@iduzbad | plotted starter
It was as it had been and thus would always be--- a taking up of arms and joining kin in battle when the call came. Balin was amongst those who answered, as did his father and brother, for he would not forsake those who turned toward the Misty Mountains. Armed with weapon and skill, he descended into the tunnels, meeting great swells of goblins with blade and rallies. And it was in the tunnels the dwarves remained--- taking one goblin-hold after another in a ceaseless quest in pursuit of one Orc who had since evaded them. But its mockery was there in the stagnant air of death, driving them ever onward into the darkness.
It was not the wickedness of Azog and his promise of death that he would remember. Nay, Balin would face death with blade in hand, ready to defy its blow for as long as he could. And it was not miles of tunnels, nor the goblins that tried to surround them that would haunt his memory in the coming years.
None of these things could quell the warrior within.
What Balin would remember, and would never speak of again, was not knowing if the bodies he tread upon in those tunnels were that of goblins or kin.
The days dragged into years. War settled comfortably in the depths of the mountain, seemingly content in its wrath. It did not waiver, no matter how strong the might of dwarvish blade had been.
And yet...
Those who had survived this long now gathered, a growing sense that they could bring about an end to this war. Wisdom laughed in the the back of Balin’s mind-- a reminder that another war would always come in time. Even with this knowledge, he gripped the handle of his sword that was presently sheathed. It was here that Balin stood next to another with whom he had fought beside for years.
“Azog’s nearly driven t’the surface,” he began. “But that alone will not bring about an end.” A knowing gaze befell him-- the kind that came when Balin’s silence spoke the loudest. “What news do you bring? Is this t’be our final stand?”
