The Eastern Clans

[Ciryaher]

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.

[YayGollum]

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.

[Ciryaher]

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?"

[YayGollum]

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.

[Ciryaher]

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?"

[Ghorim]

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...

[Ghorim]

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.

[YayGollum]

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."

[Ciryaher]

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?"

[Ghorim]

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.

[Ciryaher]

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."

[YayGollum]

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."

[Ghorim]

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."

[Ciryaher]

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?"

[YayGollum]

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.

[Ghorim]

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.

[Ghorim]

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.

[Ciryaher]

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.

[YayGollum]

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.

[Ghorim]

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.

[Ghorim]

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...”

[Ciryaher]

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.

[Ghorim]

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?"

[YayGollum]

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.

[Ghorim]

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.

[YayGollum]

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!

[Ciryaher]

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.

[YayGollum]

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!"

[Ghorim]

“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.

[Ghorim]

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…

[YayGollum]

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.

[Ciryaher]

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.

[chrysophalax]

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.

[Ghorim]

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.

[Ghorim]

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...

[YayGollum]

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."

[chrysophalax]

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.

[Ghorim]

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!"

[YayGollum]

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.

[Ghorim]

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