The warhammer on his back moved.
It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible but restless, terribly restless.
With the first blood spilled, any weapon receives a soul. That is what the Noldor used to say in the Elder Days. A soul tiny but dark and dangerous, imprisoned forever in a weapon never to escape. A soul created by blood, and forever thirsty for more blood.
Wielding darkness... Forcing it to smash through the servants of darkness.
Ráolor turned to the fire.
He felt some sort of compassion with that soul, for they too were all locked in a small dwarven cave.
Themodir taking a shovel and from time to time going outside to free the entrance from snow...
Sergeant Daegond lying on his bed, snoring as if the Dagor Dagorath itself had finally come to pass...
Lord Tindir sitting at the table, pondering about future plans...
Parnard the Ambassador standing in front of the fire, drinking wine, chatting with an unknown elf maiden...
Himwen, standing quietly in a corner, eating soup...
Annunghil the brave talking to Makanare the blacksmith...
Brasseniel of Mirkwood, gazing at him suspiciously...
Norliriel 's voice, sounding bright and clear, creating visions about lost Eregion...
Yrill his sister-at-arms, moving through the narrow cave, restless...
Fingolrin, sitting in a corner, watching them at dice play in amusement...
Afwald, their host checking barrels in the entrance room...
Thorgest sitting on his bed, stroking his beard...
These moments rushed through Ráolor's head like a vortex of images.
It had been a long day and an eventful evening.
He moved to a corner, careful not to wake up anybody and sat down, leaning his back against the cold wall.
Time to rest the body...
After a while his opened eyes became empty, as his mind prepared to travel on the strange roads of the elven world of dreams.
