A wreath of smoke surrounded the three figures seated by the glowing furnace and the smell of roast boar still lingered in the air mixed with the pungent odors of richly brewed ale and pipe smoke. In the corner of the room a young dwarf was eagerly perusing the delicate trinkets and puzzle boxes displayed on an oaken table. The darkest haired member of the trio leaned back in his chair and called out,
"Mind you don't break any of those, Fundur. It'll be your coin to recompense Dwimmer here, if you do!"
The young dwarf looked up, startled, then sheepishly placed the silver windmill back on its place. He then locked his fingers behind his back, but continued to gaze rapturously at the bejewelled treasures.
"Nay, Amur," said the older of the two remaining dwarves. "Leave the lad be, he'll do no harm. I can make others easily enough if needs be."
"Well." Amur gave a last guarded look to his son, then turned back to his mug of Ale. "I still can't understand how you came by all this..." His eyes roved over the vaulted ceiling and the fine stonework adorning the walls. "The last time I saw you, you had nothing...nothing! You had sold the last of your stores for mithril you didn't even keep..."
Dwimmer turned his face briefly away from the firelight. A fresh scar, still red, ran in a thin line down the right side of his face. He sighed.
"I needed it to set a healing stone. Nothing else would've done for it..."
Amur's face fell with sympathy, "You've had no news of her, then? That elf-lass you raised?"
"I've had word, but none that gladdens my heart."
Amur scoffed, "Elves would sooner see us gone than glad. They would rather Mahal's hand was never stayed and we had been pounded back into the dust..."
The white-haired warrior seated across from Dwimmer stirred in his chair. "There's no love lost, I grant you. But the Mirrormere used to be a sacred place of peace for the dwarves..."
Amur scoffed, "Tell that to the pointy-ear that gave Dwimmer that scar!"
Dwimmer turned to his companion, "Amur, I was on the borders of Lothlorien. I would not have been the first stranger to get an arrow through the heart without so much as a 'how-d'ye-do'."
"That place...were you mad? The Witch of the Wood ..."
" Stayed the fellow's hand...or at least sent her captain t' do it. What was his name? Haldi...Haldir? She's not what you think..."
Hoggstari gave Dwimmer a knowing look. "It was on the return from that place that you set up housekeepin' here."
"Aye." Dwimmer said nothing more, but took a long pull from the pipe he held.
Amur sipped his ale then asked, more calmly "Why were ye there, anyways?"
Dwimmer gazed at several sparks that had jumped from the furnace onto the hearthstone. "My lassie had spent some time there. I thought they might've had some word..."
Amur raised an eyebrow. "And did they? Tell ye anything, that is?"
"If they had known, they would have. They had heard nothing, and sent me back here." Dwimmer fell silent once more.
"Just as well, " said Hoggstari, setting down his mug and giving his arms a stretch. "I've sold twice the breastplates since Dwimmer has been here to engrave them."
Dwimmer chuckled, "Good trade and no mistake. Though 'tis a pity the world has to go about its business in full plate armour."
Hoggstari picked up his mug once more, a frown passing over his brow. "Aye, dark days. And like t'get worse."
Dwimmer sighed, then continued, "I've had word from the Dwarves of the South. There are vile, unholy things spewing from the White Mountains...dead things." He shifted in his chair and studied the smoldering pipe he held in his left hand before taking a draw upon it. The white-haired warrior sitting across from him gave him a sharp look. Dwimmer nodded. Across the room, Fundur left off gazing at the treasure table and crossed the room to quietly pull up a chair and join the others.
"Dead things?" Fundur asked in a hushed tone.
"Aye...cursed men...servants of the Shadow....attacking both man and dwarf."
Hoggstari growled, "Send 'em back to the abyss, I say...along with that Son of a Balrog in Mordor. The world was never meant t' be this way!"
"No, it wasn't," said Dwimmer, gazing sadly into the furnace's flames.
