Jul 19, 2006)

It hadn't been long enough even for Fingil to finish his third mug of ale when he heard the sound he had never truly expected to hear. The sound of horns, not just any horns mind you, but those being used to assemble troops. The hair went up on the back of his neck and he motioned to Dvarim, who looked at him with a cautious eye. "Aye, Ranger? What is it?" Fingil's glance shut his mouth for an instant. "Listen. Now is not the time to quarrel. Did you hear those horns? This town is about to be scouted out and some of our people are out there in plain enough sight for my people to see. Two of the king's sons have moved far more quickly than I could have dreamed and now we're caught." His mind raced as he tried to think how best to proceed. "Send Boffin and another to the stables for the mounts, then send another to the walls. Have them meet us by the southern wall, in the back alley of the Sleeping Wyvern. From there we can escape the town and find ready concealment. Do it now!"

Fingil drew Butterbur aside quickly, telling him they would be leaving westward, in case any should ask after him or a party of dwarves. He knew the old man would comply, as they had been fast friends for years and their fathers before them. Behind him, he heard Dvarim barking out orders in his own tongue and blessed the dwarf for using his natural caution. Out the door he flew, heading for the western gate. He had to make certain that the guard there would be able to vouch for his hasty flight if questioned. _Beren's Hand! If I've brought misery down on these people because my nephews might be seeking me..._ Fingil pushed the guilty thoughts aside as he clung to the shadows, hoping to meld into flickering, torch-lit darkness. He had to reach the southern wall ahead of the others in order to prise open the old ivy-hung door that had served him well on several occasions. From there, with any luck, they would be able to escape onto the Downs before dawn.


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## Ghorim (Jul 27, 2006)

Dvarim stood from his chair, seeming to draw all of his years and commanding power about him like a cloak. With one flick of the leader’s sunken eyes, Malkin shot to his feet, instinctively bringing his left hand up in a stiff salute. 

 "To the Western walls, young one!" cried Dvarim in Khuzdul. "Lead our comrades to the South, where the Sleeping Wyvern lies. Do not relent in your pace!" 

 Using the language of his home seemed to give Dvarim an otherworldly sense of command. When speaking Westron, that silly common language of the Men, he found his tongue blunted by its foreign cadence and illogical expressions. In Khuzdul, each word seemed to slide perfectly into its proper position, like soldiers falling into formation. He was master over the syllables now, his authority undeniable.

 Malkin, as young soldiers are wont to do, executed the command with unflinching zeal. He shot off, a speeding projectile even with armor and axe to hinder him. He weaved between the tables, crashed out the door (causing Butterbar to audibly wince), and cut through the night’s fog in a righteous sprint. 

 Dvarim was engaged in his own race now, completely ignoring Fingil as he bounded up the stairs toward the party's room. Much to his surprise, he found Halak standing in the hall, completely equipped for battle. Dvarim felt divided between his approval for Halak's soldierly preparedness and his disdain for the fellow's obstinate refusal to get his much-needed rest. The commander had hoped that dispatching Thuri to humble the young soldier would have had some notable affect on him, but the fellow clearly hadn’t even climbed into bed.

 _I shall likely have to bash his head in myself to get him to sleep__, thought Dvarim grimly._

 “I heard a commotion downstairs, sir,” said Halak, sensing that the night was about to get a bit more interesting. “What’s the news?”

 With a bit of a disapproving squint, Dvarim marched right past his subordinate.

 "Come, Halak. That heel Fingil has brought two of his vulture nephews down upon our heads. We must rouse the civilians. You and Boffin shall round up the ponies and head for the Sleeping Wyvern with the rest of us. Fingil wants us to drive south to avoid our pursuers."

 Halak cursed to himself as Dvarim pushed open the portal to the party's room. "Why do we insist on bringing him along? We're now a moving target due to his flight from duty! Zûbrim can lead us out of this mess just as well, sir."

 Dvarim spun about, and obscured by the darkness of the slumbering room, he took on a horrific appearance, a looming storm cloud bathed in shadow.

 "I am not so dishonorable as to abandon a Man in his starkest hour of distress. Fingil may have failed in his station, but we would likewise fail in ours were we to throw him to the hounds. Do not forget, we are defenders first and foremost."

 Halak did not have a positive reaction to this lecture, but Dvarim had no interest in gauging it. He turned toward the room's interior and bellowed with a troll's strength, "Boffin!"

 The gale gust that accompanied his shout sent not just Boffin but all of the four sleepers tumbling out of their warm beds. Dvarim glanced over this motley assortment with an annoyed glare as they struggled to kick their way out of their bed sheets on the floor.

 "Boffin!" he repeated. "Follow Halak to the stables. Froli, Owin, Brian! Follow me. Don't forget to take your bags! We're on our way out _now_, lads! We've got to be miles away from this inn by dawn!"

 Trying desperately to wrap their sleepy wits around what was being said to them, the four dwarves groped for their boots and belongings. Halak moved swiftly to assist Boffin in his search, and wound up practically dragging the fellow and his bags out of the room. 

 "You're going to have to take the lead with the ponies," muttered Halak as he and Boffin hurried down the stairs. "I don't get on well with things that have four or more legs."

 Boffin nodded vaguely, only now beginning to grasp what the party was doing, and just what particular role he was expected to play in that intended course of action.

 “You awake, there?” asked Halak, delivering a gentle elbow to the dwarf’s shoulder. Boffin nodded more emphatically this time, and the soldier was satisfied.

 The two flashed by a bewildered looking Butterbar, and the portly fellow's expression was so harried and pitiable that Boffin felt compelled to double back and give a bow.

 “Our humblest thanks for the hospitality,” he said reverently. 

 Halak, who had continued in his march for the door, had to stop and twist around awkwardly, reaching out to grab the exceedingly round dwarf’s collar.

 “Come along! No time for that!” he said sharply, once again taking Boffin along with him as he made for the exit. 

 “We’ll be back someday, don’t you worry!” called Halak over his shoulder to the innkeeper as he manhandled the door on his way out. 

 For a second time in only a few minutes, Butterbar worried that the battered wooden slab was going to fall off its hinges. 

 “I really ought to get that thing dwarf-proofed,” he muttered, searching his bar for a draught that might calm his nerves a bit. Judging the situation from the behavior of Fingil and his stunted companions, the poor innkeeper was already begging for the dawn to come and chase away this clammy night...


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## Ghorim (Jul 27, 2006)

Kiril’s hand stopped just short of the next rung on the ladder when the horns sounded. He froze instinctively as the violent calls from beyond the township faded into a wide and barren plain of silence. Footsteps on the gangway above. The blackbeard felt battle’s terrific avalanche of energy cascading through him, though the enemy was not yet in sight. He rushed up the ladder hastily, poking his head up just above the walkway upon which the others stood. Spotting the reedy hunter to his right and his stockier companions to his left, Kiril hoisted his axe up through the opening and laid it upon the gangway. He hurriedly pulled himself up after it, standing alongside the others in the mist, all sounds suddenly dead between them.

Kiril glanced among the others, then tried to peer out through the nearest crenel himself.

“Any of you see anything?” 

He asked in as quiet a voice as he could manage, which amounted to a soft shout. 

“Not a single body,” said Zûbrim quietly. “But to these ears, those warcalls came one each from North and South.” 

“Two separate factions, it sounds like,” muttered Thuri, attempting in vain to peer out over the wall. “Well, come, we must pull back to the inn.”

Truor had beaten the old dwarf to the punch, having climbed back down the ladder to speak with the guard below. 

“Half a moment,” grunted Kiril. “Why in the name of Azaghal’s axe did we come out here only to go flying off at the first sound of trouble? I thought we were out here to engage the enemy if they came.”

Thuri clicked his tongue sharply, once again amazed by Kiril’s wargheaded approach to battle.

“_Sensibly_, Kiril. Dvarim said ‘sensibly.’ That means we don’t engage them unless they engage us directly.” The old dwarf moved for the ladder, indicating that he saw no reason for further discussion on the matter. “This is the ‘strategic retreat’ that you were crowing about earlier, Kiril. These two armies that assail us now have a definite quarry: your new friend, the ranger. If they pounce at him here, the citizens of Bree will stand in harm’s way. We must move Fingil out of this area immediately. To attempt a stand here would be folly.”

And now Thuri’s head disappeared as he descended back to the ground below, which he trusted infinitely more than the wooden concoction of Bree’s engineering. Zûbrim followed, moving as if he’d rehearsed all of these steps before. His prophecy had come true. Flustered and feeling denied the gory ecstasy of combat, and still more frustrated to be proven wrong by Zûbrim, Kiril once again brought up the rear. Heading down the ladder, however, he heard the guide remark from below:

“Not to worry, Kiril. You’ll sully that axe of yours ere the morning’s light.”

The three dwarves came upon Truor and the guard, the latter of whom was just moving off to marshal some more support along the walls. They were about to head back for the Prancing Pony together when a sudden commotion of footfalls sounded from the gray veil of the mist ahead. Kiril and Thuri instinctively stepped up with axes at the ready.

“It’s just one,” said Thuri, “a runner.”

And the runner soon emerged, revealing himself to be an excited looking Malkin. 

“Comrades!” he cried, with only half a lung of air behind his words. “I’m under orders... *cough*... to lead you to the South gate... *wheeze*... to convene with the rest of our party... at the Sleeping Wyvern.”

“South?” said Kiril. “Isn’t that where one of the horns blew from? Why are we cutting that way?”

“Not much choice to it,” said Zûbrim. “North and West lead us back toward the belly of Arnor. I’d wager good coin that they’re expecting us to bolt dead East. We’re going to have to puncture a front, in any event, and the South’s our best chance of escape.”

“Hmm... lovely,” said Kiril, and the exhilarating notion of “puncturing a front” did indeed sound positively romantic to him in that moment.

“I’d still like to have a better notion of what we’re charging into,” said Thuri cautiously. As if sensing the moment was ripe, Shadowflaps came winging over just then to land on his master’s shoulder. The old dwarf glanced at Truor. “Hmm... perhaps your winged companion could do some scouting for us to the South?” 

“Depends how lucky he feels,” said Truor, craning his neck away from Shadowflaps to get a good, honest look at the raven.

“Well, consult with him, then. But for now, let us cut a brisk trail south!” 

Though Thuri did not know exactly where the Sleeping Wyvern lay, he figured that he could stumble upon it easily enough, and led the group in a lively jog for Bree’s south quarter. Despite his obvious age, he didn’t seem stiff or burdened in his movements as his stout form chugged through the dead layers of drifting gray. The others followed in tight formation, and Kiril and Malkin suddenly felt as if their aged comrade were once again leading them on a typical morning jog back home. 

And yet these weren’t training exercises to which they were headed. The field of battle lay ahead, and for Malkin, this would be his first visit. The young dwarf felt the faint prickles of his nerves, but to his credit concealed his worries rather well. He gripped his axe with iron clamps for hands, and put one foot in front of the other as he followed close behind Thuri. 

_Don’t think,_ thought Malkin, against his own orders. _Don’t think._


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## Uminya (Jul 31, 2006)

A tall form rushed out of the _Pony_ as the party shuffled down the street towards the _Wyvern_, which stood a bit lower on this shallow end of Bree-Hill. Zûbrim glanced over his shoulder momentarily, then nudged Thuri's arm, "Luckily for him, they didn't bring their cavalry here, eh?" He grinned in the darkness and remained in step with the rest of the group as they came down to the inn.

Gesturing to the vague shapes beyond the high hedge, he spoke to those around him. "You can see the Kingsway running down between that cleft in the trees; the two blobs of shadow there in front of the horizon, if you've an eye in the night." His hand moved a bit over towards the right.

"That's where I reckon the southern group is, on that little shoulder with the trees. They're most likely not expecting anyone to come out the gates, so they won't have thrown pickets out--yet." He rubbed his beard, "Ought to cut through those trees on the left. There are likely to be a few sentries..." A grin in Malkin and Kiril's direction, "...but that's nothing we can't handle. We just need to dodge the main body."

A small, shrill horn could be heard, sounding from the west. Thuri's gaze swept over to it, "That sounds like an alarm to me..."

All eyes moved over to the direction of the trumpet, just as Zûbrim chimed in, "I hope he can run." He gave Truor and Shadowflaps a grin, "Feeling lucky enough to take a peek at the south road as well as our long-shanked friend?"


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## YayGollum (Aug 1, 2006)

Shadowflaps, all business, knew when his talents were useful and flew off with a reassuring squawk. Truor kept checking on his weapons and armour, running plenty of scenarios through his head on how to escape. When Zubrim spoke to him, he nodded and stomped after Fingil in a loping manner. "I hope that someone is bringing my horse!"

In the stables, Boffin grinned as he helped and probably had to direct Halak with their hasty exit. Once he was awake and supplied with adrenaline, he couldn't stop grinning while picturing himself as the hero. He even slipped into elvish a few times while ordering the animals, on the way. While manuevering the line through the nervous traffic ---> "Ah, the enemy is at the gates as we rush to protect our mounts and supplies! Making our way to our party of warriors! Oh, I hope that we can just slip out! Hm. But that wouldn't be very epic, now would it?"


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## chrysophalax (Aug 4, 2006)

"Amlaith, you young fool!" Fingil muttered heatedly under his breath. A lone horn sounded in the distance once again. He recognised the call as one of searching. It seemed that several men had gotten separated from the main force, possibly a scouting party. Rangers rarely use horns except in dire need, for theirs was the way of stealth and secrecy, not the open blunderings of ordinary men. Inwardly he cringed, thinking how far his people had fallen already if this campaign was to be pursued sa one of open warfare. All the more reason to get out before being caught!

His hands were beginning to bleed as the last of the stubborn ivy yielded. It had been a job to prise it away from the gate from beneath, so that it could be replaced in a single sheet of green of prying eyes came looking. Suddenly, with a flapping and a fluttering, Shadowflaps landed on Fingil's shoulder. He gasped, shaken, then chuckled nervously as the yellow eye glinted irritably at him. "Hail, my sable friend. I hope your watchful eyes have not found any of my kin too close by. If you will, go tell friend Truor that Boffin and that bright-eyed elven pony of his should head out the west gate, the way we came in. None of my folk will question a dwarf on business, I'm certain. He can lead the other ponies and Anthrax will, I'm sure be able to either find TRuor once he's frre, or will come along withe others. In eiether case, the rest must come through here. Even ironshod boots won't show much in this hard soil and I will do my best to cover what trail we do lead, but we must be swift. Tis not long until the first dim light of dawn and we must be within the mists of the Downs before then! Go!"

With a squawk, Shadowflaps left his shoulder and flew back over the city wall. Fingil watched the bird as it flew, hoping that his comrades were moving fast. He wanted no armed conflict this close to Bree, for there were people here he trusted and that trusted in him. Looking away to the south-west he saw with relief that the sky had not yet begun to lighten. Perhaps they would make it after all, though the Downs was a desperate, deadly shelter. Even those who purported to know them beyond doubt had gotten lost, only to be found weeks later, babbling and mindless, if at all. He hoped that the ponies would be brave enough to be led into the swirling mists, though he had heard tales of horses refusing to budge after crossing onto the Downs.

Putting his fears aside, Fingil pushed against the door and after a few moments it gave. He stepped into the putrid back alley of the Wyvern and strained his ears, listening for the sound of approaching steps.


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## Ghorim (Aug 10, 2006)

The dreary night gave a soggy slap to the faces of Halak and Boffin as they hurried out the door and made a beeline for the stables. Distantly they could hear the confused sounds of Bree's recently roused villagers attempting to discern what unpleasantness had befallen their bustling but generally inoffensive township. The soldier seemed to be literally running circles around his pudgy charge, at times rushing ahead to ensure that some unexpected ambush did not lie in wait for them, at others doubling back to see if they were being followed. For all Halak knew, the pursuing armies were already inside the walls, already knew that Fingil had been accompanied here by dwarves, were already scouring the avenues and alleyways for anything that wore a beard. But no adversaries revealed themselves. They were merely phantoms in the mist.

Once inside the stables, the site of his humiliation at the hands of Thuri, Halak rushed for the farthest stall on the right. He now knew this beast was one of theirs; the rest he counted on Boffin to recognize. The soldier gave the pony a quick slap on the rear and took up its saddle. Lucky for him this was a relatively placid creature. Were it a mule, or a more lively stallion, Halak would have received two hoofmarks permanently stamped into his breastplate in recompense for such rude behavior.

"Up and at 'em, lad! We've got to make trails South!"

Halak shoved the saddle atop the mount (backwards, it should be noted), and grabbed a tight hold of its reins, trying to yank the pony about in a brisk about-face. As gentle-hearted as the pony was, it wasn't about to stand for this sort of treatment, and refused to budge. Utterly dismayed by this insubordination, Halak gave a few more unsuccessful tugs. His short temper already at its end, the soldier unleashed a quick tirade in Khuzdul upon the pony's ears, his speech colorfully spiced with a stunning variety of profanities. By the time he finished and glanced over his shoulder to appeal to Boffin for assistance, he saw that his companion already had the rest of the party's ponies lined up in a neat little procession down the stable's main aisle. 

Boffin chuckled in what Halak considered a strange showing of merriment. He moved past the soldier, first reversing the saddle, and then whispering a few sweet nothings in the pony's left ear. Around it came, stunningly subservient to his gentle entreaties. 

"Bloody Angmar," muttered Halak. "These creatures are damn near impossible."

"Not if you take the time to get to know them," retorted Boffin, moving to the head of the pony procession to lead them out into the streets.

Along the way, it became evident the Boffin's excitement was mounting.

"Ah, the enemy is at the gates as we rush to protect our mounts and supplies! Making our way to our party of warriors! Oh, I hope that we can just slip out! Hm. But that wouldn't be very epic, now would it?"

Halak shook his head, his eyes still bouncing about the streets as their miniature equestrian parade moved past several apprehensive-looking citizens of Bree. "Get your head out of the storybooks, Boffin! 'Epic' has nothing to do with it. Our job is to get you civvies out of here in one piece. No need to have another Battle of Unnumbered Tears just to accomplish that."

Boffin seemed to recede slightly at Halak's harsh tone, returning his attentions to the ponies, directing them in what must have been three or four different languages. One of those tongues, with its gently flowing cadence, immediately caught the soldier's attention.

"That's not... Elvish, is it?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder with raised brows. 

"Oh!" said Boffin with a start. "Ahem... well..."

"Where'd you pick up a leafy tongue like that?"

Boffin seemed to digging for an explanation, but luckily for him they had now arrived at the Sleeping Wyvern, and gazing ahead, Halak spotted what appeared to be most of the party gathered in the rather unsavory-looking (and smelling) alley behind it. 

"Never mind it," he said to Boffin. "What's the plan, then?" he called out in Khuzdul to the shadowy forms of his companions.

About half a dozen pursed lips produced a massive, "Shhh!" in response to Halak's booming question.

"Oh! Aye..." he muttered quietly, adjusting his helmet in embarrassment as he, Boffin, and all of the mounts squeezed into the alley with the others.

"Untenable!" remarked Dvarim in annoyance at the sudden crush of bodies. "Where's that dratted Fingil?"

"Close by!" came a voice from the misty night, and the group turned about to see the fog seemingly birth Fingil into their presence. 

The ranger quickly summarized his plan to the others, though Shadowflaps had by now already returned and informed Truor of the whole thing. In all, there wasn't much to it: Boffin takes the ponies out the West gate, the rest of us leave out the recently de-ivyed South door. Zûbrim nodded his approval and quickly chipped in his analysis of the enemy's position to the South, which Shadowflaps confirmed via Truor as correct. The opposition's sentries lay in the clump of trees to the East, and they were ripe for the picking.

Dvarim saw that it was now his turn to boil everything down into something concrete and operable for his subordinates. He had half a mind to suggest that all of the other civilians go with Boffin out the West gate, so that he and his soldiers wouldn't have so much dead weight to drag through a battle zone. But he wanted to keep the non-combatants close, for he had full faith in the ability of his troops to protect them. Left on their own, however, there was no telling what sort of peril those plainclothes fools might bumble into.

"Everything sounds to be in order for our departure. I should think that two of my troops should be sufficient to handle their sentinels," he smiled with a certain militant glee as he looked over the four capable fighters that he could choose from. Naturally, they all tried to step forward at once, causing a terrible jumble in the cramped quarters of the alley.

"Allow me to go, sir!" said Kiril, a bloodthirsty zest dripping from his words. "You won't need to send any others if I'm allowed to handle matters out there."

"Nae," said Dvarim quickly. "That's exactly what worries me. You'll try to engage their main force all on your lonesome, and bring the full brunt of their numbers crashing down upon the rest of our heads. I require discipline."

Kiril bristled at what he considered a hasty and uniformed declaration that he lacked precision in combat, but Halak was already making his wishes known.

"Then allow me to go with him, sir. Kiril and I work best together."

Dvarim gave Halak a cursory glance and then shook his head. "Nae, I shall not send you ahead, Halak, and I believe you know why."

Halak blinked in surprise, but of course knew what Dvarim spoke of. 

_Well don't that just figure!_ he thought angrily. _I do without sleep better than anyone, but he and Thuri think I'm somehow going to lose my focus in battle. A load of warg's dung, that is!_


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## Ghorim (Aug 10, 2006)

Dvarim's glance now migrated to the eldest and most junior of his subordinates. He knew that Thuri was capable and prepared, as always. But what of this precocious youngster Malkin? Dvarim probed the lad's expression and posture, his old hawk's eyes piercing the shadow and fog of the night to analyze the youth's readiness. Malkin gamely returned his commander's exacting gaze.

_He's putting on a tough front,_ thought Dvarim,_ but he's antsy all over._

The lad's eyes, trembling slightly and blinking too frequently, were the most obvious flaw in Malkin's facade. There was no mistaking it: it was a first-timer's look. Without asking, Dvarim knew that Malkin had never tasted battle before. Many a commander would have refused to send him out for that inexperience alone, but as Dvarim saw it, how else was the lad to get his whiskers wet? It was a simple enough operation, and the boy would have the granite-steady Thuri to help on his wing. It would be a fine confidence-booster for the chap.

"Malkin! Thuri!"

Two calls of "aye, sir!" one aged and gravelly, the other young and slightly nervous, rang out in obedient response.

"You are to be our vanguard in our drive South. You lay low any foe who dares stand in your way!"

Fingil, who had been hesitating up until now, cut in. "If it can be avoided, I'd like to see no lives taken so close to Bree-proper."

Dvarim gave a stony and irritated look to the ranger, before turning back to his vanguard duo. "Well, then try to disarm or otherwise debilitate them. True enough, I'm not too keen on the idea of killing Men. But they're our enemies now, and you'd all best show no restraint in fulfilling your duties."

Dvarim now turned to glance among Halak, Kiril, Truor and Fingil. "The four of you are to assist me in protecting our civilians. I want a tight formation, lads. If you have to engage, don't stray too far from the main body, and collapse back into your position as quickly as possible. Fingil and I shall take the front, Kiril shall cover the East flank, Halak the West, and Truor shall take the rear. I don't want a hair on any of these civvies out of place once we're out of the thick of it."

The old commander now turned to the four civilians who would be accompanying the drive South.

"You should not have to use them, but keep whatever weapons you possess drawn and at the ready in case something should go awry. I need all of you moving quickly, so run at your swiftest!"

Froli seemed to blanche at the remark about sprinting, but especially fretted over his lack of a proper weapon.

"Ah... but, Sir Dvarim, if I may be so bold as to remark... that I lack any sort of item with which to defend myself."

Halak moved in to settle the noble, knowing that Dvarim had more important matters with which to concern himself.

"Like I told you before, Sir Froli, just use your walking stick!"

"B-but... I'd never wish to taint it with so... _brutish_ an act! Besides, I'd hardly think it would be effective..."

"Fine, then. Take my dagger," said Halak, drawing the blade from its sheath at his hip. "I never use it, anyway."

Froli seemed to withdraw from the sight of the weapon as he might from a severed head. "B-but, Sir Halak! I've never used a blade before in my life... well, save to cut up a mutton roast now and then. Still! I'd have no idea how to..."

"Listen!" said Halak, pointing to the blade. "This is the stabbing end." He flipped the dagger about so that the blade faced downward, and pointed to the knob that protruded above his hand. "This is the end you handle. Any questions?" 

He extended the weapon to Froli without awaiting an answer, and the noble reluctantly took hold of the dagger's handle, eyeing the weapon with a creased and sweaty brow.

Dvarim, meanwhile, had turned his attentions to Boffin. 

"Exit the West Gate with our mounts, and once you are past the ranger forces, make your way South. Once we are past the Southern contingent, we shall dispatch Shadowflaps to seek you out and then lead you to our location."

Finally, the commander's gaze came full circle to Thuri and Malkin. "Get going, then! And don't worry about the rest of us. We'll follow not long behind you. Just ensure that our path is clear, and keep moving as fast as you can!"

Before the two could depart, they received a fair deal of wishes for good luck in battle. Halak and Kiril were especially vocal in addressing Malkin, the young upstart whom they'd both come to see as something of a younger sibling. He was going to do the whole company proud, they said.

Malkin and Thuri then marched ahead, with Fingil accompanying them to show where the Southern exit lay. The others eventually followed as well, giving a slightly nervous-looking Boffin an extended chorus of well wishes as they went.

As they stood just before the closed door, Thuri put a hand on Malkin's shoulder, looking at him dead-on.

"Limbs or midsection. That's what you're aiming for. Just knock 'em over, if you can. But keep running, that's the important thing. I'm not going to be far off. Holler if you need help. But I don't expect you to come calling." The old dwarf smiled, though it was not the grandfatherly sort of grin that he often bestowed upon his juniors. He himself now appeared to be a youngster, eager for the imminent thrill of battle, in all of its fury and confusion.

Malkin appeared to stand more steadily, now that he knew what he had to do.

"I'll hold up my end," said the youth with a fresh wind of confidence. "Shall we?"

"After you," said Thuri, nudging open the door.

With his path clear, Malkin didn't hesitate. He was off on his arrow sprint once again. Thuri paused just long enough to cast a grin Fingil's way.

"It'll be like a quiet jog in the woods for the rest of you."

And then he too was through the breach and off into the night, his heavy boot claps joining in harmony with Malkin's as the pair of soldiers entered the tree line...


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## chrysophalax (Aug 11, 2006)

Fingil laid a hand on the headstall of Pooftop as Boffin made ready to lead his charges to the West Gate. He looked up with concern into the eager dwarf's eyes for a moment. "You seem ot have a reasonable head on your shoulders, Boffin, so listen to me closely. As soon as you're out the gate, follow the city wall closely to the South. Once the wall turns away East, continue on straight as you can for nearly two miles until you see a large withered oak that was lightning-struck years ago, just to the left of the road. Head up and over the bank to your right, then all of you wait for us there and do _not_ move from that position! I cannot stress that enough. I cannot afford to miss you in the mists that will be creeping from the direction of the Downs. Be brave of heart and keep the ponies calm, for there are many evils that dwell in the mist, waiting for the unwary." He then clapped the elven-pony on the rump and watched as the small party headed off.

"May the blessings of the Valar go with you. " He whispered, then turned to Dvarim as he gave orders to his troops. "If it can be avoided, I'd like to see no lives taken so close to Bree-proper." he said and received a glower in return. Fingil listened to his instructions, then led the way out of the gate, pausing only to restore the ivy hanging as near to its original state as the darkness allowed. He set off at a ground-eating pace, determined to catch up to Dvarim. It had to be made plain to the commander exactly what type of enemy they were facing. Indeed, he was straining his ears even as he ran, knowing that every moment they remained undetected was precious. He wanted no blood, dwarven or mannish on his conscience.

Dvarim cast a sullen look at Fingil as the man drew even with him as they ran. "Dvarim, I know these men. They are as subtle as the Elven-folk in their woodcraft and nearly as deadly hand-to-hand. We _must_ steer clear! The Barrow Downs we're heading for is a place of ill-repute for my people and they will not think to look there. You must pass the word that once we reach the outer rim of the Downs, you must stick close and allow none to wander off. You will all be safe as long as all of you do as I say. There can be no discussion. If worse comes to worst however, have no fear that I will fail to protect those of this company, I give you my word."


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