dalbran

The inn came to halt in the early hours of the morning. Gone was the hustle and bustle of Dwarves working the kitchen, and the clear clank of mugs brought together. Every step Dalbran took seemed herculean, every croak of the wooden floorboard seemed to shatter against the walls of the hall, and shimmer onwards into the rooms. The Dwarf huddled down into the tunnels leading to the Dwarven dwelling beneath, and into the unfinished hall of carved stone. As he expected, his brothers were asleep, snoring and huffing loudly from their bedrooms. Just as planned. 
 

Daurrie, the youngest of the sons of Gurni, had once more forgotten to pick up the order of fresh cheese that was awaiting them at the markets of Bree. Lunch was served and the young Silvan handed over the rest of the tavern business to Dal, hoping to be able to rush to Bree and pick up the forgotten crate before the inn would close for the day.

(A continuaution of In Your Room, part 1)

Some few days after the company’s return from Angmar.

A flutter of fabric, over the stairs. Cloaked. Hooded.

“Ye know. Lassie, sometimes I reckon fate has it in for me! Y’know what I mean? Findin’ an Elf, in this burned piece of land? What’s and Elf doin’ her an’way? They’ve got no trees here. Perhaps... Aye, perhaps he got all sad ‘n’ the like, methinks he was goin’ to the sea but got lost? He’s not exactly bright, from what Breezelooker told me.” 
 

Some few days after the company’s return from Angmar.

Disclaimer: The following piece features graphic and violent content. It is meant to describe the horrors Dalbran witnessed during the battle. That being said, read on at your own discretion. 

The world bemoans the lifeless hands 

The Dwarfs who died to keep their lands 

The valiant souls of Durin’s Folk 

Shall echo in eternal sleep 

The Orcs came to our lands, and we fought them hand to hand, 

Sweat and blood, turned the ground to mud. 

Dwarf and Orc in strife, sought to vanquish every life, when the hammer falls! 

“Into them! Borri, take the left flank, strike them down! Baruk Khazâd!” 

“Khazâd ai-mênu!” 

When a Dwarf is sent to war, he pines for home, his heart is sore 

Though never was such bravery, nor strength of arms or weaponry! 

Erebor. Finally, Erebor. 

From the fire is made, evey Dwarven axe and blade! 

When the hammer falls, forging weapons for all! 

When the hammer falls, songs of battle fill the Halls! 

“So you’ll go?”