New horizons;

"There is more where this came from, I can definitely promise you that, but first let’s hear about Middle-Earth!" His eyes grew wide, shining again with curiosity and amusement as Rún told him about her age. "Are you now? So you would marry at 90? Amazing! So when do dwarves count as ‘old’?"

He clicked his finger slightly when he remembered the question after his immediate surprise, as something he very much wished to know. “What is the name of the country we are residing right now? Also, who is the king or ruler of this land? Are they righteous and treat their subject right? Though I must say most people here seem cheerful. I mean… I know at a tavern most people would be but… I’m sure you have experienced the atmosphere of fear yourself and I feel none of that here.”

Leaning back in her chair, Rún sipped some more ale as she thought about the answers to give Anders. She was no scholar, nor any kind of expert but if anything she still knew more than the magician did. Surely he must have come from far if the Middle-Earth was stranger to him; perhaps from across the sea, but dwarves didn’t like water and she would rather not think too much about it.

“Aye, ninety’s a general rule, though my clan’s always been a bit out th’ norm. We’ve shorter lives than th’ others, too, but A’ think it’s safe t’ assume a dwarf’s old when they’re two hundred,” she replied, starting by what she was most familiar with. Then, on the topic of kings… Good thing she had been curious enough to make enquiries about it when she came in the West.

“This village’s name’s Bree, an’ it’s been independent since old Arnor fell. Other human lords are on th’ other side of th’ mountains, in th’ lands of Rohan an’ Gondor. A’ hear th’ people aren’t malcontent with their rulers – even th’ dwarven an’ elven lords seem t’ do alright. Problems come rather from th’ orcs, gob’lins or even dragons som’times. In any case, ye’re good here; Bree-land’s a peaceful place, th’ presence of little Hobbit’s proves it.” A pause, so she could drink and clear her throat – it had been a while she hadn’t uttered so many words in a row. “Why th’ concern, though? Is th’ king of yer land some kind of tyrant?”

                                                     THE EASTERLING TRIBES The Talatherim (Av. “Plains-people”) or simply Talath were a primitive Easterling-culture of the First Age. They were nomads from Hildorien who wandered throughout Palisor and became the indigenious population of the vast steppe-lands of Central Middle-earth.

The Talatherim were not a unified people but a collection of many different peoples. Most were herders, often swarthy, relatively small and stocky and close relatives to the Bórians and Uldorians of Beleriand, though one of their groups, the Tyr, were noticed for being exceptionally tall and fair-haired and were often guessed to be lost eastern relatives of the Hadorians. The tribes can be divided by his language: Ioradja, Tyrian, Ulgathic, Chaîluzan and Aharin. Some others consider the Shay tribes and the Fale of the Lake-Lands in the south-east, part of the Talatherim too. The Ulgath (Ulg.: Great People) or Talathoth (Nan.: Plains-People) were a group of Easterling tribes in the Second Age. They were the ancestors of many of the peoples of Rhûn including the Brygath, Gathmarig, Kugath, Logath, Sagath and Waagath. The Wainrider confederation, was formed mainly by Ulgath tribes. The Ioriag were a collection of tribes of the Talatherim, the Plainsmen of the Second Age. Along with the Ulgath, they were close relatives to the Baradhrim of Beleriand. The Ioriag lord Ûvatha was one of the nine mannish Kings who accepted a Ring of Power by the Dark Lord and became one of the Nazgûl. The Ioriags split up into numberous tribes and confederations, among their descendants were: the Asdriags, the Kykuria and Pultai, the Nûriags, the Núrniags, the Magriags, the Odhriags and the Variags. The Balchoth confederation was formed mainly by Ioriag tribes. The Tyr (D.S.”Mist-People”) were a group of Peoples in central Middle-Earth in the second Age, they were descendants of the Talatherim of the first Age. The Desdursy, Myri and Vorgani were their descendants as well as maybe the Dyrians and Kykurians. Maybe also the Fustir-gost,Ky’taari and Syrkakar could be seen as Tyr-offspring. Among all descendants of the Talath the Tyr were often noted for having fair hair and pale complexion, perhaps hinting towards a long forgotten relation to the Hadorians. The Chailûza (D.S. “Fighting Folk”) were a loose collection of peoples or tribes who were a mix of Haradrimand Easterling cultures.Their ancestors were linguistically Talatherim and can be divided in the Cheyans of Chey Sart and the Chyans, but they had at an early time mingled with the same harnerim wanderers whose tribes also became the ancestors of the later Haradrim. The Chyans were mostly of middle height and stout, dark haired and dark eyed and dark or swarthy skinned, northern Chyans were usually more light-skinned, those from the Jopi-Peninsula and tribes closer to Haradwaith were darker. Men usually wore well groomed full beards and short hair, women grew their hair long and often adorned themselves with pearls and rich attire. Especially the Bulchy enjoyed gold and bronze. While the Cheyans were largely semi-nomadic pastoralists and adherents of a superstitious fire-cult. The Ahar were a group of peoples in Central Middle-earth of the Second Age.They descended from the early men of Hildorien and were part of the survivors of the Battle of Palisor. Their Name survived in the Region of Kargagis Ahar and the tribal confederation known as the Kul Ahar. The Ahar-Tradition of the Otyassi also contributed to the Odhriag-People and the Relerin. The Ahar spoke a language or a collection of tribal dialects known as Aharian, and their descendants were the Dalgygi, the Gaathgykar, the Kargarim, the Kul Ahar, the Numahar, the Orgothra, the Otyassi and the Rycoli.

Such spirit is admirable, encouraging. And confirms the vague idea that she might be a suitable candidate to join them in the competition.

"It’ll be fun," he quips as he leads her deeper into the military barracks and past an inn that is situated next to a patch of training grounds. "Ah, audience’s already assembled. Now ye look here, lass; that’s th’ innkeeper over there, he’s well-known for makin’ th’ best goat stew ye could ask for in these lands if yer a soldier an’ on barracks duty. Ye might as well try t’ win a taste of it." 

An entertained grin on her lips, she follows him, casting glances around. It’s been a while she hasn’t set foot in barracks and there’s something familiar about them, reminding her of home. When called for it, her attention goes to the dwarves gathered around – mostly strangers, but Heidrún doesn’t expect meeting anyone she knows of.

“That A’ will, can’t say no t’a good dinner,” she responds, eying the innkeeper. On the other side, it seems that there are the other competitors, or at least she assumes so. “Any chance A’ll face ye at some point?”

"Three rounds: bow an’ arrow, fistfights, weapon o’ yer choice. Stunted blades only an’ no amendments." He raises his hands at that, displaying the knuckledusters he still wears but will have to remove soon. "An’ if ye win, ye eat for free in the tavern that stages th’ contest in th’ first place. For a whole week."

“Bow an’ arrow—“ She repeats, squinting. Archery isn’t her forte, but the rest pleases her rather well, for she is much more skilled in close combat. Even if she doesn’t win all rounds, at least the contest would be a welcome distraction. “Alri’ht, just tell me where A’ can put my stuff an’ A’ll jump on th’ ring whenever.”

{ fight fire with fire }

“I was holed up in a cart for days on end, in between stinking, sweating humans, on a dusty road and with nigh on a month without a bath prior to that—- aye, I’m taking a bath now.” I need to wash off the stench of imprisonment. Her teeth remained clenched together behind shut lips, but her nostrils flared ever so briefly; she grabbed the soap and was about to turn around when a change of mood overcame her—— gratitude of the other Dwarf’s recent statement, and perhaps even the prolonged rush of a conflict’s aftermath. (Heart beating normally, breath stable—- but her mind still a pastiche of flashing images all over.) 

A crooked smile entered her face, spreading into something akin to a smirk. “Why, Master Ironfist, I certainly don’t mind company but I do think someone ought to keep watch over the camp we have just won ourselves. It would not do to return from a bath and see our new belongings gone.” 

Raising the bar of soap as if in a temporary farewell gesture, she headed towards the river for a bit—- to return with wet hair and cheeks red from scrubbing them (cleansing herself of the feeling of Eastern hands on her, mud and dirt and sweat and tangible fear of a future that held terror and naught else; or rubbing it all further into her skin in the process).

     “Per’aps next time, then.”

     Heidrún addressed her a similar grin before she went, rather amused by the fact she wouldn’t have minded. As soon as Asunn left, though, she began to search the camp, this time not only focused on what was edible but curious about anything they could have an use for.

     Soon there were piles of objects near the fire; one of clothes, one of daggers and other small weapons, one of various tools and a pouch of herbs, which could always prove helpful. The Ironfist had also dragged the bodies away, mostly because they were quite the ugly sight in the camp – not because they were dead, but because they were filthy slavers she didn’t need to see more than she already did. When the other came back, she was munching on some flatbread, examining the gemstones embed on one of the daggers.

     “Feelin’ better now?” she asked, glancing at Asunn before getting up with a metallic clatter. Right, gotta take that off, she thought as she looked down her armour – which would take her some time, if done by herself. “Come eat somethin’, but if ye’ve got a moment, Ah’ could use a bit of help fer—“ ( Rún tapped on the heavy breastplate ) “—removin’ that.”

“Nay, no battle - not th’ usual one, that is. A contest, though; and we’re still one fighter short. Yer interested?”

“—-Contest ye say? Sounds like fun; count me in. What are th’ rules? An’, what if A’ win?”

Idk my relationship with my siblings is always either “yo I’ll help you hide the body” or “do not even breathe in my direction” there is no in between.

"Well, can ye put that warhammer o’ yers t’ good use or not? We’ve a need of able fighters these days, I can tell ye that." 

     “If by good use ye mean crushin' things with it, aye, A'm good at it.      'S there some battle goin' on, fer ye t'call on wanderin' folk like me?”

{ fight fire with fire }

             “Soap——“

She disrupted her further rummaging at this point, a puzzled look on her face, and came nearer in order to examine the object in question more closely. Soap indeed. A rarity on journeys, and therefore she was all the more eager to snatch it back from Rún when he almost threw it away in favour of a more rigorous search for food. 

“There was a small stream down that hill which we crossed, was there not? I haven’t taken a bath in weeks; there’s no throwing away soaps as long as you are with me. The dust and dirt of the road need a good scrubbing every once in a while.” 

Her eyes dart between the hill and the stash of food which her companion had uncovered, and she tightens her grip on the soap, while at the same time shaking her head. “I’ll leave you to it; as long as there is still some supper left by the time I am back, I mind not what you take for yourself and what you leave for me. —have you any water flask to refill?” 

     “—Ye’re goin’ t’take a bath now? Ye gotta kiddin’ me.”

     Puzzled, Rún frowned as she stared at Asunn for a short while before understanding she was being serious. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bizarre idea, after all – the Ironfists had been more excited about dinner, but now that the other had talked about a good cleaning up, it had some appeal as well. To tell the truth, herself hadn’t had a bath in a probably longer time.

     “…Why not, A’ guess we could go t’that stream an’—“ She interrupted herself, remembering her companion still though of her as a lad; as much as they get on well, she wasn’t sure what Asunn would think of it. “A’ mean, ye can go first, an’ A’ll go later, keepin’ an eye on th’ food in th’ meantime.”

     The camp was already set up, and the soldier wasn’t above using dead men’s belongings – it wasn’t as if they needed them anymore. With a bit of luck, they had more interesting objects stashed somewhere, so she could have a look while the other was away.

     “Also, A’ll take care of th’ flasks when it’ll be my turn, go have yer fun with yer soap.”

New horizons;

"Eighty? Is that your age? That is quite impressive. You look fairly young for a grandpa." Anders smirked. This could beneficial for the both of them. He barely knew anything about this land and it seemed to hold many mysteries.

"Well…" he leaned a bit forward in his seat. "… before I answer, I have a proposition for you. I will tell you about my magic. Anything you want to know. But in return, I would like you to tell me about this land. To be perfectly honest with you, I do not know much about it. What do you say?"

The childlike curiosity of the dwarf amused him greatly, especially the fact that someone can be so fascinated by magic, instead of terrified of it. So many of his fellow mages thought of themselves as monsters because of the teachings of the Chantry, they should have seen themselves through the eyes of Rún.

At her question, a playful glimmer appeared in his eyes and he pulled closer the candle that rested on the table. He blew it out with one quick breath, then put both hands around the still slowly smoking candle. Soft yellow light started to seep from his palms and the air around the candle started to ripple and slowly the candle came alight again. Of course he could have done it a lot faster, but he wanted to amaze his one-man-audience.

     The laughter she burst in again lasted for several seconds, this time. Rún had been called a man – well, a dwarven man – many times before, but ‘grandpa’? That was new, unexpected and utterly hilarious. Rare were the humans who amused her that much, plus she was delighted to be asked for knowledge about Middle-Earth; usually, she was the one who knew less than the other.

     “By th’ beard, where d’ye even come from? A’ve never… Whatever, A’ll tell ye ev’rythin’, just do th’ magic first!” Impatience was obvious in her voice, and her eyes gleamed with interest as she stared at the candle from the moment Anders used it.

     If he tried to amaze the soldier, he succeeded and not only a little; Rún was speechless, in awe before the demonstration. Frowning, she had to approach her hand to the flame, and feel its warmth through her gloves to be convinced it was real. Then, she addressed the magician a wide smile, utterly ravished.

     “That was—- Mahal, ye just made fire comin’ out of yer hands, that’s terrific. Ye’ll have t’show me more.” She couldn’t take her eyes away from the candle, but eventually remembered she promised Anders something.

     “Alright, my turn t’make ye learn things. A’ know more ‘bout my own people than th’ rest, but A’ haven’t spent the last years travellin’ fer nothin’; A’ve discovered a lot since A’ left my home, so, where should A’ begin?” Glancing up at the man, she smirked. “Also, A’ may be eighty, but A’m not old – A’m at least ten years too young t’marry. ‘Tis humans who’re old at eighty, not dwarves.”

           ”About ruddy time I see yer face around here!” 

    “—Were ye expectin' me to actually come back?     There A've thought A'd surprise people when returnin'.”

{ fight fire with fire }

The spell of a dark mood briefly eclipsing the determination beneath, her slack features gave way to a grim expression and her eyes focused on an unfixed point in the west. “Aye, Khazad-Dûm and the shadow lurking within.” For a moment, the light-hearted air effusing from Rún seemed unable to touch her, and then her head whipped around, came face-to-face with her companion once more, and slanted in a manner almost mocking of her own mad proposal.

“Tucked away in the depths beneath the higher passages, no doubt. We ought to be safe enough in using them, once we have found our way in — quick and quiet, and we would be out on the western side in no time.” It could not be harder than that, surely. Vast and massive, the Misty Mountains were mighty enough to cut the land in two; their blanket of stone and darkness would have to suffice to mask two Dwarves from the evil that had driven their kin away all those years ago. 

Now that she came to think of it, an idea born from the spur of a moment took an altogether differnt shape, kindled an excitement inside her which she had not even known to be there in the first place. Khazad-Dûm. What tales she could bring home to her people from a venture into forlorn ruins and sombre shadows! 

“It is settled, then,” nodded Asunn,” tomorrow at first light. As for now, hunger keeps me from resting.” The thrill of a quest at hand, more like it, the spark of which burned clearly in her eyes which she cast around her now, rummaging through their loot. A bottle of vicious drink remained not the only plunder from behind Rhovanion’s borders; holding up a curious shape wrapped into cloth, she lazily threw it into Rún’s direction. “More Eastern food, is it?” 

Nothing could arouse the Ironfists’ interest more than the call of danger. A mind built to fear nothing would never turn such a challenge down; a body trained to fight its way through life was restless at the thought of being exposed to the risk of death. The more Asunn talked about Khazad-Dûm, the more Heidrún felt impatient to depart for the doomed ruins of a lost kingdom. Though avoiding the so-called great evil wasn’t to bother her, she still hoped lesser creatures would entertain her with a fight or two – killing something down there would be a nice story to tell later.

Anyhow, her companion had a point. There was no way either of them could sleep well with an empty stomach, and the idea of a dinner was most welcome. Surely the slavers had brought quality supplies for themselves and the soldier unwrapped what Asunn threw with curiosity, before she started laughing. “Nay, that is no Eastern food – ye just found a bunch of soaps. Good if ye intend t’wash yerself, but not fer eatin’. Let me have a look, with some luck we can have a good meal t’night.”

Soon Heidrún was searching with both hands in a large sack containing several packs, after she gave back Asunn her find. Edible things were stored under everything else most of the time, so their smell wouldn’t attract wild animals – at least, she knew of Easterlings who did that, and perhaps those slavers were not so different. A satisfied smirk came across her face as her fingers finally grasped what felt like food.

“Dried meat an’ more rice cakes, aren’t we lucky?” the Ironfists announced enthusiastically, handing another small packing to the other. “Well, ladies first – take what ye want, A’ll fo with th’rest.”

   For a split second, a startled look crossed his face yet was soon schooled back into an unreadable expression. Especially when in conversation with a stranger, he preferred to keep his thoughts to himself rather than bear them on his face, for everyone to read. Her question, fortunately, was easy enough to answer.

   “Some,” was the curt version. “No less an’ no more than in other places, I wager. —other places I know,” he found necessary to add after she had shared her own experiences, which helped little to rid his face of the scowl he had taken on. “Aggressive’s one way to describe yer clan— savage would be another which I’ve come across. Not that it matters in th’ end. Yer in th’ West now, so ye better learn our rules if ye wish to stick ‘round; an’ learn ‘em quickly.”

“Savage, ‘s that so?” Far from being offended, Heidrún snickered – Ironfists tended to take pride in the fear and/or the disregard other held for them. She remembered their superiors saying so, an enemy’s intentions were always clearer than a so-called ally’s. Still, she hadn’t come to make more foes than she needed to, and her clan’s ill reputation made it sometimes more difficult than she cared for.

And Dwalin, who apparently knew Ironfists better than just through stories, was a perfect example of it – not that she could blame him. “As A’ve said, A’m not goin’ t’bring troubles here. A’ve just come fer a friend, who wanted me t’be there an’ see how are yer feasts fer meself. Dunno where she’s gone, but that hardly matters. Don’t ye worry too much ‘bout me, if ye’re lucky tomorrow’s mornin’ A’ll be on m’way already.”

Alignment Tracker

        Chaste ◌◌◌◌◌●◌◌◌◌◌ Lustful     Energetic ◌●◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌ Lazy     Forgiving ◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌●◌ Vengeful    Generous ◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌●◌◌ Selfish        Honest ◌◌◌◌◌●◌◌◌◌◌ Deceitful             Just ◌◌◌◌◌●◌◌◌◌◌ Arbitrary       Merciful ◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌●◌◌ Cruel        Modest ◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌●◌ Proud           Pious ◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌● Worldly       Prudent ◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌●◌ Reckless  Temperate ◌◌◌◌●◌◌◌◌◌◌ Indulgent      Trusting ◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌●◌◌ Suspicious     Valorous ●◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌ Cowardly

New horizons;

"Me?"

Anders was still not used to his elevated profile here, the strange sensation that everyone knew him as a magic caster, yet they respected him for it instead of resenting him and locking him in a tower. Most people didn’t try to get in trouble with him, there was always table and food for him, especially since he got hold of a new staff, as his last one got lost when his ship sank.

It would’ve been a lie, saying that he didn’t enjoy it, but one thought kept tugging at the back of his mind, wondering when this will stop, when suddenly someone will shout ‘Monster!’ and then they will lock him up. But no one came… not yet.

As the dwarf stood on front of him, a small smile crossed his lips. He became quite fond of dwarves during this time, as the company of Fili and Kili could be quite difficult sometimes, but they were still honourable and trustworthy companions… not to mention, even though they could drink a lot, they still managed to smell better than Oghren most of the time.

"Anders is my name indeed, so probably you found who you’re looking for. I know wizards in this land are old and grey, but I thought it was time to throw some handsome in the pot." his smile got wider.

"So what can I do for you Ser…" this must have been a young dwarf lad as he barely had a beard.

“Aye, ye.”

Playfully she repeated herself, amused by the so-called wizard’s good humor; he was far from anything she’d imagined when trying to figure out what he would be like. As she has suggested, she expected an old man, a little too serious and too wise for the dwarf, but that Anders… He might be the funny type.

“Handsome ye say; eh, can’t pretend ye don’t look better than some indeed – th’ stubble’s a nice touch.” Her snicker turned into a frank laugh when he called her ‘Ser’, though. Oh, those humans not used to bearded lasses… Heidrún hesitated to correct him right away, but truth was she enjoyed confusing others too much to ruin the fun already. Dwarves themselves would be mistaken, for even to her own kin she wasn’t very dwarrowdam-like.

With a wave of the hand she asked the landlord for drinks and took place at the wizard’s table before she finally introduced herself, remembering that was the polite thing to do. “Call me Rún; A’ come from Kheled-Dûm, where they pretend magic’s nothin’ but a fable. But A’m th’ curious kind an’ hearin’ there was a wizard around, A’ couldn’t miss th’ occasion t’ put an end to nearly eighty years of doubts.”

Eyes glimmering with an interest she had for a limited number of things, the soldier leaned a little forward. “So—That’s true? Like, ye could lit a fire or somethin’ just like that?”