Introduction:
Galri nearly fell back in his chair as King Dain's fist slammed into the table. Several coins clattered on the aged wood, and the dwarves watched breathlessly as two or three of their mugs tottered dangerously toward a full tip.
"Shame," the king cried, throwing his fist in the air. "Our people are being driven out of every deep place we once called home!" The other dwarves were silent... well, silent as dwarves slurping at ale can be. "Cut off from our cousins in the West," the Dain continued. "Ancient Dwarrowdelf lost to us." The firelight of the great stone hearth flickered across the king's back as he stared into the shadows of the tremendous feasthall. "I will not stand by," he said, raising a finger as he turned to his fellow dwarves, "and watch our people fade into nothing!" This last, accompanied by yet another shaken table, finally brought forth a response.
"Dain, dear brother," Galri said, rising from his seat. "Ye've no cause to worry. Balin prepares an expedition to reclaim Moria and, with it, Dwarrowdelf. In time, we will meet our honorable Gimli once more, I'm sure of it."
At this a small cheer went up about the hall as they raised their mugs. King Dain, though, seemed unmoved. "Glari, brother mine, I mean no disrespect to most honorable Balin, and I wish him great success in his expedition. But, truly, I believe it to be a fool's errand." Balin shot up from his chair with a shout, but the Dain silenced him with a hand.
"We cannot take Moria and expect to hold it against the orcs. Their numbers swell as ours dwindle. There simply aren't enough of us left. We must embrace a different tactic," he said, sweeping toward the head of the feasting board. Snatching one leg from a roast beast which glittered in the firelight, he continued through mouthfuls of meat. "We must, my friends, take our mountains back one by one, and here is my plan..."
Saladin: Will you yield the city?
Balian of Ibelin: Before I lose it, I will burn it to the ground. Your holy places - ours. Every last thing in Jerusalem that drives men mad.
Saladin: I wonder if it would not be better if you did.
Galri nearly fell back in his chair as King Dain's fist slammed into the table. Several coins clattered on the aged wood, and the dwarves watched breathlessly as two or three of their mugs tottered dangerously toward a full tip.
"Shame," the king cried, throwing his fist in the air. "Our people are being driven out of every deep place we once called home!" The other dwarves were silent... well, silent as dwarves slurping at ale can be. "Cut off from our cousins in the West," the Dain continued. "Ancient Dwarrowdelf lost to us." The firelight of the great stone hearth flickered across the king's back as he stared into the shadows of the tremendous feasthall. "I will not stand by," he said, raising a finger as he turned to his fellow dwarves, "and watch our people fade into nothing!" This last, accompanied by yet another shaken table, finally brought forth a response.
"Dain, dear brother," Galri said, rising from his seat. "Ye've no cause to worry. Balin prepares an expedition to reclaim Moria and, with it, Dwarrowdelf. In time, we will meet our honorable Gimli once more, I'm sure of it."
At this a small cheer went up about the hall as they raised their mugs. King Dain, though, seemed unmoved. "Glari, brother mine, I mean no disrespect to most honorable Balin, and I wish him great success in his expedition. But, truly, I believe it to be a fool's errand." Balin shot up from his chair with a shout, but the Dain silenced him with a hand.
"We cannot take Moria and expect to hold it against the orcs. Their numbers swell as ours dwindle. There simply aren't enough of us left. We must embrace a different tactic," he said, sweeping toward the head of the feasting board. Snatching one leg from a roast beast which glittered in the firelight, he continued through mouthfuls of meat. "We must, my friends, take our mountains back one by one, and here is my plan..."
Saladin: Will you yield the city?
Balian of Ibelin: Before I lose it, I will burn it to the ground. Your holy places - ours. Every last thing in Jerusalem that drives men mad.
Saladin: I wonder if it would not be better if you did.