The Reclaiming of Khazad-dûm: Sparks in the Deep
The heavy clink of a pickaxe echoed through the vaulted stone halls of Moria. For the first time in centuries, the air did not smell of ash and terror, but of damp stone, black powder, and Dwarf sweat.Thráin raised his iron lantern, its warm amber glow cutting through the oppressive, ancient dark. He sat atop a rusted mine-cart, taking a slow puff from his pipe."The foundations are cracked, but the roots of the mountain hold true," Thráin said, his silver beard bristling against his iron breastplate. Durin’s halls are breathing again."Below him, Óin adjusted his brass-rimmed goggles, wiping grease onto his stained leather apron. His hands, calloused and raw from hours of clearing collapsed railway tracks, rested heavily on his knees."Breathing, maybe, but coughing up dust," Óin grunted, gesturing toward the shadowy, endless tunnels behind them. "The Balrog is gone, aye, but it took a lot of stone down with it. We’ll need three generations of masons just to level the lower aqueducts."Loni stood to the right, leaning his heavy frame against the iron cart. He smirked, tapping his long, curved pipe against a massive crowbar hooked to his belt. His red-brown beard, braided with silver rings, caught the flickering firelight of distant braziers where other Dwarves worked."Let the masons complain, Óin," Loni laughed, a deep rumbling sound. "More rock to clear means more hidden veins to find. I swore I saw a glint of genuine mithril in the third shaft today. Deep down, beneath the soot. Thráin lowered his lantern slightly, his stern eyes reflecting the distant torches of the reconstruction crew. "Mithril or iron, it matters not. Every stone we set, every rail we fix, is a strike against the dark that drove us out. We are the vanguard of the New Kingdom."Loni picked up his pickaxe, hoisting it over his shoulder with a fierce grin. "Then let’s stop wasting daylight we don’t have down here. Which tunnel next? Thráin pointed into the dark. The deep forge. Let's light the fires.