The Darkening of Mirkwood

3rd entry - The Merchant Caravan

Keeping the peace, but burying the dead.

After I finished writing last night I felt as if a small weight had been lifted from my shoulders, enough that I was able to lift my head up from my own woes to see that my companion Narvi was not in good straights.

The Journal that he had found had most certainly been written by his own father’s hand, but it’s rather than elevating him with its words it seemed to darken that light behind his eyes.

I found him standing over the graves of the dead merchant dwarves just as the last of that horrible day’s light was fading from the sky.

He said nothing as I approached, merely starred off into the distance, his father’s journal held so loosely between his the fingers of his hand, as it draped to his left side, that I feared that it might slip and fall into the grave dirt at our feet.

Rubbing my swore fingers I approached him from the side, not wanting to startle him and then get the same as Garrick did earlier in that day.

After Narvi had caught him going through the pockets of the dead and slipping what gold he found there into his own purse.

The scuffle had been quick and Narvi managed to both blacken and bloody the young Beorning face before Garrick managed to pin him into a head lock until the dwarfs furry faded with his consciousness.

Garrick had been the one to find the tracks that had lead us to this despoiled bit of forest at the foot of the Mountains.

And he’d seemed much offended at Narvi’s reaction to his redistribution, as he put it, of the now deceased Merchants supplies.

As the Elf seemed to have slumped into some kind of depressed state of idleness at the site of so many savaged corpses and the barding was nowhere to be seen at that moment.

It was left to me to try and make peace between them, or at least get Garrick to make more of covert effort as he relocated certain supplies into his pocket.

In an effort to keep the peace, I volunteered to take over with the burials, a task I was most reluctant to set myself to, as many of bodies had not just been savaged, but torn apart, before being tossed about as if these dwarves had been little more the sacks of red wine ripped upon by the jaws of some rapid alcoholic bear.

Yet oddly what disturbed me more, where not the grotesqueries of the savaged; though I am assured they shall hunt my nightmares for years to come regardless, but that of the few bodies that looked to have been giving a; if such a thing exists, a clean death.

There wounds speaking of simple axe blows or hard strikes to the temple by some kind of hammer. Something about those latter wounds tickled at my memory, but try has I might could not bring recognition to the forefront of my thoughts.

Allydial, having somehow managed to slip briefly from her stupor to search about the area, had managed to return with news that lightened my gloom upon my heart, if just a little.

For she had found two sets of tracks, leading out of the camp, but that disappeared quickly into the forest where she did not dare to continue on alone.

I knew that one of those tracks had belonged to my mother, as I had found no Mortal remains among the dwarfs.

But as to where the other had been Narvi’s sire, it was difficult to tell, as many of the dead had been so brutalized as to deny identification.

It took me most of the day to find all the parts, as my companions searched the wagons and the surrounding area for signs of survivors.

And it was nearing dusk by the time I had all the holes dug and bodies ready to be covered over when fatigue at last drug me down and I had to rest.

It had been then I had noticed Narvi and the concern upon his face.

“He is alive.” The young dwarf all but whispered out, with slight shrug toward the hand that held his father Journal. “and I fear that he has fallen into shadow….”

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