Azaghâlbad’s log: 26th of ‘Afkalm
I’m writing this log entry from Othrikar. There is no tavern. THERE IS NO TAVERN! They call themselves Dwarves, but by Durin’s beard they’re no better than those thrice-cursed Dourhand traitors. Its bad enough having to write this damned log, let alone with a sober mind! My dreams tonight will be haunted by pilsners, ales and stouts, I just know it.
Aside from this most grievous of calamities, the journey was quite pleasant. Upon reaching the top-heavy wooden disaster-in-the-making that is Bree-Town we filled ourselves with Barliman’s Best and set a good pace north towards the North Downs. On the Greenway we met an elf in the employ of my good friend Lady Omali of Thorin’s Hall; I shall have to have a word with her about her employment practices. The elf may be a decent dye-maker, but think of the security risks! She should at least grow a beard, if only to fit in.
It was at Trestlebridge that we received the news of an upcoming assault on Angmar. We quickly hurried toward Esteldin, stopping over at a rangers camp where I sung a few dwarven sagas. The elf Linglorel seemed to like them; perhaps if she grows a bit shorter we’ll make a dwarf of her yet.
Esteldin, now that is a city that the longshanks can be proud of. Built into the mountain face, it rivals a dwarven citadel for its defensive features. But there’s always something wrong with these manling constructors; in this case they’d forgotten the damned roof. Telchar’s toenails, you just can’t win!
Naturally we didn’t stop there for long, as I don’t fancy getting rained on through the night. We soon made it through the great gates at Orthrikar, just in time to warn the authorities. The captain there is what we in the guard like to call a “slippery little kiznek”. A purely technical term you understand. The oaf seemed to care more about the silver in the mines than the orcs at the gates. I soon set him right. Frimsi seemed to be on my side while I was discussing at the captain; perhaps there is honour in that dwarf after all.
The air is tense now, and the night glints with unsheathed blades. There’s a fight afoot. My axe will taste blood tomorrow, I can sense it. Let them come, I say. This is no manling fort, but a dwarven citadel! Give me a hundred dwarves, or fifty, even five - we’ll hold the gates through sweat and stubbornness.
But still, for the love of Mahal, give me some ale!
Bah, I’ll leave it at that.
