While she is not pleased to be fighting the honorable dead Princess' guards, battle is obviously well and truly joined, and she will not shirk her duty to her companions.
Cereidh falls back behind Thorgrim, taking advantage of the clutter and barricade to fire over it, into his enemies. Her arrows flicker with their own warm, fey light, the magic of her heritage answering her even now.
Mara loses sight of the dwarf as everything twissts and fades and warps. When she opens her eyes again, se sees things clearly as they are. She gives a short barking laugh. "Ha! Barrow wight, I see you. You're lost, most of your lot are that way." She points in the drection of the infamous barrow downs. "Still, I can ssend you to join your ancestors, no problem."
She swings her mattack at the wight.
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Occasionally certain events happen within the realms of mortals that convince the wise that the Valar do take an active hand in events every once in a great while. Whether it is overt, like Ulmo's rescue of the fair Elwing or something more hidden like an unexpected knock upon a mild mannered hobbit's door one fair morning, the mighty crafters of the world decide to tip the scales in one direction or another. Why? Well who can truly know the minds of gods.
So it is that in a long buried tomb filled with the darkest of shadows and servants of evil, a few brave souls find themselves blessed by those beings of ancient power.
Doderic's song rings loud and true through the darkness of the ancient barrow. His keen eyes quickly spot the petty dwarf skulking along the back side of the row of stone coffins. At first it looks like the foul little creature is simply circling around toward the same door just entered by the hobbit and his companions. But then his eyes as keen in darkness as they are in the light of day spots the narrow outline of a smaller, hidden door.
As Doderic shouts a warning about Nilm's intended destination, Ingold tries to stir some ancient seed of light or good within the barren depths of the ancient queen's heart. Punctuating his words with a clever and nearly impossible shot with his bow. The streaking arrow catches Nilm in the shoulder and forces him to drop his readied throwing dagger as it knocks the short petty dwarf from his feet.
Although her eyes still see the illusions of the shadow, Cereidh puts more trust in her companions than any of the foul magics in this place forgotten by the light. The magics known to her people for ages flow through her mind and body and into the feathered shafts sent flying from mighty Bregghar toward the two guards trying to block the exit. The arrows strike true and for the first time in centuries, light bursts to life within the darkened confines of the tomb. Barrow wights hiss and scream their fear and defiance at this most hated foe.
The two struck by elven arrows have little chance to react as moments later Thorgrim steps up and hungry Noctocide slices through skeletal necks. Another double burst of radiant light flares to life and two moldering heads go bouncing across the stone floor, the dry, hollow husks sounding like empty clay jugs.
Mara shrugs off the illusions, her mind neither taken in by the ancient scene or by fear of reality truly surrounding her. Her courage is as solid as the stone of her far away home. While the sudden disruption of the shadow magic throws off her initial swing, her follow up catches the nearest wight and drives it back several steps. Although not as effective as the light infused arrows and blade of Cereidh and Thorgrim, the dwarven steel still shatters bones and rends rotted flesh.
The emergence of light, elf magic, and elf song within this ancient tomb of darkness momentarily stuns the foul and undead residents. Only Nilm acts by picking himself and his dagger from the cold stone of the floor and continuing his rush toward the bolt hole. Unfortunately for the petty dwarf, the delay caused by Ingold and Doderic and the quick dispatch of the rearmost wights by Thorgrim and Ingold mean his escape can be cut off with some quick action. The petty dwarf attempts to tumble across quickly, but the wound in his shoulder throws his balance off completely and his mostly just ends up rolling and crawling for the hidden door.
Nilm: 129/150
Wight-Queen: 125/125
Guard-Wight 1: 19/40
Guard-Wight 2: 40/40
Guard-Wight 3: 40/40
Guard-Wight 4: 40/40
Guard-Wight 5 (Rear): 0/40
Guard-Wight 6 (Rear): 0/40
Staying focused on the petty dwarf who seems to be trying to escape, Ingold rushes to the hidden door the vile creature was trying to get to, blocking it with his body and drawing his broadsword. He prepares to slash at Nilm if the petty dwarf gets within reach, saying, "Destroy the shadow in this cursed barrow, my friends, as well as the pretender Nilm who seeks to enslave us with its power!"
Doderic gives chase behind Nilm, tumbling in front of him at the last second, slashing nilm's leg and up into his side as he does so.
Where are you headed? The party is just starting!
Mara trusts the others to deal with the twisitsed dwarf, as she focuses her anger on the wights. "Back to teh grave, you fools! Time has passed and so must you."
Cereidh repositions to shoot at the wight engaged with Mara, relighting an arrow with magic.
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His blade sings with lust and fury. The warrior had oftimes thought that each blade is made for one purpose, one goal and one day of sublime GLORY where they would rend and slay and see their life's journey made manifest. If this is such a day for such a blade then all the evil of the world come, for none may stand before such a whirling torrent of STEEL!
Thorgrim continues to wade into the heart of the fight.
= 20
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Doderic leaps upon the remnants of the ancient stone coffins. Showing an uncanny sense of balance, he hurries along and then leaps again, twirling in midair to land on his feet, sword at the ready and blocking the petty dwarf's escape route. Moments later Ingold circles around and steps up next to the hobbit a look of grim determination on the Dunedain's face.
The sudden arrival of Doderic and Ingold forces Nilm to scurry backwards. But the shadow driven creature is unable to move fast enough to escape the quick reflexes of the hobbit. Doderic's short blade strikes like an angry serpent and Nilm hisses with pain as a deep wound opens across his misshaped thigh. Ingold tries to follow up, but the tall warrior is unable to get a good angle on the scrambling Nilm and his blade bounces once, twice and a third time across the stone just a heartbeat too slow each time.
On the other side of the tomb, Mara lands another solid blow against the wight harassing her. But her follow up fails to end the creature's existence and its cold, foul limbs reach out to try a grip the dwarf in its deadly clutches.
But aide is not far. Cereidh and Thorgrim continue to cut down the wights like so much wheat in the field. Flashes of light strobe within the darkened tomb. Each burst of light a palpable sign of destruction coming to the restless undead. Cereidh's elven arrows release the captured spirit of one of the creatures, while Noctocide achieves the same with another.
Scrambling backwards Nilm pulls a pair of glass bottles from a pocket in his vest. One he pops off the cork and quickly swallows the contents, pausing only a few moments to cough and catch his breath. The second, he smashes on the floor. Immediately a cloud of foul, toxic, black smoke fills the area surrounding Nilm, Doderic, and Ingold.
Who can truly know what intelligence still remains within such a twisted and shadow filled creature as the Wight Queen of Cardolan. Yet, no matter the measure, it is clear that looking into the cold black depths of those wide holes in her skull that something lurks there. And that something recognizes the sudden danger of the foes lured to her lair. Recognizes that these are no mere travelers or starving hunters. In recognition of that danger she unleashes her power upon the fellowship.
A high pitched wail bursts into the room. The scream like a thousand nails dragging down a thousand chalkboards. It is the lament of betrayal and pain pondered and nurtured and grown over a thousand and more years. It crashes into the ancient tomb, blasting bones from atop the coffins, cracking stoneware and causing dust to rain down upon the room.
The wight in front of Mara and its unhurt companion simply disintegrate under the blast. The ancient bones shattering and bursting apart into a mass of a thousand needle like shards that fly forward shredding everything.
Having vented her initial fury, the wight queen rises and draws forth a gleaming blade of steel and silver.
Nilm: 81/150
Wight-Queen: 125/125
Guard-Wight 1: 0/40
Guard-Wight 2: 0/40
Guard-Wight 3: 0/40
Guard-Wight 4: 0/40
Guard-Wight 5 (Rear): 0/40
Guard-Wight 6 (Rear): 0/40
Doderic, still singing can't help but take in a deep breath of the foul smoke. Its effects bending him over coughing. Unable to act.
Despite that, The halfling, as ever, proves resistant to the magic of the shadow. The light of hope within him hard to snuff out.
Ouch
Also ouch
Mara flinches back as the undead queen shrieks her rage and ruin. She is only dimly aware of the blood that gushes from her ears, and even less aware of the shards of bone that hve gashed her cheeks and face. She growls with a fury and shakes herself like a dog shedding water, before moving forward with the unstopability of a lava flow. "Now, you die. Again."
Ingold chokes but does not deeply inhale the fumes from the tricky petty dwarf. He peers through the smoke to try and locate the sly foe when a burst of sound assaults his ears and shards of splintered wights fly towards him!
Heavily wounded, Ingold nonetheless sees Doderic’s dilemma and uses the power granted him by the light to help him instantly recover. Bracing himself, Ingold stands resolutely before the door with sword at the ready, looking for the petty dwarf.
Action: Hands of the Healer on Doderic negates the stunned condition so he should be able to act this round.
Bonus Action:
Pointing at the petty dwarf’s form in the cloud, Ingold says, ”There he is! Slay him before he escapes!”
It is not fear or fury towards the Queen that speeds Cereidh's next two arrows to her. It is an attempted mercy to the passed warrior. Let the hobbit and the clever Dunedain deal with the aggravating petty dwarf - she is more concerned with the truly impressive Shadow he has dragged into the way of her light.
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The shrieking queen catches the great Beorn warrior completely off guard, wracking his mind and shattering his body. As he stands fully stunned against the sonic attack, the bone shards from the remains of her followers have no trouble hitting his reeling form, and blood flows from his body freely.
The pain blazes a way even through the red-ringed haze of the berserker fury, and he staggers, unable to see straight for all the blood clogging his eyes.
Only then does he hear the unique impacts of the warrior-elf loosing a homing barrage. Shaking the blood from his eyes and looking in the direction of the hits, he grits his teeth, raises his sword and CHARGES forward.
"Suffer not the WITCH TO LIVE!"
= 13
= 15
Doderic is quickly aided by Ingold, who counters the foul smoke with a curative herb. With a nod towards Ingold, Doderic once again takes up the chase, but listen for footsteps is difficult with the combat. He stands his ground, blocking the exit and readies an action to attack Nilm if he approaches or strikes him.
Ingold spots the lurking Nilm, but can do little himself as he hurries to bring Doderic back to his senses just as the earsplitting, deadly wail of the lost queen fills the tomb. With the Dunedain's help and a little hobbit luck, Doderic withstands the worst of the blast and continues to block Nilm's escape.
Neither Thorgrim or Mara are quite so lucky as their companion. The Explosive power of the blast catches both fully exposed to both the bone shattering sound and the shattered bones of the wights. But both recover quickly enough to land blows against the formidable creature of undeath. Noctocide does its own bone shattering as Thorgrim lands a pair of quick, solid blows that crack ribs under the queen's ancient armor. Mara adds her own angry blows as her dwarven war mattock hits again and again.
Still calling upon her elven magic, two more arrows fly at the Wight Queen, their power piercing any and all defenses of the enemy. One arrow pierces the empty eye socket and shatters the back of the queens ancient skull rocking her back for a moment. The second slams into her skeletal hip and cracks several bones that slow her movement.
But this ancient spirit filled with shadow powered hatred for the living has no desire to flee. Has no concept of living for another day. It's only desire is to extinguish the flame of life polluting it cold, dark place of rest. The great blade swings toward Mara. The dwarf parries the blow feeling the unnatural cold of death radiating along the handle of her mattock.
Mara prepares for the follow up attack, but instead the Wight Queen pivots and her sword swings, not to the left toward Mara, but to the right toward where Thorgrim stands with his body and blade of light and life filled radiance. Surprised by the sudden change of direction, the Beorning tries to bring Noctocide up in time to ward off the blow, but his bone shard riddled body does not obey his mind's command as quickly as it normally would. The Wight Queen's blade bites deep, bringing with it the fierce, deep, life ending cold of the grave. Blood does not spray or run in a great river from this wound. Instead, skin blackens and blood freezes to drop to the ground in a deadly rattle of red pellets.
On the other side of the chamber, Nilm huddles within the dense smoke. Finally he picks a moment and Ingold feels the sting of a throwing knife penetrate his armor.
Nilm: 81/150
Wight-Queen: 50/125
Guard-Wight 1: 0/40
Guard-Wight 2: 0/40
Guard-Wight 3: 0/40
Guard-Wight 4: 0/40
Guard-Wight 5 (Rear): 0/40
Guard-Wight 6 (Rear): 0/40
Taking another wound, Ingold feels the cumulative damage of the last few seconds mounting. Yet he sees Thorgrim take another massive wound and start to fall! ”Doderic, you must destroy Nilm lest his treachery doom is all!” he cries and rushes up behind the wavering warrior.
Reaching Thorgrim as he begins to fall backwards, Ingold slaps a poultice of Athelas on the gaping wound left by the Wight Queen. He encourages the warrior to continue the fight, saying, ”Your ancestors are with you, warrior of the bear. This is your moment of greatness!”
Action to do Hands of the Healer with Athelas:
Shadow of the Past to give Scholarly Inspiration to Thorgrim, add d6 to a roll of your choice.
Doderic doesn't respond to Ingold outloud.
I'm not one practiced in destroying really..
After a thought, he decides to play Nilm's own game and hopefully prove his better. He Uses the smoke to hide himself, his cloak and loose cloth seeming to become the smoke itself, as he looks for the petty dwarf.
Doderic is silent as a gentle breeze moving across the stone, and once he spots Nilm, he approaches from behind and stabs for the petty dwarfs side and then fades back into the smoke.
Cereidh does not rush to Thorgrim's side - there is a sort of high humming in her ears, like a great movement of the wind. Grief? Fury? But she is not mortal, and so, for a moment, it is just her and this other not-mortal Thing, the dead Queen. And Cereidh calls without conscious thought on the power of her people to cast the Queen down.
Mara gives an angry war cry as Thorgrim takes a deadly wound. "Hey, skull-face! I'm the one you want. Show me what you can do against steel and stone." She presses forward, attacking furiously with her great weapon.
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"gahWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGG" Thorgrim screams in pain and anguish as the evil Queen bites truly and his lifeforce is coldly stolen away.
As his flesh freezes and sloughs, his vision grows dim and his grib on Noctocide loosens. He sinks to his knees and his brain feels and growing and inevitable fog encroach upon it like a victorious army marching through their enemy's land.
Then all is light and warmth and it is as a sun blazing within his breast. Energy flows through him like volcano of power. He stands with alacrity, the grip on his sword strong and his eyes again blazing like ice afire.
"Gratitude, Ingold," he rumbles in his customary brief and rough manner. "I thought I was gone and you have brought me back from the precipice."
Having wasted enough words he turns his baleful gaze on the queen. Hate burning out all needs for battlecries, he takes but a moment to martial that last of his inner reserves before launching an all-out attack.
._.
The thinning smoke reveals the hunkered Nilm to Doderic's keen eyes. The hobbit moves as if he were the ghost of the tomb and with uncanny silence slips up to the waiting petty dwarf. Another dagger is held in the vile creatures hand as his eyes flit back and forth. But there is no spotting the hobbit until it is too late. The only warning of Doderic's presence is the feeling of steel slipping between ribs. Nilm cries out in pain as he whirls around, blade slashing at the retreating hobbit. His knife manages to catch the hobbit's leg before he slips back into the remnants of the smoke.
Ingold abandons the door and rushes to the falling Thorgrim where he manages to aide the big warrior just enough to allow him to fight on. A heroic decision that may have saved many lives for the combined efforts of Cereidh and Mara do not quite bring the Wight Queen down. It isn't until a slightly reinvigorated Thorgrim strikes out with Noctocide one again that the fallen Queen of Cardolan finally falls to her final rest upon the cold black stones of her tomb. Ancient bones, sword, and battered armor collapse into a heap and the glowing light of unlife vanishes from the blackened remains of her once bright eyes.
With a hiss of surprise and a snarl of determination, Nilm sneaks behind one of the stone sarcophagi. Another throwing knife whirls through the air and catches Ingold just as he turns away from aiding Thorgrim. But before the Dunedain can spot the petty dwarf he slips down and into the remnants of the smoke and like Doderic.
Nilm: 62/150
Wight-Queen: 0/125
Guard-Wight 1: 0/40
Guard-Wight 2: 0/40
Guard-Wight 3: 0/40
Guard-Wight 4: 0/40
Guard-Wight 5 (Rear): 0/40
Guard-Wight 6 (Rear): 0/40
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Cereidh hurriedly slips Bregghar over her shoulder and rushes to Thorgrim, gripping him by the shoulders to look him over.
"This is no trick of Shadow or Light - you remain as stubborn as ever? You wouldn't leave so soon and miss the telling of this story?"
Her face is composed, voice tense, fingers gripping uncomfortably tight. Her eyes are bright and distant - still off somewhere, partly hidden behind the shield of a warrior's mien - as they scan over his face, then down to his side.
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As Noctocide drinks the last animating shadow from the ghoul-queen, Thorgrim screams a wordless cry of the northern warriors, a primal thing without meaning or mercy, that rings from the walls and tells all that a terrible servant of the Enemy has brought low their last innocent victom.
Still his injuries burn and harry him, so his vision seems to have lost all color. He sees now little more than a swirling gray fog. His legs stumble and he aches to lay down, for just a moment, to let his body heal and rest and sleep....
It's the soft touch of Cereidh that brings him back to the present. In answer his own hand comes up and grabs her own. The warmrth of that hand, such a simple act, fuels again his blood to pump, to flow, to remember it is good to live.
"Ha! You can't get rid of me that easy," he rumbles in reply, one corner rising in an answering grin.
He endures her evaluation wordlessly. He knows he must look a frightful mess. Never one to overly worry about presenting a pretty face, between the trek and the violence done to them just on the way here, to say nothing of the battle now, he doubts not the visage he presents. And she, still flawless as ever. He longs to reach out and hold her and then...but there is not time for that. He does have an idea.
"Here," he says, guiding a hand down. He has never done such a thing, and the very act seems like madness. But, given the circumstances, might the solution be anything but madness.
He picks up Noctocide where it had fallen slack in his grip and puts her hand upon it.
"Go and kill him. He is right there," he says, pointing.
Staggering back over to the hidden door, Ingold holds his broadsword ready to fend off Nilm, blocking his escape. He spares a moment to bind his own wounds, though it is superficial, it may keep him standing a bit longer.
He looks for the petty dwarf, calling out Nilm's location if he can see the last remaining foe.
Mara gives an approving nod as Throgrim still stands. "Good enough, tallfolk. Good enough." She wasts no more time in words. Her focus is on trying to spot the next enemy, whereiver he is hidden.
Underdground, few can see beter than a dwarf. Especially when it comes to looking for enemies and things to fight. With a cry of anger, she charges forward at the so-called dwarf. "Outcast, I name you, outcast and accursed!"
Cereidh's eyes widen and eyebrows raise, gaze still locked with Thorgrim's, as he hands her Noctocide. The blade wavers but a moment as she locks her hands around it, getting a sense for the heft - heavy, heavier than expected, but well-made and no great worry for a trained warrior. She holds it with a proprietary eagerness. And nods to Thorgrim, her mouth in an elegant, almost-flat curve of anticipation.
"Gladly. Very gladly."
She does not run towards Nilm so much as take the great smooth strides of a cat, not, in that moment, a hunter, but an omen.
Thanks to the others direction, Doderic manages to spot Nilm, the top of his head barely poking out from the smoke and rock. Once again, he takes to the smoke. His bare feet barely making a peep.
Like before he moves away from Nilm. This time however, he dashes away to quickly for Nilm to land a strike.
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Thorgrim nodded and stretched. With the whole party gathering like hunting dogs around the lone twisted dwarf he felt the fight well in hand. So too did it seem right that the battle be finished with his legendary blade wielded by the lithe elf. The sword was no doubt familiar with his harsh grip so it would do it some good to see the same coin from the other side. He himself certainly had no complaints about her touch.
Of a moment he was reminded of the fight in the frost-cave, of how the whole thing came crashing down as soon as the evil was vanquished, swallowing a good many treasures. Would such a thing happen here? Would this burrowed graveyard also crash down and take with it all therein? He had been deprived once, and did not relish being left out of a rightfully won looting again.
He forcefully wrenches his eyes away from the gracefully departing elf and looks down, hunting for a Queen's treasure.
Cereidh strikes for Nilm's head and neck, not bothering with a neat or a clean blow.
Ceriedh brings Noctocide back into the battle, but the massive blade is much heavier than she is used to. Her first few swings are wild and off the mark as Nilm is easily able to duck away. But one doesn't live eons fighting the shadow and not learn how to adapt quickly in battle. The elf of Mirkwood brings the mighty blade back around for another flurry of strikes. This time the petty dwarf is unable to avoid all and he steps back with another cut across his ugly frame.
While Cereidh's attack may not have brought Nilm low, they do pinpoint his position for Doderic. Once again the hobbit slips from the shadows and with Nilm busy dodging Noctocide slams his own short blade into the petty dwarf's back.
With a cry of pain, Nilm throws himself aside only to wind up right in front of Mara whose haterd for this ancient corruption of her people runs hot and deep. Not having the unnatural resistance of the undead, Nilm feels the full effect of Mara's war mattock as it slams into his body. Bones shatter, blood spills. The petty dwarf staggers back one, two, three steps to find himself trapped against the wall. His eyes are wild and glazed with pain, fury, and disbelief that his 'realm' is slipping away at the hands of you unexpected and uninvited strangers. But while breath still enters his lungs and his heart still beats, treachery and revenge power his very being.
"My life upon this wretched world comes to a close." He says, his voice little more than a gurgling rasp as blood pours from his lips. A hand reaches down and pulls forth a cracked but unbroken glass flask. A gleam appears in his eyes and he laughs a brief laugh that quickly turns to a body rending cough. "But with my demise, I curse you all. Curse you with infirmaty and pain and suffering beyond your deepest night fears. May the memory of King Nilm of Underbarrow strike misery and fear and pain and loss through the end of your days."
With his final words he slams the glass flask onto the stone floor where it shatters and releases and putrid yellow gas that in moments fills the entire tomb with its choking, noxious contents.
Having done this the petty dwarf leans back against the wall and breahtes deeply of the gas while awaiting the expected final blow.
Meanwhile a few paces away A badly wounded Thorgrim scrambles among the skeletal remains of an ancient queen. As Nilm's gas rolls over his body he manages to grab a golden necklace that once adorned many a queen or princess of ancient Cardolan. And second grab by the Beorning snaps the queen's dead hand from her body to claim a pair of rings. One of silver, one a curious blend of copper and mithril. Then the gas overtakes him completely and like everyone else, Thorgrim is reduced to a series of body wracking coughs as it suddenly becomes impossible to fill his lungs with air.
Ingold chokes on the poison as he tries to respond to Nilm’s ugly curses.
”You were never king here, Nilm the petty dwarf, just a cruel and small-minded creature exploring the festering shadow in this forsaken barrow. Your curse will fade in the bright sunlight like the shadow always does!”
Cereidh does not bother to respond to this grandstanding by a king of worms and rotten roots.
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Moving gingerly to save his grievous injuries from doing him more harm, Thorgrim grins a bit at the necklace. 'Aye, I bet Doderic could fetch a fair price for this. Mayhap Mara could get a better cloak, the fur on her's is starting to get mangy.'
As for the next find--inspiration mingles with an old idea that's been niggling the back of his head. 'Bah. I s'pose I'll hafta have one of the long beards research 'im to make sure they don't make me king of the Elves or some other such as that.' The necklace goes in one bag. The other find, bones and all, goes in another.
"Blah blah blah!" Throgrim yells as the dwarf finds his tongue. He pauses in his search to see Cereidh pounding on Nilm in a way most gladening. "Shut it and get on with the business of dying! You've been about more than enough mischief and we can't end you too soon!"
His retort is cut short by a bout of hacking coughs.
The poison is good, and strong. Indeed it must be something new for Thorgrim finds himself taking its full share. But even then, 'tis a poor thing for a swan song and he had husbanded enough vitality to take it in stride.
The fight well in hand, and the elf's lithe form unceasing in her justified and righteous pounding, Thorgrim bends back to the flotsam of the battlefield. He's quite sated with the find, but his worry that their time here in this...slice of un-life...is about to be cut short is only reinforced, and he wants to make sure naught else that might secure them mounts and a few nights in agreeable beds with agreeable wine is left behind.
Cereidh's elven constituion manages to withstand another noxious cloud from Nilm. Ingold and Thorgrim are not so immune. The two cough and struggle to gain air as Cereidh's eyes focus on Nilm. Seeing his doom before him, the petty dwarf breathes deeply of his own gas as the elf brings Noctocide around for the death blow. She slams the heavy blade into Nilm's chest which cracks open like an egg. Steel severs his heart in two and within moments his malevolent eyes roll back into his head and he collapses to the floor quite dead.
The cloud of gas continues to linger in the stagnant air, filling lungs and bodies with mysterious toxins. Coughing and choking on the air, Thorgrim continues to grasp for ancient treasures, but finds nothing more of value within the already plundered remains of the tomb.
Mara coughs sliglty and spits plehgm onto the floor by the dead body. "Ha, call that poison gas? My gradnfather's pipe was worse than that, thick black clouds you could hide in." She cleans the mess off her hammer, before shuldering it and giving Cereidh a nod of approval for srking the killing blow. "That'll do, Pixie."
She looks arounds. "Right, shall we get moving? See if that curse has lifted off my kin?" She scowls. "Never thought I'ds see the day one of my own folk couldn't recognise the mother tongue when it's spoken to them plain as day."
Doderic is caught by surprise again but barely manages to pull his scarf up and coughs for several seconds as the vapor enters his lungs. Honestly, the little hobbit was tired of blood and death, and merely wanted to sit for tea. And so is happy for another to land the killing blow on the petty dwarf. It seemed odd, how different their journey had already turned. Sent to investigate some rumor of hobbits in war, and ending up here. His thoughts drift back to the start of Bilbo's tale.
It is indeed a dangerous thing going out your door...
He eventually stumbles his way out of the chamber. Keen to let whatever foul concoction that was in it slowly fade away. Slightly battered, with clear skin irritation and a bleeding nose. The Hobbit rests against the wall as he waits for the others.
Yet, despite the pain and fatigue, when the others come into sight, he instantly puts on a large smile.
Taking the time to pull up his Herb-soaked cloth over his mouth and nose instead of trying to make a speech this time.
Coughing and sputtering regardless, Ingold heads away from the poison, helping whomever needs it out of the room with him.
Cereidh kicks Nilm, turning him over and being sure from the give that he’s dead, not just faking it. Satisfied, she considers cleaning Noctocide, but is distracted from this chivalry by her own hacking cough from the poison. She wipes her bloody mouth with the back of her hand and then stares around at the room as if she’s never seen it or anyone in it before, and is, in fact, mildly disgusted by them all.
Then her eyes rest on Thorgrim. She gathers herself together and strides over to him, tugging at his shoulder to get him up, more than ready for them all to leave this place.
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"Confound!" Thorgrim swears, coughing and retching as the Nilm's final death throes leave a lingering smell. "Ugh the half-man couldn't even die clean."
Of a moment he feels a touch on his shoulder and his complaints from the poison leave him, glad as he is to look upon Cereidh without the sounds of battle interfering.
"You handled this well," he says, smilingly, reaching out for his greatword. "Aye, 'tis not quite so agile as your Bregghar, but he'll do ya yer business all the same. Ha!"
His eyes flick over her shoulder as everyone leaves the room on account of a small bit of poison gas. He looks around, realizing that for all the people that have entered this room over the eons, they are the last two in it.
He grins and his eyes flick upward, the unasked question obvious: "Do you think we have time?"
Cereidh's eyebrows raise in response. Her expression is smooth and almost mirrorlike, a little distant. Then her lips press together and she laughs, shaking her head. "You need a bath."
Though, her eyes stray to the throne. "Tell me. Do you wish that you had been born in such a time?"
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"Ha-HA!" Thorgrim laughs at his rebuttal. "So I keep hearing! Before long I'll need to keep a valet with me with a hot bucket ready at all times!"
His own cleanliness he might not be fastidious with, but one doth not let a sword be, even a legendary one. He wipes the lion share of the dwarf's gore off on an ancient scrap from one of the Queen Guard, then gives it a good rub-down with an oil-soaked rag he carries for just such a situation.
"Born a noble in a kingdom about to tear itself apart just as the jaws of the enemy close about it's neck? Ha! Valar preserve us from such a fate!
I will tell you what I have heard," he says, his voice growing wistful as he wipes down Noctocide. "I have heard some old men subscribe to this theory called the 'Great Men' theory. They say that History is not the history of people, but merely a story dictated by the biographies of great men, and the story hops from one to another, and all us chattel are just grass in the field while the elephants pound out the lay of the land.
It is complete horse-droppings, of course. But seeing this? Hearing the tale of the Queen-dom that might have been saved by a unified front but was instead brought asunder because one man fought with his kinsmen inside a drowning boat? Well, it does give one pause, does it not?"
He had done with his cleaning and put the sword away.
'Now?' his inner voice burned. His recklessness, the part of him that charged first and looked to tactics second, was wondering why the thing was not already done. Nay...nay. The nature of the...circumstances...meant that forms must needs be looked to.
"And you?" he asks. "Do you wish you were a Queen? Is that what you look for? A land to rule, servants to bend to thy will and swordsmen eager to die at thy whim?"
With the poison cleared he searched the room in earnest. Starting with the corpse of Nilm. It was after a lusty battle, the others had left, he was alone with his favorite elf, and amongst all this ruin must needs surely lay at least a coin or two.
"By the Valar if I had a full wine jug I could not think of a thing more to ask!"
He hadn't meant to say that last out loud, but given the circumstances there seemed no harm.
As soon as all had left the room of poison, Ingold set about binding wounds and treating poison symptoms, using his last Healing Hands potential to forestall anyone from dying of their wounds or cure any single person of ongoing poison damage if needed.
Once the poison smoke clears, he starts to return to the room, but sees Thorgrim and Cereidh in deep...ah...conversation, deciding to give them their privacy for the moment. Turning instead to Mara, he says, "I am somewhat surprised we all survived that encounter. Do you think we might have broken the hold of the shadow on this place and perhaps the dwarves' minds might be clearing?"
To Doderic, he says, "Should we go immediately to the dwarves, or perhaps search the throne room and Nilm's body, then lay the queen properly to rest before moving on? I am also curious to find out what lies behind that hidden door the petty dwarf was moving towards, aren't you?"
”I think,” she says, ”that there are more small acts of great heroism and villainy than you - we - people in general tend to notice. We like stories. Even immortals do - it helps us to keep track of things.”
She tosses her hair and goes over to the throne, touching the arm of it pensively. ”No. I have been accounted arrogant before. And in Thranduil’s halls it seemed like it would’ve been great fun to have more power and renown. But this dead Queen - in her life she knew more of responsibility and sacrifice than I ever have. It seems, to have that kind of power, you’d be giving yourself away to others before really ever knowing yourself. I think I would rather walk the low roads awhile yet.”
She glances back at him. ”While it was great fun to play Lord and Lady with you, and I wish that glamour had lasted longer … I find I am a little glad of your answer.”
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So ends the reign of King Nilm of Underbarrow. A petty little dwarf with a petty little kingdom of shadow, death, and lost dreams built from spit, betrayal and malice. Little in the way of gold or silver filled the coffers of Underbarrow. Death and bones were the coin of this dark realm. And that is what remains. Bones of the dead, recent and ancient along with a few useless scraps of clothing or rusty blades. Only the queen's sword remains free of the mark of time, its cold, gleaming blade resting on the floor in the one remaining hand of its mistress.
Elsewhere within the remnants of this rats nest realm, the constant pounding of hammers on iron has stopped. No longer do the shadow glamoured dwarves toil in the chamber of the forge. Mara finds them sitting confused and dumbstruck upon the floor. The glamour upon their minds and bodies gone leaving them confused and aged even more than thought when eyes were first set upon them.
Skin hangs from bony frames and arthritic bones. What strength they had slowly dissipates along with the other lingering effects of Nilm's magic and concoctions. Their rheumy eyes turn to Mara seeking answers. Where? How long? What has happened?
The last thing remembered is traveling the East Road and preparing to cross the mountains and eventually to Laketown. A risky venture given Mirkwood and the dragon Smaug, but they'd relations in the Iron Hills. A night spent in Bree then camping south of Weathertop....then nothing. A fog of shadows and nightmares. Dreams of war and weapons and working the forges.
While Mara hears the story of her fellow dwarves, the air in the tomb eventually clears enough so that it is safe once again to breath. Nilm's body reveals little of use or value except three more finely crafted throwing knives and an ancient pendant of red and black obsidian.
After a bit of investigation you discover that the hidden door leads to a crawlspace that eventually winds it's way back to a nook in one of the abandoned rooms near the forge. The room itself contains much of the remaining wealth the petty dwarf had scavenged from the tombs but not yet had melted down and turned into weapons or other goods. In all, not as big of a treasure trove as that gathered by the Captain's men, but still valuable.
Finally, it is with great relief and many deep cleansing breathes that you return to the daylight. The warmth of the late afternoon sun feels good upon death chilled skin and the gentle breeze does its best to clear the last vestiges of the dank, noxious air of the tombs from your lungs and minds.
Ingold cares for the dwarves and his companions. He attempts to figure out why he and a few of his fellows are struggling to heal.
As the poison fog clears, he makes several trips back into the barrow to pull out useful herbs and any dwarven-made weapons or items. He also looks for any useful nearby fresh herbs outside--especially something soothing that could ease their raw throats and lungs if steamed in water.
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"Aye," Thorgrim answers simply to Cereidh, stopping what he was doing and staring deeply at the floor. "For all it was unreal...'twould have been nice to play Lord and Lady, even for a little while."
The rest of his efforts go into cataloging the take. Aye, 'tis not exactly the king's horde gathered over centuries that he had expected, but, as he has seen, that, yes, one can have even too much gold.
The rest he gathers and makes excitedly joyous comment on; the ancient sword, Nilm's 3 knives, his pendant of obsidian, and the thick gold chain he found on the queen. These he shows to all, but waits expectantly on Ingold, patiently waiting for the learned man to look upon them and pronounce them either loot of the normal variety, or some long-lost item of either arcane power or significant meaning.
Doderic goes to hide away the blade, for those likely far more learned in such things than they, but notices Thorgrim already has gathered them, with the glee of a small child. Half-thankful he need not worry about it.
Doderic will speak with the dwarves, helping to explain things and helping them orientate themselves.