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Through the Iron Door [Gundabad Quest]

Tags: Graim,  Formin,  Elrohir,  Broddur

Short Summary: The Dwarves return to the mysterious door with a larger group.
Date (real-life): 2011-03-27
Scene Location: Ered Mithrin, Abandoned Dwarven Halls
Date (in-game): July 3052
Time of Day: Evening?
Hidden Valley(#20023Rntof)

The valley seems to come at an end as the mountain wall once again stands in your path. The cool winter winds swirl about in gentle currents bringing with them a strong orcish smell and the makings of an ill omen. Fields of tall grass surround you. However, after a few seconds, you noticed that against the most southern mountain cliff stands a large iron door. The door, 20 feet high, seems to be sculpted on the cliff and would be barely noticable, yet the dull metal has been scorched by something and there is all manner of discarded filth lying at its base. Upon close inspection it is obvious that the entire mountain wall had been scorched.

Obvious exits:
 North leads to Hidden Valley.
Great Door

[Ered-Luin ZMO(#9561)->Broddur] Real time is: Sun Mar 27 14:05:03 2011
Game time is: Dusk <20:15:09> on Monday, Day 9 of July (Summer) 3052

(Scene in progress: the Dwarves return to the door with a larger party)

[Graim(#20753)]     Sure enough, within an hour, the party from the dwarven camp has made their way into the southern part of the valley, towards the door. Many in the party are carrying various supplies and lots of fuel for fires - apparently, what most of the time preparing was spent on was the collection and bundling of said fuel. No mere torches will light the way of this exploration, no.

    Graim is near the front of the party, doused torch in one hand whilst the other rests near his belt, humming some marching song or another quietly.

[Formin(#26827)] Formin stumps along beside Graim, mostly muttering an odd word now and again, as if his thoughts escape periodically to his lips without him noticing. Yet as they near the place of the door, the silversmith seems to come to again and glances sidelong at the warrior-healer. "Have you been inside this fancy door of ours, Master Graim? Or perhaps more straight to the point, do you know how to open it?"

[Graim(#20753)]     "Believe it or not, it seemed to open at a touch," Graim replies after he finishes humming part of the marching song. "That or whoever shut it forgot to lock it. Or whatever skill and craft went into the lock has either been broken or long since worn-off; I am honestly not quite sure," muses the Dhurenfal.

    "But, aye, went beyond it some. Did not have much light, though, and we decided it would be entirely wrong of us not to involve some of you others." He pauses a moment before speaking again, voice rising to be heard by all. "We shall set up outside the door; two guards, at least, and inside everyone is to keep within sight of someone else. It would be inconvenient if someone were to fall down a shaft without us knowing."

"It was a stronghold of your kin?" wonders Elrohir, who has accompanied them so far without need of torch or firelight -- until now. They go beneath the Ered Mithrin now.

Small chance for an old, cantankerous Dwarf to arrive without anyone knowing ...

A minor disturbance at the rear of the Dwarven party announces the sudden appearance of Broddur - late, as usual. The old miner is not one of the fuel-bearers, but in lieu of firewood he has a coil of rope slung over his shoulder and a small bag that clanks softly as he moved. "Have they gone in yet?" he pants as he catches up with the rest.

[Formin(#26827)] "Interesting," Formin muses thoughtfully. "I've a cousin who is a locksmith - tis a shame he isn't along. He might know more." He is pulled from his thoughts by Graim's lifted voice, at which he chuckles and adopts a look of mock seriousness. "Aye, lads," he adds, "so if you intend to fall down a shaft, be so good as to tell someone first."

The silversmith glances down at his belt, checking his short broadsword and the additional torch that it tucked there. He holds another in his hand already. At Elrohir's question, Formin grins and nods. "Tisn't unlikely, if the door be dwarf make. Now, were Master Farak along - he's a fine scholar, mind - he might tell us all the history of the Ered Mithrin. Long story short, we dwarves once lived here. Now we don't. So, indeed, tisn't unlikely this was once ours, mm?"

"Oi," grumbles a dwarf next to Broddur, "stop shoving, you old sod. Get up there if you're so eager, miner and all." He smirks. "Let's see you put your expertise to work, hah."

[Graim(#20753)]     "Really? If he knows the old skills that were once worked upon our doors, I might have to ask him when we get back to the Mountain," replies Graim before he nods to the silversmith's comment of telling someone before falling down a shaft. "It would be most kind, 'tis true."

    He flicks his glance to Elrohir, nodding once more. "Aye. I did some reading before the caravan departed Erebor; if I recall correct, five of our kings called the Grey Mountains home before they were driven out by goblins and drakes." A brief pause before the Dhurenfal grins. "Now, there is a battle that would be worthy of a tale: a drake. I wonder what I could do with its hide," says the dwarf, the last murmured to himself.

    When the party reaches the door, Graim brings it to a halt before he moves closer, taking the opportunity to study the door once more.

"Do I wonder," remarks the peredhel of the drake's hide, examining the door but laying no hand upon it.

Broddur grunts irritably at the Dwarf next to him. "Less haste, more speed," he says reprovingly. "In /my/ day, youngsters showed respect for their elders." Muttering under his breath, he pushes past. "The old tales say King Dain and his son were slain at the very door of their Halls," he states, in echo of Graim, as he reaches the forefront of the group. "You don't think this is-"

The uneasy words break off as Elrohir's speech cuts across it. "Go on, then," he mutters, ostensibly to himself but loudly enough that there's no doubt the half-Elf is intended to hear. "Or can an Elf not open a door?"

[Formin(#26827)] "Bah," Formin snorts at Broddur when the miner shoulders to the front of the company. "You don't want to be first, Broddur my man? Besides, tis a dwarf door, not some fancy garden gate. Look at those scorches there--" he gestures towards the smoke-blackened rock around the door "--I'll wager something rather larger than an elf last tried to open that beauty."

[Graim(#20753)]     "His eldest son, Thror who met his end at the hands of Azog, refounded Erebor whilst the youngest founded the halls of the Iron Hills," says the Dhurenfal after a moment before shaking his head. "If I remember right. And, I doubt this leads to the main delvings of the old kingdom," says he to Broddur. "I would expect /those/ doors to be... much more grand than this one. This is likely just a smaller holding."

    With a sigh, he shakes his head slightly once more. "Well. No point in delaying, is there?" With that, he strides forward and lightly presses his hand against the lock. There is a faint 'click' and the door shifts inwards.

Elrohir merely smiles and inclines his head to the miner Broddur, stepping forward to enter through the unlocked door.

Broddur lets our a bark of laughter. "What, and do our drake-slayer out of a job? I'll haul him up when he falls down some shaft - if he let me know first." His gnarled and seamed features crease in a grimace that passes for a smile.

He bristles a little at the recitation of history, but grunts his assent when Graim is done. "Ah, but what we could make of it!" he sighs before turning to wrest a torch from one of the bearers. "Lets have some light, huh?"

[Graim(#20753)]     The Dhurenfal pushes, and the door swings inward soundlessly before the elf. Nodding, he lights his own torch. "Right. Time to go exploring, lads. All finds of substance are to be divided equally; so if you find a big pile of gold, do not go diving into it and claiming 'tis all yours."

    That said, he steps after the elf.

[Formin(#26827)] Formin laughs at Broddur's actual, certifiable joke, and thumps the gnarled old miner once on the shoulder. "Right enough, cousin, right enough," he chuckles. He sobers only mildly at Graim's retelling of history, shrugging his brows and frowning. Only when the Dhurenfal pushes into the dark chamber beneath rock and stone does Formin grow silent and serious. One hand rests upon the hilt of his sword, the other holds his torch aloft, as one after the other, the dwarves file through the fire-scorched great door.

You find you are able to heave open this great portal and step inside.

Hall of Thrain I(#13892RnUf)

    As you pass through the gate you are astonished by the size of this room. Despite the effect of time and orcish occupation, you can still see this used to be a great hall. Now, some of the large, white marbled pillars have collapsed, the tapestries have either been burned down or torn. A few skulls and other bones litter the floor as well as orchish refuse. Dozens of feet above your head, you can see that the ceiling has also partly collapsed. All around you lay, broken on the ground, statues of the old dwarven occupants, defiled by the years as well as by the orcs living in the valley. Most of the passage ways and stairs leading out of this hall have collapsed or been destroyed. You notice one dark passage in the southeastern corner, as a chilling and foul air emanates from there..

Obvious exits:
Arch <A> and Great Door <GD>

It is a tremendous hall, telling of the greatness of its once-inhabitants. But now it is defiled with age, destruction, and orc-graffiti. Elrohir pauses as the rest of the exploration party files in, bringing light to the Hall of Thrain. An orc-skull clatters by his foot.

Broddur, who was one of the small group to 'discover' this place, steps unerringly toward a tumbled marble pillar, his torch held high. The softening in his craggy features is almost worshipful. He says nothing - until that skull crushes beneath Elrohir's feet. "Hush that noise!" he growls. "Can't Elves move quietly?" He is seemingly quite oblivious to the loudness of his own speech, which echoes in the vast chamber.

[Graim(#20753)]     The dwarves that have followed inside begin to quickly spread out, examining what they can. A few hissed orders by Graim leads to them soon building several small fires out of the fuel brought, bringing further light into the old hall. A few visibly start at Broddur's growl, hands moving to weapons automatically before they pause.

    The warrior-healer, though, ignores it all, moving slowly further into the chamber, eyes sweeping about as more and more is revealed in fire light.

[Formin(#26827)] "By the Maker," Formin says, with what for him is a positively reverant tone. "Bit dark, isn't it? Course, I suppose we ought to be grateful no one lit the lamps for our welcome," he adds. He holds high his torch, picking his way amidst the refuse and debris of centuries of neglect. The silversmith looks keenly at the walls, his dark eyes tracing over the fallen tapestries and the once polished stone behind them.

Elrohir's bright eyes seek the shadows, and he steps silently now -- no orc-knucklebones to set rattling in his wake. "The air is foul in that direction," he murmurs, pointing to one shady passage. "It would lead deeper, I think."

Broddur places his hand against the marble pillar, tracing a thin thread of red that runs through the white. "Gifted the hands that carved you," he murmurs softly. "And cursed the filth that despoiled you!" Then he gives himself a shake and moves to stand over beside Graim. "What now?" the miner enquires gruffly. "Time to investigate yon hole our Elf-hound has found? Not that anyone could miss the stink from it." He transfers the torch to his left hand, sliding the sharp-honed pick from his belt with his right.

As the fires kindled by the Dwarves take hold, shadows are banished from this place of ruined majesty - save for that far corner.

[Graim(#20753)]     A slight grunt comes from Graim. "Aye, well, one should expect that; who knows how long it has been since that door has been opened?" He responds to Elrohir. "To say nothing of the goblins that took residence here." He falls silent, peering about. "Hmm. Usually, there are vents to allow air in; we /are/ right next to the surface, after all. Those must have been blocked as well. Interesting."

    He stirs, looking to Broddur with a nod. "Aye." He raises his voice. "Four come with us, the rest of you stay here and see what you can find. If the place has not been too dispoiled, we may yet put it to use while we are here." With that, he strides towards the aforementioned passage.

[Formin(#26827)] "It would also seem to be the only passage not blocked," Formin adds, his eyes still flickering across the ruined walls. He lifts a hand and sets it against one wall. "A more slate-like stone than Erebor," he murmurs to himself. "Grey Mountains indeed. Grey slate and shale. At least at the surface. Hoho, but beneath? Marvels indeed." The silversmith leaves off his muttered monologue, coming to stand just before the dark passageway with its stifling stench.

"Phew," he grumbles, swiftly reaching down to pull up a corner of his tunic over his mouth and nose. "Is that the stench of death and decay, or of mountain goblins? A smattering of both, I shouldn't wonder." Although he frowns as Graim strides past him, Formin wastes little time in silently volunteering himself as one of the four to accompany the warrior-healer, and quickly moves after Graim.

Loosening his sword in its sheath, Elrohir fetches a torch from the dwarves remaining, touching it to the makeshift fires, and follows after.

You cross this wide entryhall and passing under the archway, you step into a dark chamber.

Passage(#19155RnUf) (dark)
    You are surrounded by darkness on all sides. The sound of your footsteps echoes soflty in the distance. As you walk, you see many red eyes, carefully following your every mouvements.

Passage(#19155RnUf) (with light)

    As you move deeper in the dwarven hall, the air seems even more fetid and repulsing. You are surrounded by broken pillars, statues and other sort of rubble, hindering your every movement. The ceiling in this room appears intact. Most of the valuable objects that furnished this passage have also been stolen or destroyed during the centuries. After a few close inspections, you suppose that this room used to be much bigger, but due to a great cataclysm, half the room collapsed, leaving only a narrow passage. As you walk deeper in the room, many large rodents flee before you, trying to hide in the darkness that surrounds you.

Obvious exits:
Stairs <Down> and Arch <A>

Broddur gives the jerk of a nod as some of Formin's words reach his ears, and he eyes the silversmith speculatively. Not for long, though, for soon they are making their way through an unpleasantly dark passage, aided only by the circle of light from each torch.

There is movement at the corner of Broddur's vision, and with an exclamation the old miner drops his torch to swing the pick two-handed at a pair of glowing red eyes. The result? A scuttling, a scuttering and the whisk of a tail disappearing behind one of the broken pillars.

[Graim(#20753)]     If the foul air is bothering Graim, the Dhurenfal is doing a remarkable job of not showing it. Instead, he seems to be focusing on everything else that he can, head and torch turning this way and that as he looks at what he can of the room. "What I would not give to see this place in its glory," murmurs the dwarf, though the words carry easy enough.

    At Broddur's exlamation, he turns, frown beneath his beard as he looks to the miner. "Everything all right there?"

[Formin(#26827)] Broddur's sudden exclamation and attack in the dark brings Formin whipping around, his sword already half withdrawn, his torch prepared to strike any who near him. And for nothing. Or next to nothing, at least. The silversmith's wide eyes narrow distastefully as other tails whisk away from the abrupt and long-absent light that floods the black passage now.

"For Durin's sake, Broddur," Formin mutters, though his tone betrays his sentiment as more relief than ridicule. "Bloody great rodents," he adds at Graim's query. "The air does not seem to choke them, more's the pity."

Elrohir steps carefully over a pillar, sending another family of rats squeaking. "The smell of orc, I would think," murmurs the half-elf. "Tis not only the ancient pantries that attract the vermin. The stair descends."

The torch flares as it sets light to a scrap of torn and filthy fabric lying on the floor of the ancient hall. Broddur picks it up, kicking at the scrap of fabric in disgust. "Was just being careful," he mutters, shamefaced; and then his weathered features contort in a scowl. "These wretched scuttlers need something more than dust and dry bones," here there is a pause as, aptly, his boot rattles against a piece of a skeleton, "to live off." Glowering at the circle of red eyes, he moves on toward the passage's end. "Need a rope?" How chivalrous to let the Elf go first!

[Graim(#20753)]     "Probably used to it," mutters the warrior-healer to Formin's comment on the air. With a closer look, one may notice that his breathing is not as deep as one might expect, and could be called shallow. "Stairs, hm?" He turns his attention to the aforementioned area, moving towards it. "Likely where whatever made its home here dwells."

    The mace is pulled from Graim's belt. "Just hope it is not at home."

[Formin(#26827)] "I don't know," Formin mutters, "part of me should like to meet whatever dwells here, to teach it a lesson for its poor housekeeping in our absence." He keeps his sword drawn and at the ready, but his shield remains upon his back, replaced instead with the torch he now holds.

No more does the chatty silversmith now say. He too seems to be conserving the stale air that lingers in the ruined chamber. "Well, come on then," he says briefly, looking at first Broddur, then Elrohir. "I'll just go first, shall I? Brave Formin, who fumbled for a fire and fell instead afoul," he murmurs, almost sing-song like with alliteration as he moves towards the stairs.

"I would think housekeeping is the least of its worries," comments the half-elf, holding a torch for the Dwarf as he ventures toward the darkness.

Broddur hurries to keep pace with the others, his breath rattling in his broad chest. Behind them, small sounds of squeaking and scuffling resume in the darkness.

"If you're going to be like that about it ..." he mutters to Formin, clearly feeling the jibing words referred to his own little mishap with the torch earlier. Pushing past the silversmith, he unslings the rope from his shoulder, though leaving an end tied about his waist. "Just in case," he mutters, before taking his first steps onto the stairs. His booted feet thud softly against the stone as he descends. Down, down ...

Stairs <Down>(#3514En)
This wide set of stairs leads down into the darkness below. The steps themselves are shallow, while the span of each one is fairly wide and designed more for short-limbed creatures. Long empty torch brackets along the walls can be made out at regular intervals.

Without warning, the torch he had been carrying gutters and goes out. Then ... nothing. No yell, no cursing, no sound of falling.

[Graim(#20753)]     "Indeed, 'tis rather rude. It should be concerned with housekeeping; surely it did not think that the dwarves would be away for ever. We /are/ sneaky like that," says Graim, dry amusement in his tone as he begins to make his way down the stairs as well; each step is carefully placed, weight slowly shifting from foot to foot.

    He holds his torch before him as Broddur's goes out, only a brief pause before he continues on at the lack of yelling or other noise.

[Formin(#26827)] "Oh, you old sorefoot," Formin mutters into the dark as Broddur pushes past him. The silversmith continues to descend as well, until the bobbing torch in front of him exstinguishes and the curmudgeony miner disappears. "Broddur? Broddur?" Formin whispers suddenly, waving his own light back and forth to no avail, for the blackness below seems impenetrable. The silversmith's footsteps down the stairs hasten.

You go down the stairs slowly as they are full of refuse and quite slippery, the darkness grows thicker.

Large Cavern(#3548RnzUf) (dark)
You are surrounded by darkness. A horrible smell surrounds you as well, making it hard to breath. You can hear people, or something moving in the distance...

[Large Cavern(#3548)] A breeze from some hidden crack brings a sudden, strong smell of orc.

[Large Cavern(#3548)] The breeze brings the sound of muffled voices to you - trolls!

[Large Cavern(#3548)] Someone is hammering on the far side of the wall - from the sound, it is a very large someone. Perhaps a troll.

Large Cavern(#3548RnzUf) (light)

This cavern stretches for a many hundreds of meters into the distance. Most of the walls have been sculpted with great statues and scenes depicting the life of dwarves. Over these sculptures, many orchish designs have been painted. The statues of the dwarven king have been defiled through the years and are now almost unrecognizable. This large cavern seems to be the main commons for the orcs residing in this deep. In the southern corner you can see a large pile of garbage, from all the previous meals. From the light gusts of wind blowing in your face you gather that this room leads deeper into the mountain.

What appears to be a hallway leading off to the west has been blocked by another rockslide. It might be possible to dig through it, but it would take a very long time, by the looks and sizes of the massive boulders blocking the way.
Sculptured Pillars(#18876OXM)

Obvious exits:
Stone Door and Stairs <Up>

Sculptured Pillars(#18876OXM)
There are seven pillars in all, similarly contructed of a deep greenish malachite. Stepping back several feet from each one, you are able to make out a number of cirth runes that have been chiseled around their surfaces. The runes speak of these great caverns and the history of those who inhabited them. However, you note that amid the smaller runes on each pillar that a larger single one stands out. Collectively these seven runes appear to have some significance.

<OOC Note> Type: 'read runes'

[Sculptured Pillars(#18876)->Broddur]
From left to right the single large cirth rune on each of the pillars states:

        Great - Father - To - His - Hall - We - Return

The edges of the hall are smoothly carved, but the passage is entirely blocked by boulders, most of them so massive not even trolls can move them. It appears that beyond this rockfall is where the sound and stench of orcs is coming from.

[Large Cavern(#3548)] Harsh voices are quarreling somewhere - the sounds of them echo weirdly.

"And this, I think, brings us closer to the current inhabitants," says Elrohir as the light of his torch illuminates orcish defilement. His eyes search keenly for Broddur.

[Large Cavern(#3548)] Harsh voices are quarreling somewhere - the sounds of them echo weirdly.

Broddur makes no response, none at all. The lifted torches at first reveals nothing but mounds of filth. But then the sharp-eyed might note that the tumbled bundle down by the foot of the stairs is more than gnawed bones - indeed, it has a rope about its waist and from beneath it protrudes the head of a miner's pick. Broddur, it would appear, has been overcome by the foul air. At least /he/ does not need to listen to the unearthly sounds that now drift on the air.

[Graim(#20753)]     Reaching the bottom of the steps, breathing more shallow now, Graim looks around and grunts quietly. "Lovely..." His head twitches to the side at the sounds, a scowl visible beneath his beard. "I believe you are correct, elf," says he to Elrohir, another grunt coming from him as he catches sight of Broddur.

    "We should probably make some sort of sled when we get him out of here. Easier than carrying."

[Large Cavern(#3548)] Someone is hammering on the far side of the wall - from the sound, it is a very large someone. Perhaps a troll.

[Formin(#26827)] Formin descends into what may as well be complete darkness, for all the good his single torch does in the expansive chamber. "Phaw," he snorts, as a brackish, heady breath of air trembles across his face from further within the mountain. But then there come the sounds of quarreling voice, and hammering, and the silversmith falls silent. His eyes dart about the darkness, taking in the vague shapes of toppled and ruined statues, and one tumbled shape that is neither statue nor refuse.

"There you are," Formin whispers gruffly, coming to kneel beside the unconscious miner. "Broddur? Broddur, wake up," he says, reaching out to shake his fellow.

There is no response to Formin's urgings; Broddur's breathing, shallow and rapid does not change. Either his comrades will have to get him out of here .... or the next-door neighbours have just found tomorrow's dinner.

"It is the air. We shall have to bear him out quickly." Yet Elrohir tilts his head, listening intently to the quarreling orcs beyond.

[Graim(#20753)]     "Aye, that we shall have to; I have seen more than one dwarf fall to bad air in the mines. Do not have enough light to make a good run around down here anyway," mutters Graim, eyes casting about before he sighs softly. Slipping the mace back under his belt, his hand moves to the clasp of his warg-pelt cloak.

    He quickly, and quietly, clears a place on the floor. "Get him into this and we can carry him." His gaze flicks to Elrohir, a slight smirk appearing beneath the beard. "Unless you think you can carry him over a shoulder."

[Formin(#26827)] "He's still breathing," Formin says after a moment, two fingers set against the miner's pulse as he leans close to listen to Broddur's shallow breaths. Yet if the silversmith was prepared to make some smart jibe again, he does not, for the thin air little permits such extraneous speech. He stands and steps back a pace as Graim clears a space to lay out his cloak.

As he does so, Formin's eyes drift up to several of the elaborate pillars that line the great chamber, and they trace the many cirth runes that are depicted there. "By Durin," he whispers to himself as his eyes flick back and forth across the runes. "Tis our old halls indeed."

Elrohir smiles only, and reaches for the rope that circles the unconscious miner's waist. "He will wake less chagrined, I think, than if he were carried over the shoulder of Elven-kind."

[Graim(#20753)]     "No doubt," replies Graim with a quiet, theatrical sigh. "Shame. I was hoping I could keep my cloak clean. Ah, well. The luster will come back after I beat the dust from it." That said, he moves to get Broddur's unconscious form into a position to be moved. "Master Formin, when you are ready, can you help me move him onto the cloak?"

[Large Cavern(#3548)] The breeze brings the sound of muffled voices to you - trolls!

[Formin(#26827)] Formin's lips move noiselessly as he reads the multitude of runes that spread across the pillars, but he seems drawn back with an abrupt air at Graim's request. "Hm?" he says, looking around. "Oh, yes, of course. By the Maker, we ought to come back, Master Graim, so we ought. There's the record of the first coming a cold drake to the Ered Mithrin on that pillar, near as I can make out."

Yet he leaves off his brief history lesson and comes to kneel beside Broddur, sheathing his sword and positioning himself by the miner's shoulder so as to grasp him under the arms to move him.

Elrohir spreads the wolf-pelt so that the miner may be placed in it. "This is a place filled with the history of your kin," he murmurs to Formin. "No doubt there shall be an interest in returning, when we have found a way to clear the air."

[Graim(#20753)]     Grasping the miner's legs, Graim nods his head. "Oh, we shall. As the elf says, we need better air; I shall turn my mind to it this evening and see what tricks of the mining trade can be turned to this. I do not have the resources I would like, but I am sure I can figure something."

    "On three, eh?" Says he to Formin, glancing to the other dwarf briefly. "Three." With that, he begins to lift.

[Formin(#26827)] "Oh, cursed be bloody wargs and fat old miners!" Formin mutters roughly to himself as he lifts in unison with Graim. Broddur is brought quickly off the floor and onto Graim's spread cloak. Formin rubs ruefully at the bandage around his neck once Broddur is deposited. "Mind, I imagine they'd say the same of fat old smiths too."

An echo of the ongoing quarral further within the mountain brings the silversmith's cautious glance around, and he looks pointedly at Graim and Elrohir. "In any case, perhaps we ought to be going soon. Them further on don't sound terribly happy with one another - I doubt we would improve their mood."

"Indeed, we shall have to call at a more opportune time," adds the peredhel as Broddur slowly is lifted onto his makeshift litter.

[Graim(#20753)]     "I have always found death improves their mood by quite a bit," replies Graim in a somewhat chipper, if quiet, voice. "I know it certainly improves /mine/." A soft laugh before he grabs the lower edges of the cloak, sighing. "Right. Time for the next part. Master Formin, perhaps you would like to take your end first? Two eyes in the rear guard is better than one, after all. Once we are up the stairs, we can just drag him along."

[Formin(#26827)] "Oh aye, drag him along," Formin echoes, grinning mildly. "Elven-kind or no, I imagine Master Broddur here will wake up rather chagrined in any case. He could walk out of here on his own two feet and still be chagrined at the thought of his having swooned." The smith winks merrily, stoops to scoop up the edges of Graim's cloak, and lifts. And with that, he slowly begins working his way up the stairs, one step at a time as he peddles carefully backward, out of the foul-smelling darkness below and back towards the light of day.

Date added: 2011-03-28 04:37:00    Hits: 639
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