A Previous Delve...

In the deep annals of the Third Age, when the shadows of ancient evils yet lingered and the hearts of the Free Peoples were often heavy with foreboding, a decree went forth from Dáin Ironfoot, King under the Mountain. For though the Orcs had been scattered in the great Battle of Five Armies, and a measure of peace had returned to the lands about Erebor, the King, in his wisdom and grim foresight, forbade any of his kin to tread the perilous paths into Khazad-dûm, that once mighty and now benighted kingdom of their forefathers. For Dáin, alone among the living Dwarves who had fought at Azanulbizar, had peered beyond the East-gate and glimpsed the shadow of Durin's Bane, a terror that slept not, and he deemed the time unripe, the strength of the Dwarves yet insufficient to reclaim their most ancient home.

Yet, the call of Moria, the Dwarrowdelf of old, echoed still in the deep hearts of some, not for mere gold or mithril, but for the very memory of their race. Within its lightless halls, in the hallowed Chamber of Mazarbul – the Chamber of Records – lay the chronicles of the great works and days of their ancestors, scrolls and tablets detailing the lineage of kings, the forging of mighty artifacts, and the deep lore of the mountains. Such treasures of the spirit were deemed by Vidar and Salis, two Dwarves of Erebor, too precious to be consigned to eternal darkness and the defiling touch of Orcs.

Bound by the King's word, no Dwarf could join their venture. Thus, Vidar and Salis, with heavy hearts but unyielding purpose, sought out others who might dare the descent. And so it was that a small company was assembled, not of Dwarves, but of Men whose fortunes were entwined with those of Durin's folk. Two Bardings, strong-limbed and bearing the noble air of the people of Dale, whose city had risen anew in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, pledged their courage. With them went a man from Bree, one Percy Pickthorn, a sturdy soul, if perhaps more accustomed to the comforts of an inn than the perils of the deep. And to guide them through the shadowed ways, a Ranger of the North, a woman whose eyes held the keenness of the wild and the sorrow of her long-vigilant people.

Their quest, alas, was destined for tragedy. Of that brave band, only one returned, a Barding named Ulfrun, her face etched with grief and the horrors she had witnessed. She brought dire tidings to Vidar and Salis: the Ranger, ever watchful, had fallen defending their passage, and her own kinsman, the other Barding, lay slain by the cruel scimitars of the Moria Orcs. Percy, the man of Bree, less swift or skilled in such desperate encounters, had been overcome and dragged away into the choking blackness, his fate a torment to imagine – if he yet lived, it was as a captive of those pitiless creatures.

The news struck Vidar and Salis like a hammer blow. The loss of the records was a bitter sorrow, but the thought of Percy suffering in the dungeons of the Orcs, or worse, was a burden they could not bear. The King's decree was strict, yet their honour and compassion cried out for action. Thus, with heavy hearts and renewed resolve, they agreed that a rescue must be mounted, and swiftly.Messengers, bearing urgent pleas, were dispatched with all haste. One rode towards the hidden enclaves of the Dúnedain, seeking the aid of the Rangers whose lives were a testament to unyielding watchfulness. Another, on a swifter steed, bore tidings to Imladris, the Last Homely House, praying for the counsel and aid of Elrond Halfelven.

A Rescue is Planned...

A month passed, a sliver of time in the long count of the world, yet an age to those who waited in hope and fear. In that time, a new fellowship was forged. From Rivendell, borne upon a steed as white as mountain snow, came an Elf emissary, Calanrin, her eyes holding the light of ancient stars and the wisdom of ages. She brought word from Elrond, and a promise of aid, for the tendrils of the Shadow that festered in Moria were a concern to all who stood against the Dark. A Ranger, Eldarion, grim-faced and cloaked in the greens and browns of the wilderness, a kinsman to the one lost, also answered the call, his heart set on vengeance and rescue. And with them, a most unusual addition to such a grim undertaking: a Hobbit called Hamfast, small of stature but with a spirit that belied his gentle appearance, was brought with Eldarion who speaks highly of the halfling’s hidden talents.

They gathered in secret, this disparate group, their maps spread upon a stone table, the flickering lamplight casting long shadows that danced like the Orcs they sought to evade. They spoke in hushed tones of the Western Door, of the winding stairs, of the Chamber of Mazarbul, and of the deeper, more treacherous levels where Percy might be held. Each path was weighed, each danger considered. They were few, and the denizens of Moria many. Yet, with plans laid as carefully as the stones of a Dwarven fortress, and with hearts fortified by a common purpose, they made ready. Once more, a company prepared to brave the gaping maw of Khazad-dûm, to descend into the echoing, perilous halls where the glory of the past lay shrouded in an ever-present darkness.