GCW Games & More & Wacky Windows Companion/gcw.iso/d/lord/para.dat

Text File | 1993-05-21 | 102.5 KB | 3,994 lines


   "A palantir!" you exclaim.
You laugh to think that one
of these legendary seeing
stones has lain here in The
Shire all these ages. With
awe, you carefully wipe the
dust from its crystalline
surface. As you do, a faint
rosy glow takes hold within
the palantir. The glow gives
way to a misty red-tinged
vision of a dark figure
sitting upon a ceramic stool,
reading a scroll.
  Suddenly the Dark One looks
up, his single flaming red
eye glaring with malice.
"Sssssss," he hisses. "Read
NOT those paragraphs for
which you have been given no
instructions. There is a
special place in Mordor for
the likes of you!"
  And with that, the vision
disappears. Yet even as it
fades, you hear a muttered,
"You'd think being a Dark
Lord would grant you some
privacy, but NOOOO!"

   Apparently, some kind of
answer is needed to pass
through here.

   Again, Elrond's voice
rings clear and commanding
throughout the council hall.
"There can only be one
conclusion drawn from these
tales -- that the Enemy is
moving again in Middle-earth.
He seeks for the One Ring,
and though the power of the
three Elven Rings is strong,
they alone cannot long resist
the spreading shadow of his
evil. We cannot keep the Ring
here, nor would it be long
safe in Lothlorien or any
dwarven citadel. Neither can
we trust it to be cast into
the sea. Therefore the Ring
must be destroyed."
  Elrond's gaze pierces the
Ringbearer. "I cannot ask you
to undertake such a task, yet
I know of none other who is
more able. Will you take the
Ring south to Mount Doom to
cast it in the fire?"

   Freddi is free from the
spider, but badly wounded.
He's doing his best not to
sob, and is overjoyed to be
with people who will help him
get home. He joins your
party. Several items are
scattered nearby, including
the bones of a dwarf that
died trussed up like a
roasting pig, an old axe, a
star-shaped key, and a
weather-worn scroll with
legible dwarf-runes in his
hand. The scroll is readable.

   The passageway widens into
a dark chamber. At its center
lies a great circular hole
with rusty chains dangling
down into the darkness.
Possibly this was used as
some great well of old. Three
arched passageways lead to
the east. The leftmost arch
descends deeper. The central
arch leads on a level course,
and the rightmost ascends to
some higher place.

   Erestor pauses, considers
his words, then continues.
When first the folk of Durin
came to dwell beneath the
Misty Mountains, the
mightiest of their craftsmen
created a weapon of
surpassing power. Naming it
Durin's Axe after the First
Father, the dwarves cleansed
the depths of Khazad-dum,
that is Moria, of creatures
dark and dangerous. With the
fall of Moria, this weapon
passed from the tales of
Durin's folk. Some say that
it was found and now rests in
an Orcish treasure hoard
somewhere deep within the
mines of Moria.

   The spirit spoke
truthfully. There is indeed a
secret cabinet above the
fireplace!

   From a carefully scripted
scroll, you read "Moria, the
Black Chasm, Khazad-dum in
the tongue of Dwarves, was a
great dwarven city deep
beneath the Misty Mountains.
Its western gate faces onto
the lost land of Eregion,
also called Hollin. Its
eastern entrance opens onto
the Dimrill Dale, and the
Golden Woods of Lothlorien.
Great stairs reached high
into the mountain peaks and
delved deep into terrible
underground secrets. It is
indeed one of the unequalled
wonders of Middle-earth. It
is also a place of horror and
doom. For now, no dwarves
live there -- only foul,
darkness-loving, creatures."

   A representative of the
dwarves of the Lonely
Mountain speaks. "Know that
an emissary of the Dark One
approached our home in the
Lonely Mountain and asked us
to tell him where to find the
least of rings, a mere
trinket that Sauron fancied.
We have defied him for many
months. But we must know more
of this ring and why the Evil
One seeks it so urgently. I
was sent here for your wise
council, while another party,
including some of the men of
Dale, went as emissaries to
the Lady of Lothlorien."

    A voice whispers. "From
Nain's cairn. EAST. NORTH.
EAST. EAST. NORTH. EAST."

    The parchment reads, "As
the approach of the forces of
the Witch-king became
certain, Arveleg I, King of
Arthedain gave two pieces of
the Sword that was Broken to
his youngest son, Amonar, to
hide within the barrows of
the Kings of Cardolan east of
the Dark Forest. The third he
hid deep within the fortress
of Amon Sul."

    Your torchlight gleams
dully off a ring of rusty
keys hanging on the red-brown
rock wall near the sleeping
figure. Without sharp eyes
you might have missed them
hanging here.

    "When I was but a foolish
lad, I found this rusty sword
in the barrows south o' here.
Old Healer Rushdock told me
it were a bit o' old magic
from the ancient time of the
Kings. Mayhap you folk can
use it in your travels?"

    "Enjoy your stay with us
good folk! Nob will make up
your rooms. There's a blaze
in the parlour and food will
be along soon." "Hi! Nob!" He
shouts, "Nob! Where are you,
you woolly-footed slowcoach."
Turning back to you, he says,
"If you've any ponies, I'll
have Bob see to it that they
are taken care of."

    An aging, but still burly
man with a ruddy nose to
match his name is lifting
large stone weights behind
the counter. Odd pictures on
the wall show men and hobbits
going through the stages of
several vigorous physical
activities.

    No hobbit would leave his
hole in such a state. Smashed
furniture, broken crockery,
torn books and crumpled
clothing lie strewn about the
room. From here, there is no
sign of the hobbit who lived
here.

    The parchment reads, "As
the approach of the forces of
the Witch King became
certain, Arveleg I, King of
Arthedain gave two pieces of
the Sword that was Broken to
his youngest son, Amonar, to
hide beyond the Western
Bridge near the protection of
the elves of the Grey Havens.
The third he hid deep within
the fortress of Amon Sul.

    The mournful ruins stand
alone. The dwarves built them
long ago, and like most
things of dwarven
manufacture, endure, even
when the dwarves themselves
were slaughtered long ago.

    Above the wide arch, a
wide flat signboard swings in
the breeze showing a fat
white pony reared up on its
hind legs. Over the door was
painted in white letters: THE
PRANCING PONY by BARLIMAN
BUTTERBUR. From somewhere
inside, a merry song begins
and many cheerful voices
loudly join in the chorus.

    Grotesque carvings
encircle the door,
frightening enough in what
they depict to chill those
who gaze up on it. Yet no orc
carved these worn stones.
Something darker, more evil,
made these decorations.

    "Look for the one you
seek at the Forsaken Inn."

    The parchment reads, "As
the approach of the forces of
the Witch King became
certain, Arveleg I, King of
Arthedain gave two pieces of
the Sword that was Broken to
his youngest son, Amonar, to
hide within a cavern of the
Misty Mountains near the
protection of the elves of
Imladris. The third he hid
deep within the fortress of
Amon Sul.

    As you approach the cell,
a wiry little man with glazed
eyes and matted brown hair
and beard dances up to the
bars. "You're not with them,"
he cackles. "I can tell that,
I can. Name's Appledore. I
used to sell curios up in
Combe. Ferny said to bring my
best goods down here. Said
they were paying top coin.
You come for the secret? Them
Orcs are digging at a secret
in the cave. There's
something powerful valuable
down there. Them Orcs can
sense it."
  "Grimbosh's Black Book
tells them all about it. It
has secrets in it, it does,"
he cackles.
  Back at the bars, he
presses his face up close,
rolls his eyes about and
whispers, "Course if you was
to set me free, I could show
you them secrets."

    "There was a big man from
foreign parts asking for Mr.
Baggins. I told him to go
back where he came from
double quick or I'd set the
dogs on him, then he gave a
sort of hiss that might have
been a laugh and spurred his
great horse at me, and I
jumped away only in the nick
of time. After that, I found
my boy in the lane, and I
don't know what happened to
him. I was going off to get
the healer, but I don't want
to leave him; will you go to
the village and bring him
back? It's not far and I'm
very worried. He isn't waking
up."

    With eyes darting back
and forth, peering into each
dark corner of the room, he
whispers, "To enter the
'Black Chasm', two passwords
you will need."

    Like shadows cast by
something unseen, Elven
characters surround you on
the chamber's floor.

    The tall, weathered
Ranger remains in his seat,
yet his powerful, clear voice
commands the council chamber.
Casting two pieces of a
broken sword upon the table,
he states: "Here is the Sword
that was Broken, the heirloom
of Elendil, founder of Gondor
and Arnor, Kingdoms of the
Dunedain. I am Aragorn,
Chieftain of the Rangers of
the North, and through
Isildur, Elendil's heir.
Years ago I aided Gandalf in
his search for the Ring, and
captured Gollum, the sad
demented thing from which
Bilbo obtained the Ring. From
Gollum we learned much of
what had befallen the Ring
between those dark days of
Isildur's death and Bilbo's
riddle contest. The Ring is
Isildur's Bane, which he cut
from the hand of the Enemy.
Now I choose to guard and
guide the Bearer of the Ring,
whomever it be, as far as he
wishes me to go, whatever the
path he chooses. For this
task, the lost pieces of the
Sword that Was Broken must be
found, and Narsil must be
reforged."

    From untold depths a
great, hot wind surges
upwards, heavy with the
stench of smoke and
brimstone. Almost at once,
there is a feeling of
lessened tension, like a
great weight being lifted
from your shoulders.

    There is no greater power
in Middle-earth than the pure
white flame of the Secret
Fire. This Flame of Anor is
the Holy Spirit, Ea, that
gives life to the thoughts of
lluvatar's creation. The
Golden Wheel of Anor
symbolizes lluvatar's power;
it was forged from a shard of
the lamps of the Valar (which
were destroyed by Morgoth in
wars that occurred before the
coming of the elves) and
given by Aule as a gift to
the eldest of the dwarves,
Durin. When Moria fell into
darkness, the wheel was said
to be lost. Yet there are
tales of a golden disk that
was taken by men into the
lands west of Weathertop. The
true purpose of the wheel is
lost, though it may only be
intended as a symbol of the
Secret Fire.

    So fierce is your ability
in battle that the remainder
of your foes are dismayed.
Several minutes later, they
press in for an attack, when
the armies of Lorien arrive.
The orcs are driven into the
river -- none return to Dol
Guldur.

    "Daro!" a commanding
elven voice calls out to the
Fellowship. "Stand still! Do
not move or speak!" Out of
the shadows a ladder descends
from the trees. "In these
dark times," the elven
commander says, "we require a
password."

    "GROND"

    Within this deep green
hollow murmurs the silver
stream that issues from the
fountain on the hill. At the
bottom, upon a low pedestal,
stood a basin of silver, wide
and shallow, and beside it a
silver ewer.

    Be not daunted by the
sealed gate. Speak Friend and
Enter.

    "Hobbits!" cries Mr.
Butterbur.  "Now what does
that remind me of. And you
say your name is Underhill?
Underhill? There's something
I should remember about that
name. But one thing drives
out another you know. It'll
come back when I have time to
think. Nob will make up your
rooms. There's a blaze in the
parlour and food will be
along soon "Hi! Nob!" He
shouts, "Nob! Where are you,
you woolly-footed slowcoach."
Turning back to you, he says,
"If you've any ponies, I'll
have Bob see to it that they
are taken good care of."

    Legolas watched as Gimli
slowly caught up with the
rest of the Fellowship. "If
dwarven legs were longer," he
said, "we would not need to
wait."
  "If elves were more
patient," Gimli replied,
"then they would not object
to waiting."
  "Stop!" exclaimed Gandalf.
"This is an old and tiresome
argument. There are matters
of greater interest to
concern us."

    Elrond surveyed the
Council, sharp eyes undulled
by the ages, appraising each
member of the Fellowship in
turn. "Sauron, also known as
Annatar, also known as
Aulendil, and Artano, and the
Enemy, and the Abhorred, and
Captain of Werewolves, was
himself a servant of Morgoth,
also known as Melkor, also
known as Bauglir, also known
as the Dark Lord, also
referred to as the Great Dark
One by the Druedain (whereas
Sauron, also known as
Annatar, is known as the Dark
One, but only in Gondor, the
southernmost kingdom of the
two kingdoms founded by
Elendil, son of Amandil,
father of Anarion and
Isildur), and built his Dark
Tower, the Barad-dur, in the
Black Land, Mordor, where the
orcs (also known as goblins),
being composed of snagas and
uruk-hai, labored mightily,
as Aragorn son of Arathorn,
also known as Elessar the
Elfstone, Strider of the
House Telcontar, also known
as Estel, also known as
Thorongil (which means "Eagle
of the Star") can tell
you..."
  Frodo slipped out quietly
through a side door.

    The halls suddenly fill
with sound. The sound of an
ancient conclave. The noise
of battle is all around you.
Then, all noise ceases: and a
single, bloodied axe rests
upon the floor at your feet.

    Strider suddenly turns
around, eyes glowing blood
red, teeth like small
daggers. Fear paralyzes you.
He is not a Ranger. He is of
a kind that has not been seen
in Middle-earth in over two
Ages -- a vampire! "You
fools! Why else would I want
you to roam the streets at
night, it is My time," he
hisses at you. "My Lord
Sauron has not forgotten us;
we are few, but to him we are
valuable. All he wants is The
Ring. Give it to me and I
will thirst only upon your
companions. The choice is
yours."
  Do you choose to betray
your companions and give the
vampire the One Ring? (Y/N)

    Taffi tries to smile and
says she'll go with you. She
says her friend Freddi Grubb
fell into a cave and hurt
himself. She wants you to
keep the doggies away from
her and find her friend.

    This is the entrance to
the flet of Galadriel and
Celeborn. Your advance is
halted. "The Lady will not
see you until you bring her
five items: a silver horn, a
magic scabbard, a crown of
elanor, an elfstone, and the
light of Earendil's star."

    Silent until now, Gandalf
rose, then paused,
considering his words
carefully. "Some would think
that the pursuit of the
Ringbearer might be proof
enough that this halfling's
ring is of great value to the
Enemy. I have long suspected
that the Ring that Bilbo
found might indeed be the One
Ring that Sauron craves. Yet
not until this summer did I
learn the full truth of this,
or the nature of our peril.
For Sauron is no longer our
only enemy.
  "Years ago, Saruman the
White, leader of the White
Council and greatest of those
who are deemed wizards,
sought the secrets of the
Rings, and was given this
subject as his own domain to
study, and little love has he
shown to those who would
meddle in it. In the end, he
stated that the Ring had been
carried by the currents of
Anduin into the sea, where it
would rest forever. Long I
believed him.
  "In June, I learned from
Radagast the Brown, another
of my order, that the Nine,
the Nazgul, were abroad, and
seeking a land called "Shire"
and a hobbit named Baggins.
Immediately, I rode to
Saruman for his aid, for by
his power alone had we forced
Sauron from Dol Guldur and
freed Mirkwood from its evil.
Never did I make a greater
mistake! "Saruman greeted me,
and mocked me, and called
himself the Wizard of Many
Colours. He demanded that I
tell him where to find the
Ring, and promised me great
power if I stood beside him;
I refused, and was imprisoned
on the top of the great tower
of Orthanc, Saruman's
fortress. Had it not been for
the great eagle, Gwaihir, who
rescued me, I would be there
still. "Saruman has fallen to
the Enemy. Though Rivendell
has long resisted the Enemy,
we cannot long hide the Ring
here, nor can we trust that
it will remain lost if it
were cast into the Sea. The
Ring must be destroyed. It
must be cast in the fires
where it was made, in the
furnace of Mount Doom, in
Mordor."

    A chill wind whistles
eerily through the rough
stone pillars that
ring the hilltop like a
mouthful of broken fangs.
Near the ring's center, rough
stone pillars that ring the
hilltop like a mouthful of
broken fangs. Near the ring's
center, rough stones, tumbled
here and there, form a crude
marker. Perhaps someone long
ago left something here,
intending to return for it
later -- much like Bilbo
buried his troll booty
beneath a cairn of stone.

    You hear the sound of a
hammer repeatedly striking
against a forge. Eventually,
an elf with broad shoulders
looks at you with a toothy
grin. "I am Curudol, pupil of
the great Celebrimbor." he
says. "Is there anything I
can help you with?"

    At the Door of Seven
Hammers, speak both the First
Father's name and then name
the number of his people.

    "Look for the one you
seek in Archet."

    The room reminds you of a
poorly kept hobbit hole. The
furnishings were once
particularly homey, but long
use and poor repair has
turned most into stuff barely
fit for firewood. Shades of
heavy hide cover the windows,
keeping out any light that
might filter through from sun
or moon. A tall dark haired
man, unlike the local Bree-
folk, rises from the table.
"Please," he says with a
disarming smile, "my home is
your home. Make yourself
comfortable. You have no
doubt heard tales of me by
now. I'm certain old
Butterbur has had more than
enough time to bend your ear.
Though 'tis a wonder he can
even find room for my name in
that addled pate of his.
  "My name is Rayf Brogan,
and these men," he says,
gesturing to encompass some
of the surliest rogues that
you have ever seen, "are the
Company of Breeland, a nobler
band of heroes you shall
never find in these parts. We
fight to keep our little land
free of outsiders like that
unpleasant wizard whose
creatures stalk the south
downs, and those meddlesome
Rangers who pry so closely
into affairs that are not
their own.
  "Some call me rogue, others
bandit. Many more call me
friend. And I would like to
be your friend. Unlike most
of these folk round here, you
seem to have a spirit of
adventure about you. I need
folk like you. Maybe there is
something that I can give you
in return, eh?" It may be
your imagination, but the
room suddenly seems a bit
darker.

    The dusty scroll gives up
its secrets, "In the dark
days following the Fall of
the Witch-King, the fortified
village of Gorthad defended
the northernmost borders of
what had once been known as
Cardolan. Some maintain that
the men of Cardolan rose up
against their liege-lord,
that he had become a black
sorcerer who sought to
emulate the Witch-king. The
sources of this theory
support their theories with
further theories -- that
Gardeleg, that Lord of
Gorthad, had taken a Black
Book of Sorcery from the
ruins of Carn Dum, and that
he had purchased a Golden
Wheel from orcs that had
brought it from the depths of
Moria. The men of Cardolan
trapped their liege-lord
within his magic circle, and
banished his wife, who was
allegedly a witch, into the
far North.

    "Old Gandalf were here
last summer. Quite an odd
fellow that Gandalf. Said for
me to help folk coming out of
the Shire, he did. Said
Butterbur would send 'em my
way. Said I'd know 'em when
they gave me their right
name."

    A man steps out of the
trees. He is a tall handsome
human, dressed in brown
clothes that look travel-
worn, though they have been
recently washed. He has a
rough demeanor, as though he
has lived all of his life in
the forest, even though he is
rather handsome. "It is
unusual to see hobbits
wandering alone in this part
of the Shire. Especially in
such dangerous times. There
are elves roaming this
country, elves, and far worse
than elves."
  He notes your skeptical
expression and takes a deep
breath. "You need protection
on the road ahead. I can help
you. I offer you my
services." Do you accept this
man into the Fellowship?

    The old man rifles
through items on the shelf.
"Aha!" He cackles with joy.
"My thanks for your help now!
Take what I give you to Ham
Oakbellow. He has dire need
of it, though he may not say
so."

    A voice whispers. "From
Orin's cairn: WEST. WEST.
WEST. SOUTH. WEST. NORTH.
WEST. NORTH."

    This dark, stuffy shop
smells of herbs and
preservative spices. Odd
little charms, and runemarked
stones line shelves and hang
on leather thongs from pegs
amongst the rafters. The
shopkeeper, a heavyset, grey-
haired woman reclines
languidly in a padded chair
behind the counter, slowly
drawing on an oddly carved
briar pipe.

    This is Daisy Proudfoot.
You ask her what is what is
wrong and in a quivering
voice she implores, "Me
sister Taffy and her friend
Freddi Grubb are lost in the
East Woods. Oh brave sirs
won't 'ye please find 'em
a'fore the wolves do? Take
Taffy to Great Road Goods,
and Freddi back to his
father."

    Above the reeds there
appears an old battered hat,
then below it, a man all in
blue, save for his great
yellow boots. "What's the
matter then?" he shouts. "I'm
Tom Bombadil. Tell me your
troubles. Tom's in a hurry
now!"
  You explain what has
happened.  "What!" shouted
Tom, leaping into the air.
"Naught worse than that, eh?
That can soon be mended. I
know the tune for him. Old
grey Willowman. I'll freeze
his marrow cold, if he don't
behave himself. I'll sing a
wind up and blow leaf and
branch away. Old Man Willow!"
  Tom begins to sing. "You
let them out again, Old Man
Willow. What be you a-
thinking of? You should not
be waking. Eat earth! Dig
deep! Drink water! Bombadil
is talking."
  Soon all is set right
again. Bombadil invites you
to his house, which lies
across the bridge a short
distance away, then vanishes.

    Ware the Secret Flame,
buried beneath the Stone of
Moria. Only one who bears the
Holy Spirit's token shall
pass through the halls with
no end to bask within its
light.

    "Alas!" the old river
spirit cries, as great muddy
tears roll down her cheeks.
"I may not honor your
request. Magic deeper than my
silty bed forbids it 'til
spring again touches my
banks. Yet there is a way. Go
west to Ruddyoak. Take to him
a red acorn. Ask for the
Springstone."

    Erestor pauses, considers
his words, then continues.
"When first the folk of Durin
came to dwell beneath the
Misty Mountains, the
mightiest of their craftsmen
created a tool of surpassing
hardness and strength. Naming
it Durin's Pick after the
First Father, the dwarves
mined the depths of Khazad-
dum, that is Moria, in search
of mithril. Though powerful,
this awesome tool may have
also caused their doom when
they delved too deep. With
the fall of Moria, the Pick
passed from the tales of
Durin's Folk. Unconfirmed
tales suggest that it was
found by the men of Bree."

    The last thing anyone
expected to find in this orc
infested pit was a woman's
dressing room! Though the
room is not the least bit
frilly, your eyes and your
nose do not lie.
  Gowns and travelling
clothes lie strewn here and
there, a thick feather bed
shows signs of recent
occupation and a lingering
scent of perfume tantalizes
the nose with subtle
intrigue. Equally unfamiliar
are the books and scrolls
piled casually on the floor.
An open tome reveals language
unfamiliar even to the most
learned amongst you. Mixed
thoughts race through the
minds of all. Is this woman a
prisoner... or something more
sinister?

    Standing up, Strider
seems to grow taller. "So,
you seek to test my
truthfulness." And so saying,
he draws out a long, sinister
sword that had remained
hidden until now in the dark
folds of his travel-stained
cloak. The blade shimmers
blackly, dripping dark fire.
"Had I wanted to kill you
before now, I could have."
  "One Ring to rule them all,
One Ring to find them,
  One Ring to bring them all
and in the darkness bind them
  In the Land of Mordor where
the Shadows lie.
  "Give me the ring and my
lord Sauron may forgive your
transgressions against him.
The Ring! Give me the Ring!"

    A bridge may have crossed
the flood here, but it
collapsed long ago.

    The orcs have built a
crude bridge to cross the
chasm where Gandalf and the
Balrog fell. In the
measureless deeps below, hazy
smoke now hangs, which for
now, lies still, devoid of
sound and motion.

    Quickly, you unbind and
spread out the loose pages of
the scroll. Most are filled
with heavily blacked out
lines of text. None are
legible. Only the last few
words make any sense: "NAN
CURUNIR", followed by today's
date.

    A particularly gnarled
orc stands near the great
fireplace. Its filthy
clothing may have once
belonged to some Elven lord,
but are now festooned with
unpleasant charms
that dangle, jangle, and
tangle with each other. "You
are in the home of Drishnak
of the Red Eye," the orc says
in uncharacteristically clear
speech. "I have known you
would come for some time. You
know that you are doomed. You
cannot leave Moria without my
aid. The price is small. You
carry a ring. The least of
rings. A mere trinket." He
has trouble with the word,
but continues. "I want that
ring. Give it to me, and you
may pass unharmed."

    A ghostly voice whispers,
echoing softly from the
nitred walls of this ancient
crypt:
  "In a city of dead, Sits
one who once led."
  "A ring is his bane, A
barrow its fane.
  He waits til the Last,
  Ask of his Past."
  The spirit's voice is heard
no more in Middle-earth.

    Like shadows cast by
something unseen, dwarvish
runes surround you.

    "Contemplate the mystery
of eight:
  The wizard watches as Orc
and dwarf die.
  While wolf gnaws the
rotting skull dry;
  A troll eats the man served
up on his plate;
  And above the eagle soars
high.

    The old man rifles
through items on the shelf.
"Aha!" He cackles with joy.
"Take what I give you to
Willa Bloom. She has dire
need of it, though she may
not say so.

    Written in the wizard's
strong but graceful script is
the following message:
  THE PRANCING PONY, BREE,
  Midyear's Day, Shire Year,
1418.
  Dear Frodo,
  Bad news has reached me
here. I must go off at once.
You had better leave Bag End
soon, and get out of the
Shire before the end of July
at the latest. I will return
as soon as I can; and I will
follow you, if I find that
you are gone. Leave a message
for me here, if you pass
through Bree. You can trust
the landlord (Butterbur). You
may meet a friend of mine on
the Road; a Man, lean, dark,
tall, by some called Strider.
He knows our business and
will help you. Make for
Rivendell. There I hope to
meet again. If I do not come,
Elrond will advise you.
  Yours in haste
  GANDALF.
  PS. Do NOT use It again,
not for any reason whatever!
Do not travel by night!
  PPS. Make sure that it is
the real Strider. There are
many strange men on the
roads. His true name is
Aragorn. Hmmm, I've used up
all the space on this page. I
have another page so I will
continue on it...

    With a hushed voice, he
whispers, "Seek for
Trollslayer atop the Hill of
Fangs."

    As you approach the cell,
a short, emaciated hobbit
with hollow eyes and matted
brown hair and beard shuffles
to the bars. "You're not with
them," he rasps. "I can tell
that, I can. Name's
Appledore. Nob Appledore. I
used to sell mining equipment
up Bree way. Ferny said to
bring my best goods down
here. Said they were paying
top coin." He laughs sharply,
then coughs painfully,
spitting something dark into
the rancid straw.
  "I been living for the day
when I can see ol' Ferny
again." Teeth clenched tight,
he pauses then stares wide-
eyed at you through the bars.
  "You come for the secret?
Them  Orcs are digging at a
secret in the cave. Made me
dig in the big hole too, 'til
the sickness came on me. Now
it's just Orcs digging.
There's something powerful
nasty down there. Even the
Orcs can sense it.
  "But, working the hole's
still better'n going the way
o' Grimbosh's Black Book.
Four of my lads went that
way. Screaming powerful loud
and long. Grimbosh comes in
here and sneers his face at
me, saying he's got something
special in mind for me some
day soon. Says "the Dark
Thing" is almost ready to
come up and he needs me to
finish things up."
  With a shudder, Nob grabs
the bars, and with a hardly
heard whisper sobs, "Say. You
folks, you're not going to
leave me in here now, are
you?"

    "This is truly the
darkest peril of all."
Galadriel says. "Elbereth
protect thee! I have lore to
assist thee -- remember it
well, for Sauron is not the
only power in this world, nor
is he the greatest."
  "Of all the Valar, the
greatest in the art of
hunting was Orome, whose horn
has long echoed in Middle-
earth, and whose hounds were
feared by all evil creatures.
Call upon him to ensnare one
who is not easily caught...."
  "Of all of the creatures
who walked in Middle-earth,
the wisest of all was Melian
of Doriath. Call upon her
wisdom to counter that which
would deceive or bewitch
thee, or those that enchant
thy comrades."
  "If you wish for advice:
travel the north road to
Rhosgobel and seek the aid of
the Wizard Radagast. If he is
there, he will aid you. To
sustain you on your journey,
I have given my servants
lembas, the waybread of the
elves. They will share it
with you when the need
arises."
  "I will sing no songs of
farewell at this hour, for I
shall yet again greet you in
Caras Galadon." It is over.
You depart Lorien, heading
into the Shadow.

    The air smells faintly of
stale pipeweed. "If you folk
are lookin' for good
pipeweed, try over at
Sharkey's Shipping. They've
been buying all me best and
most of me worst. There's not
a shred of Longbottom Leaf to
be had in Bree."

    A note on the counter
reads:
  "I apologize, good folk,
for the inconvenience, but my
supplies are a bit short.
I've gone to my camp north of
the Midgewater to restock
before winter sets in
completely.
  Regards,
  Willa Bloom"

    Seven Tribes for Seven
Fathers of the Naugrim.

76. The blackness finally
ends, but you can take no
comfort from it. You find
yourself in a dark throne
room, complete with the
symbol of an evil Eye. A
black shadow falls upon you,
and you find it difficult to
breathe. A lone window shows
a frightful vista; an ash
covered plain, and a volcano
belching magma and smoke.
  "GIVE ME MY RING!" demands
a voice sharp and terrible,
and then you know no more...

    This scroll was
apparently written by
Gandalf, for the script
matches other things he has
written. It describes his
visit to Dol Guldur, and the
research that was done in the
library of Minas Tirith, that
great city in the south in
Gondor.
  "...the tales of the Black
Book are grim indeed. Some
say it belonged to the Witch-
king of Angmar, but others
say that it could only have
been written by the
Necromancer of Dol Guldur.
Gardeleg Lord of Gorthad
studied it thoroughly, and is
said to have added many
details on Moria which he
learned from the orcs who
overran Moria after the fall
of Durin's folk."

    You realize where you
are -- imprisoned in the lair
of a barrow wight! Your
companions are unconscious,
but for the gentle rise and
fall of their chests, they
look as ones dead, decked in
the finery of dead kings.
Across their throats are
long, naked, swords. A song
like an incantation begins to
rise:
  "Cold be hand and heart and
bone,
  And cold be sleep under
stone:
  Never more to wake on stony
bed,
  Never, till the Sun fails
and the Moon is dead.
  In the black wind the stars
shall die.
  And still on gold here let
them lie,
  Till the dark lord lifts
his hand
  Over dead sea and withered
land."

    The dust on the floor
shows that no one has
disturbed the room in years.
Your footprints are the
first. "It may be that we are
the first to enter this
chamber since Balin sealed
it." To the south, a huge
statue, a troll carved of
sturdy stone, glowers over
the room.

    With a sigh of relief,
one of you notices an old
bird's nest perched behind
one troll's ear. No living
troll would have such a
decoration. These must then
be the very three that were
caught by Gandalf, quarreling
over the right way to cook
thirteen dwarves and a
hobbit! Now they are nothing
but unliving stone.

    The great book seems to
open at once to something of
interest. "The Golden Wheel
of Anor, a curious artifact
once possessed by the dwarves
of Khazad-dum, was said to
wield some power over the
forces of evil.  One tale
that escaped Moria's
destruction was that of
Borin, son of Bruin, who used
the wheel to entrap a
powerful spirit of evil. It
is stated that Borin and
comrades entombed the spirit
far from the Misty Mountains,
near a remnant of the Old
Forest.

    The machine starts to
rattle and spit and make foul
noises. The steam reminds you
of Gandalf's fireworks. The
men get up with a start, and
you realize you should get
away before they get you.
Crawling through a window,
you safely escape into the
night. There is a lot of
screaming behind you, drowned
out by the roar of the huge
engine as something explodes.

    This is what hobbits and
humans would call a tavern,
except that the occupants are
somewhat more sedate. The
minstrel Rathgil is playing a
song of long ago, while the
elves sip ale and listen
attentively.

    Look for the one you seek
in Staddle.

    The light in here is
worse that you had first
thought; otherwise, you would
have noticed that white charm
hanging from a peg behind the
counter.

    The passageway goes on
for a mile, or maybe a little
more, and descends many
flights of stairs, at least
seven. After one last turn to
the left, the corridor passes
through a narrow door and
into another hall. The air is
quite warm here, even hot!

    Well now, here's a bit of
the unexpected. The nose is a
bit weatherworn and the hat
has seen better days, but
this is most certainly meant
to look like old Gandalf
himself. What an odd place to
put a statue. Perhaps some
troll took a liking to it and
tried to take it home with
him. On the other hand,
perhaps there is more here
than meets the eye?

    "No one's supposed to
know about that. Grimbosh
killed the last person who
even mentioned it. The big
boss sent the witch out to
find some half folk that was
supposed to have heard tell
of it. Personally, I think
that's what they hope to find
in the pit. Say, what are you
gonna be doing with me? Great
lords like yourselves
wouldn't be thinking o'
killing poor folk like me,
would you now?"

    All is black, all is
darkness.  One does not get a
feeling of evil in this
place. The only sound here is
the echo of a great hammer
striking an anvil,
repeatedly.
  Suddenly a voice strikes
out of the darkness. "We are
the dead." It is obviously a
dwarven voice, of great power
and majesty. "Long we strived
to build the mansions of
Khazad-dum. Our arms labored
to carve the stone, and find
the gems, and build our
mansion. Now time has come,
and the Enemy has struck
against us, and the Naugrim
are too few to fight, though
we shall do so until the last
of Mahal's children reaches
the mansions of the dead."
  "You have come into the
domain of Durin, and you have
used his artifacts.
Therefore, you must do
Durin's work, and make
Durin's home ready to receive
his children once again."
  Suddenly, you are somewhere
else.

    The statue crumbles into
dust and a few odd, seven-
sided stone blocks. The
passageway is no longer
blocked.

    When I was an adventurous
young lad, I found this odd
rock in the ruins atop old
Weathertop. Old Rushdock the
Healer, may he rest
peaceably, told me it were a
bit o'magic from the time
when kings lived hereabouts.
Mayhap you folk can use it in
your travels?"

92. Erestor's slender hands
form a small circle. "The
Golden Wheel," he intones in
his clear voice, "was an
artifact of Moria. The
dwarves used it to lock the
treasure vaults in the
deepest deeps, wherein the
greatest treasures of the
dwarves were stored."

    "Hobbits!" cries Mr.
Butterbur.  "Now what does
that remind me of? And you
say your name is Baggins?
Baggins? There's something I
should remember about that
name. But one thing drives
out another you know. It'll
come back when I have time to
think. Nob will make up your
rooms. There's a blaze in the
parlour and food will be
along soon.
  "Hi! Nob!" He shouts, "Nob!
Where are you, you woolly-
footed slowcoach." Turning
back to you, he says, "If
you've any ponies, I'll have
Bob see to it that they are
taken good care of."

    Gandalf's letter
continues on this second
sheet, though it shows signs
of having been read by many
others.
  "All that is gold does not
glitter,
  Not all those who wander
are lost;
  The old that is strong does
not wither,
  Deep roots are not reached
by the frost.
  From ashes a fire shall be
woken,
  "A light from the shadows
shall spring again;
  Renewed shall be blade that
was broken,
  The crownless again shall
be king.
  PPPS. I hope Butterbur
sends this promptly. A worthy
man, but his memory is like a
lumber-room: thing wanted
always buried. If he forgets,
I shall roast him.
  Fare Well!
  Gandalf"

    The floor here is
littered with rocks and
debris. If anything is to be
found here other than rocks,
someone must dig for it.
Samwise sighs heavily. "I've
had me an ache to work in the
dirt again, but I was hoping
for a bit of sunshine and a
cool breeze to go with it."

    A few odd, seven-sided
stone blocks lie on the dust.
An intriguing passageway
beckons to the south.

    The note tacked to the
door reads, "If you've come
in great need, I'm sorry to
inconvenience you, but my
herb supplies are a bit
short. I've gone to my camp
north of the Midgewater to
restock before winter sets in
completely.
  Regards,
  Tim Thistlewool"

    This flet contains the
library of  Lothlorien. On
preserved mallorn leaves,
delicate handwriting
describes the triumphs and
tragedies of elves and men
during the long history of
Middle-earth.

    There are too few of you
now. The Witch-king grabs the
Ringbearer, and takes him to
Mordor. Sauron wins.

     You find a scroll buried
in the rubble.
  The scroll falls apart due
to its age, but putting it
together like a puzzle, you
manage to read the following:
"I have discovered more...
stolen by the orcs from
Moria. The orcs have reopened
an ancient place called
Gorthad, near the Downs. It
would appear that.... of
Moria that items crafted by
our ancestors.... by the orcs
and their masters. Many of
our treasures may be in this
region.... "It is said that
orcs have found the Golden
Wheel, the most elusive of
all the treasures of Durin.
Its use is unclear, but
it is said that words are
recorded... the Black Book of
Gorthad. It is a foul name,
hinting at great evils.
  "I will scour the Barrow
Downs for more clues, then I
will head for Bree. This is a
dangerous place; even the
Rangers avoid it. I know
enough..."
  (Signed) Thuri

     My Dear Mr. Oldenad:
Work on the new mill goes
well. As you can see by my
last shipment, the lads have
been able to double our
output. I'm sure the quality
of the work will improve soon
too. Your fellows have been
able to keep the local folk
quiet, though they don't like
it much. When can I expect
next payment?
  Sincerely,
  Lotho Sackville-Baggins
  Master of Bag End,
  Hobbiton.

     "Contemplate the mystery
of eight:
  A wizard watches a wolf's
skull dry.
  While Orc slays dwarf and
watches him die.
  A troll eats the man served
up on his plate;
  and above the eagle soars
high.

     "Look for the one you
seek in Combe."

     The shop is nearly
empty, its shelves bare of
all but a few items.

     The note tacked to the
door reads:
  "If you've come in great
need, I'm sorry to
inconvenience you, but my
herb supplies are a bit
short. I've gone to my camp
deep in the Midgewater to
restock before winter sets in
completely. You may find me
there for the next week or
so.
  Regards,
  Tim Thistlewool"

     In this flet, an elven
maid with soft black hair
hums as she turns thread on a
spinning wheel. She notices
you and nods. "I am the
seamstress Tinalin," she
says. "I sit and weave and
make new things. This cape,
do you like it?"

     A voice whispers. "From
Throri's cairn. WEST. SOUTH.
EAST. SOUTH. EAST. NORTH."

     Elrond casts the last
shredded cloak aside. "Though
you have accounted for but
eight of the Nazgul, we can
delay no longer. Against the
Enemy's nine riders, I shall
send forth nine walkers.
Along with the Ringbearer and
his companion, Gandalf will
go, for this shall be his
great task, and perhaps the
end of his Labours. For the
rest, they should represent
the other Free Peoples of the
World; Elves, Dwarves, and
Men. Legolas shall be for the
Elves and Gimli for the
Dwarves.  For men, take with
you Boromir, a valiant man of
Minas Tirith in Gondor.
  "Elf lords I could send
with you, but they would only
serve to draw the attention
of the Enemy. I cannot force
any of these valiant heroes
to join you, therefore, chose
those who may best aid you in
your quest.
  "Your path lies south of
here, through Redhorn Pass
and into the forest of
Lothlorien. My folk have been
instructed to give what aid
they can, though some may
still require a token in
return. If my kinfolk
question you, use my name as
their answer. To Gandalf I
give miruvore, a powerful
cordial, to help you in cold
weather. Use it wisely. And
lastly, I give you a single
word. You will know when to
use it. That word is
'mellon'".

     Thickly woven strands of
sticky, silken webbing block
the exit.

     The floor here is
littered with rocks and
debris. If anything is to be
found here other than rocks,
someone must dig for it...

     When the thick dust
settles so that everyone can
again see, you discover that
amongst the odd-shaped chunks
of rubble are seven, seven-
sided stone blocks. Each of
the blocks is carved with the
runes of the dwarf language,
though even the most
knowledgeable among you
cannot decipher their
meaning.

     "Well now. Unless I am
no judge of good foodstuffs,
these fine bits of fungus are
the same as the Scarlet
Shelves that old Farmer
Maggot used to grow. Fine
eating they are."
Nevertheless, the other
members of your party seem
less certain about your
evaluation.

     Noses wrinkle at the
smell of dust and mildew.
Though the walls are lined
with tall, wide bookshelves,
possibly rescued long ago
from some ancient lord's
manor, few are the books and
scrolls to be found filling
those shelves. The most
common topic is "the History
of Bree", whose shelves run a
slim lead over "Cuisine of
Bree", which in its own turn
has but one or two more
folios than the nearly bare
shelf labelled "Everything
Else".

     "He's the orcs' leader.
A powerful sorcerer he is.
Knows magic that would turn
your insides out he does!"
His voice drops to a
conspiratorial whisper. "We
all hate him. If you look to
extinguish his dark fire,
take the stair near the
Barrows to his lair. Don't
forget to use the right
passwords to foil his traps."

     Thadred, fourth
Cardolani lord of Amon Sul
died of a broken heart on the
eve of what would have been
his wedding. His lady,
Luthanna and all her
handmaids had been killed but
days before in an Orc attack
as she rode southward to join
Thadred in marriage. Those
who entered the Lord's vault
in later years would speak of
hearing faint weeping and
sobbing and of feeling an
ache for loved ones lost or
distant.

     "Mr. Frodo, sir!" Sam
exclaims. Frodo turns to Sam,
only slightly irritated with
his friend. "Sam, we must get
the Ring to Mount Doom at all
costs."
  "I know, Mr. Frodo, I know
it, we will. But there's
something important we've
forgotten, and it has to be
said!"
  "What is it, Sam?"

     A note from Bilbo says:
"must ask the Brandybucks
about Old Forest." You put
this down for a copy of
something far more
interesting, the Lay of
Leithan, the song of Beren
and Luthien. It says that
Luthien danced by the shores
of the river Esgaldil when
the world was young, and some
of the waters of Middle-earth
still remember her. In places
where the elves still dwell,
her memory will stir the
waters to a powerful defense,
even against the mightiest of
foes.

     This flet is one of
Lorien's guard posts,
cunningly hidden in the tree
branches. A tall strong elf,
obviously one of the
commanders of Lorien, looks
at you and introduces himself
as Celebrith, son of Dagnos.

     Upon an altar, you see a
large black tome, covered in
thick leather binding. It is
open, and a footstool at the
base of the pedestal should
allow even a hobbit to read
it, though it is shrouded in
a palpable feeling of Evil.

     Pippin feels curiously
attracted by the well. While
the others busy themselves in
the chamber, he creeps over
to the edge of the well and
peers over. A chill air seems
to strike his face, rising
from invisible depths. Moved
by a sudden impulse, he
gropes for a loose stone, and
lets it drop. His heart beats
many times before there is
any sound. Then, far below,
as if the stone had fallen
into deep water in some
cavernous place, there came a
plunk, very distant, but
magnified and repeated in the
hollow shaft.

     Carved into the floor,
in a large area free of dust,
are the words "For Durin's
Child, a sharp eye will show
the way."

     The ring of hammers
falls silent as you enter.
Dark evil faces, sweating in
light of fiery forges, glare
at you menacingly. As one,
the huge Uruks drop their
hammers, tongs, and bellows
to take up the weapons that
they have been forging.

     "The Ringbearer has a
dream. He sees a small brown
bird wing its way to a great
eagle's eyrie. Amid
thunderclashes, the eagle
flies to a great tower within
a circle, sweeping down and
bearing away a white-haired
man. "Say !ANGMAR to the
stone apart!" he cries.

     The dwarven masons of
old were true masters of
stone, and though much of
their skill has undoubtedly
been lost through the ages,
enough remained for Balin's
folk to block up a secret
door and make it appear as
natural stone. So sturdy is
the construction that it is
impassable to all but the
mightiest stone mason's
tools.

     You hear an answer to
your cry, a song that echoes
through the walls of the
barrow:
  "Old Tom Bombadil is a
merry fellow,
  Bright blue his jacket is
and his boots are yellow,
  None have caught him yet,
for Tom, he is the master,
  His songs are stronger
songs, and his feet are
faster."
  Tom Bombadil appears. He
begins to sing again:
  "Get out you old Wight!
Vanish in the Sunlight!
  Shrivel like the cold mist,
like the winds go wailing,
  Out into the barren lands
far beyond the mountains!
  Come never here again!
Leave your barrow empty!
  Long and forgotten be,
darker than the darkness,
  Where gates stand forever
shut, till the world is
mended."
  At these words, there is a
long trailing shriek, fading
away into an unguessable
distance, and after that
silence. You are free.

     This flet is one of
Lorien's guard posts,
cunningly hidden in the tree
branches. A tall strong elf,
obviously one of the
commanders of Lorien, looks
at you and introduces himself
as Malkir, son of Seregon.

     From a tattered tome,
you read "Moria, the Black
Chasm, Khazad-dum in the
tongue of Dwarves, was a
great dwarven city deep
beneath the Misty Mountains.
Great stairs...."

     "Then, of course, there
is the blade Narsil, the
sword once belonging to
Elendil, mighty Numenorean
king of Gondor in the south.
Narsil was broken in four
pieces when Isildur clove the
Ring from Sauron's finger.
When Isildur's Bane is at
last discovered, the sword
will be reforged anew and
made whole. This may indeed
be difficult, for over the
course of centuries other
small pieces have disappeared
from the sword; a broken
piece of the blade, a wing-
like crossguard, and a
magnificent jewel from its
hilt. Aragorn bears this
sword."

     Gharsh, the Orc
overlord, eyes you warily.
Durin's Axe lies hidden on a
platform in the Hall of
Mists. Speak the mighty words
Flame of Udun to break the
spell that holds it in place.

     Weathertop, the
southernmost of the Weather
Hills near Bree was once the
site of Amon Sul, an ancient
fortress destroyed by the
forces of the Witch-king.
There are said to be crypts
and caverns beneath its
ruins, though not even the
Rangers know the way to find
them.

     "Look! Someone has been
here recently," Strider
comments. "There are signs of
a fight. The ground is
scorched here, here, there --
and, what is this?" Stooping,
he traces a rune freshly
scribed on a flat rock that
had escaped the fire. "G," he
whispers, "Gandalf's personal
signature. It may be that he
has been here quite recently
and was forced to defend
himself. If only he had time
to tell us more."

     West of the Barrow Downs
lies the last remnants of the
Old Forest, that once
stretched from the Western
mountains to the Misty
Mountains. This dark forest
is home to many spirits of
the world, both good and
evil. Therein dwells the
eldest, called Iarwain
Ben-adar by the elves.

     Rack upon rack of
bottles line the walls. Most
are surprisingly free of dust
and cobwebs. The vintage
wines represent more than one
Age of Middle-earth, samples
of over a thousand vineyards.
Some like Old Winwards take
your mind back across the
leagues to the Shire. Others,
their names marked in
languages unknown now amongst
the folk of Middle-earth, no
longer even evoke memories of
the soil that warmed the
roots of their vines, or of
the people who first drank
them. Even in their
antiquity, none seem spoiled.

     "A staff seemingly made
of pure ice is said to be
lost beneath the ruins
northeast of Bree. The staff
is said to have great powers
over fire spirits, even those
as powerful as the legendary
Balrog."

     As you enter, characters
on the wall begin to glow
until they are quite legible.
The script is obviously
Gandalf's. It reads: "I hope
you find this. The evil ones
have driven me underground
for now. Do not tarry here,
for they love the dark.
Remember the name of
Elbereth, for it has power
over them. They are coming. I
must flee deeper to escape
them -- Gandalf."

     You enter the gate of
Caras Galadon, the city of
the trees. No folk can you
see, but there are many
voices about you. In the
distance, you hear the sound
of singing falling from on
high like soft rain upon the
leaves. It is a wondrous
place.

     Elrond speaks. "Here my
friends is the Ringbearer.
Few have ever come hither
through greater peril or on
an errand more urgent. There
is much to be told and each
should be heard. Let the
Council of Elrond begin."

     The dwarven runes on the
floor here are
incomprehensible.

     Gharsh whines, "Tell the
great troll statue a certain
word. Tell it, 'ITHILDIN'."

     The shining figure calls
out, "Ai na vedui Dunadan!
Mae govannen!" His speech and
clear ringing voice leaves no
doubt in your hearts:  this
is one of the Elven-folk. No
others that dwelt in the wide
world had voices so fair to
hear. "This is Glorfindel
who dwells in the house of
Elrond," Strider says.

     The door appears to be
locked.

     As you enter, characters
on the wall begin to glow
until they are quite legible.
The script is obviously
Gandalf's. It reads: "I hope
you find this. The evil ones
have driven me underground
for now. My spells will hold
them, but not for long. Do
not tarry here, for they love
the dark. Remember the name
of Elbereth, for it has power
over them. What little aid I
give you in two new names:
!LUTHIEN summons aid over
water, !MITHRANDIR over fire.
Use them wisely. They come
now and I must flee deeper
ere I see the light of Arda
once more. Gandalf."

     A slender bridge of
stone spans the black chasm
in a single curving span of
fifty feet. Beyond the fire
to the west, hundreds of
black figures swarm angrily.
They brandish spears and
scimitars which shine red as
blood in the firelight. The
rolling thunder of the
drumbeats, grows louder and
louder -- doom, doom... doom,
doom! Arrows begin falling
around you. To the west, dark
silhouettes of trolls place
great slabs of stone across
the fire. Yet, before they
can cross a spasm of fear
breaks like a wave against
the companions of the Ring...
the Balrog has come, wrapped
in flame and darkness.

     In the clear, ringing
voice of the elven-folk,
Glorfindel speaks. "I was
sent from Rivendell to look
for you. We feared you were
in danger upon the Road."
  "Then Gandalf has reached
Rivendell?"
  "No. He had not when I
departed; but that was nine
days ago. We heard news
of your coming from Gildor
and his people, whom you met
beyond the Brandywine.
  "It was I who left the
elfstone upon Bridge over the
Mitheithel when I drove off
the servants of Sauron who
held it. Yet I fear that even
more that the Nine are near,
both behind and ahead. Once
the Black Riders find your
trail upon the Road, they
will ride after us like the
wind."

     The Black Book is a
mighty tool of sorcery, yet
it should not be handled by
the weak of will. Also within
it are dire secrets about
Moria, which the dwarves call
Khazad-dum. Fire is its bane.

     The stone lid here is
sealed tightly. It would be
impossible to fit even a
prybar into the cracks.

     A ghost hovers here,
noble in bearing, yet wearing
a sadness deeper than any you
have known. You sense no
evil, but nevertheless, a
deep chill runs down your
spines as it whispers in
hollow tones. "In life, I was
Thadred, one of many Lords of
Amon Sul who have ruled this
place over the centuries.
Long ago, I gave my heart to
a maiden fair, Luthanna. Yet
never was our love to be, for
the servants of the Witch-
king took her spirit where
none can reach. Love! It slew
me more surely than all the
arrows of Angmar. I sat in a
tower, with armies at my
command. Through the Stone of
Seeing, I could behold all
that occurred in my domain,
and beyond. I had the wealth
of kings. But this meant
nothing to me. I could not
fight for Luthanna, I could
not see Luthanna in the
Stone, and all my wealth and
power could not buy her back.
  "Now, I watch over the
dead.  Though the dead cannot
know love, my dead heart yet
craves to know of love. None
may pass until they give
proof of a maiden's love."

     After climbing a great
height, you find yourself in
a large hall, set amid the
branches of the tallest
mallorn in Caras Galadon. On
two chairs beneath the bole
of the tree and canopied by
living boughs sit Lord
Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.

     I am Boromir, son of
Denethor, who is Steward over
Gondor. I have come North
seeking the answer to a dream
which has plagued me. In that
dream, I thought the eastern
sky grew dark, and there was
a growing thunder, but in the
West a pale light lingered,
and out of it I heard a
voice, remote but clear,
crying:
  Seek for the Sword that was
broken:
  In Imladris it dwells;
  There shall counsels be
taken
  Stronger than Morgul
spells.
  There shall be shown a
token
  That Doom is near at hand,
  For Isildur's Bane shall
waken,
  And the Halfling forth
shall stand.
  What is the Sword that was
broken? What or who was
Isildur's Bane?"

     Deep beneath his tower
on the downs, Gardelag lord
of Gorthad hid the glowing
sword that his warriors had
taken from the band of Orcish
bandits returning from the
sack of Khazad-dum.

     Hidden within the
fastness of the troll cave is
an elven scroll. You don't
know how it got here -- and
you don't want to know. The
scroll is battered and
beaten, and mostly
unreadable. The only
surviving inscription refers
to Rivendell: "Imladris's
deeps beyond vintages lie."

     Greatest of the swords
of Middle-earth is Anglachel,
the Sword of the Dark Elf
Eol. It was forged by Telchar
of Nogrod, and was believed
lost in the Fall of Gondolin.
Yet the Black Blade escaped
capture, and was taken to
Moria as a reward by the
dwarves who aided the Valar
in the final battle against
Morgoth. There it was wielded
by Nain, son of Durin VI,
until Durin's Bane drove the
dwarves from Moria. It was
taken by dwarves from the
sack of Moria, but none know
where it rests.

     The wretched creature
snarls "Tell the gray dwarves
MORIA." Though it may cost
you greatly, you stand by
your word and let it scamper
off into the darkness.

     Your torchlight gleams
dully off a rusty knife
hanging on the red-brown rock
wall near the sleeping
figure. Without sharp eyes
you might have might have
missed it hanging there.

     This is an old elven
keep. However, the
workmanship is clearly
dwarven; obviously it dates
back to the days in Eregion
when the elven smiths and
the dwarf lords of Moria
formed a great (but now
long sundered) friendship.

     Upon the throne is a
being that resembles a human
sculpture made out of mud
from a river bank. This is
the mighty Withywindle, the
spirit of the river. She says
in a slow, deep voice: "I
know of you and your quest.
Yet who bids you to take
lilies from my secret place?
Show me a token, so I may
understand."

     "A staff seemingly made
of pure ice is said to be
lost in a cave within the Old
Forest. The staff is said to
have value against fire
spirits, even those as
powerful as the legendary
Balrog."

     "So." Smaug said,
licking his lips (or the
draconian equivalent). "You
must indeed be a simpleton to
think that something as
trivial as an arrow could
slay a dragon such as myself,
regardless of its color. Now,
I smell something familiar, a
scent similar to one who
stole my cup -- a relative,
perhaps?"

     In a happier age, the
Elves of Eregion were mighty
smiths, creators of many
wondrous magical items. Chief
amongst these smiths was
Celebrimbor. He created many
rings of power, untainted by
Sauron's corruption. One of
these, called the Smith's
Ring, was imbued with a
fraction of Celebrimbor's own
skill. Though Eregion fell
and Celebrimbor died, his
skill lived on this ring,
passed down from smith to
smith. At last it was carried
into the Old Forest by
Dunedain fleeing the great
plague. Its owner died from
an orc's arrow as he crossed
the River Withywindle, and
the Smith's Ring was never
seen again.

     A slender bridge of
stone spans the black chasm
in a single curving span of
fifty feet. Beyond the fire
to the west, hundreds of
black figures swarm angrily.
They brandish spears and
scimitars which shine red as
blood in the firelight. The
rolling thunder of the
drumbeats, grows louder and
louder -- doom, doom... doom,
doom! Arrows begin falling
around you. To the west, dark
silhouettes of trolls place
great slabs of stone across
the fire. Yet before they can
cross, a spasm of fear breaks
like a wave against the
companions of the Ring... the
Balrog has come, wrapped in
flame and darkness.
  "Fly! This is a foe beyond
any of you!" Gandalf cries.
Only the full power of a
wizard might stand against
it. Might.

     "Though your task will
be difficult, I feel that the
right choice has been made
here today." Elrond states.
"Yet before the journey of
the Ring can begin, we must
know of the fate of the Black
Riders, and learn more of the
Enemy's plans. Therefore,
gather the mightiest of
heroes and scout the land.
Bring me proof of their
destruction. Consider too
that the lands around us may
yield secrets and treasures
to aid you in your journey.
Range far, range wide, but
return here once more."

     My Dear Mr. Oldenad:
  Tell your lads to let up on
us. After all, it's their
fault, not mine, that the
wretched machine got broken.
It would still be working if
they had been about their
tasks better. The local folk
are getting a bit uppity too.
Perhaps you can send a few
more fellows to keep the
peace. When can I expect my
next payment?
  Sincerely,
  Lotho Sackville-Baggins,
  Master of Bag End,
  Hobbiton.

     The statue of the dwarf
here seems out of place in
such a grand hall, yet the
nobility and strength of
character depicted by the
stonecarver's hands seem to
radiate confidence and
serenity. The stone murals
upon the walls show an
injured dwarf receiving the
ministrations of a dwarven
healer.

     This passage seems to
refer to the Shire. "Amonar,
the younger son of Arveleg of
Arthedain, took as his fief
that lands west of the River
Baranduin, and held them in
the name of his brother, King
Araphor, swearing an oath to
avoid the kin-strife that had
harmed the sons of Isildur.
But there was little love
between them, and Amonar
honored his oath, when he
chose to, late and with
little support. But in the
final battle, rebuked by his
liege-lord, he was stirred to
wild action, and he and his
guard were slain by the
Witch-king. His dying words
were an affirmation of his
oath to the kings of Arnor
for eternity. He was entombed
in a cave overlooking his
lands."

     The black halls of Moria
continue to ring with the
shattering echoes of slamming
doors. From outside, a noise
of rending and crashing comes
dully through the ponderous
stone. It comes to you that
the sounds tell of the
destruction of the great
holly trees that once flanked
its western gate -- a pity,
since the trees were
beautiful and had stood so
long. Whoever was its master
and whatever its intent, the
crashing boulders confirm
that the way behind you is
now sealed by the creature
from the waters. The
Fellowship's only paths lie
ahead, into the depths of
Moria.

     After all that, all you
find is an odd black key, and
a crumbling scroll. As you
unroll the scroll, you
glimpse the two words
"DURIN'S BANE" before it
crumbles into dust.

     Green vapours belch
forth from the crevice,
swirling and eddying about
the chamber. A cold hollow
voice echoes: "At last I am
free to do my master's
bidding once more!" The gas
overwhelms you, and all is
darkness...

     A robust but ruffled-
looking hobbit stares back at
you. "Pleased to me you. My
name is Bushdock, Ned
Bushdock. I hope you folk
don't want me to go on no
adventures, least not right
aways. Only hobbits can fit
where these folks and Rayf
wanted me to go."

     Shadowy figures startle
you as you descend the steps
into the dimly lit cellar.
Yet, upon closer looks, they
are nothing more than
cleverly crafted statues of
dwarves.

     Long ago, the dwarves of
Khazad-dum used this room to
make steel. The fires have
long since ebbed, leaving a
forge as the only reminder of
what was once here. You feel
that all is not as it should
be in this place. Dwarven
runes decorate the forge.

     Old bones, great empty
jars and broken pots litter
the floor of this gloomy old
cave. "Surely this is a
troll-hole, if ever there was
one!" one of you comments.
"Let us leave and get away,
now that we know who made the
path outside. We better get
off it quick!" Nonetheless,
there is something hidden
among the bones...

     A chill settles on the
party and the light flickers
but does not fail. A hollow
voice, half-heard yet fully
clear, whispers. "I sense one
of the folk of Bilbo here.
Maybe even of his noble
line."
  "True, Ori." a second voice
chimes in. "Yet they will
have to prove themselves ere
we tell them much." There are
no creatures visible here,
not even a ghost.
  "If they don't survive the
crossing," the first voice
replies, "then they will be
of no use to us at all my
good Oin."
  "Hmmph! I still say we need
proof that they serve not the
Shadow."
  "Orcfeathers!"
  "Oh shave your beard!"
  The chill passes and you
cast glances amongst one
another. Surely the
oppressive darkness has begun
to drive you mad.
  Without warning the chill
returns. "Words of Power are
needed it's true and some
words mean more than life to
you. Yet one word alone means
much to us, who did the
Burglar befriend."
  "That didn't rhyme! 'Tis
terrible doggerel you make."
  "Hush, I'm not done. Where
was I. Ah ... 'Yet one word
alone means much to us, who
did the Burglar befriend. Um
... Seek it in a fireplace,
to speak it and our sorrow
end.' There, wagglebeard,
does that appease you?"
  "Beware, I sense our
master. We must return ere he
finds us absent."
  Once again, the chill
passes and you are alone
beneath the stone of Moria.

     The sounds of your
digging echo through the
halls. The going is
labourous, but you are
obviously making headway.

     The apparition of a
great dwarf appears, rising
in a vision of a smoke from
the forge. The dwarves fall
to their knees -- surely this
must be Durin, father of all
dwarves! "Find my axe!" he
commands. "Use it to destroy
the Dark Lord!"

     In the center of a
swirling pool is a stone
figure of a once-proud eagle,
standing silent on a solitary
isle. Its wings have been
shorn from its body, and its
eyes are covered with mud.
The water looks too swift to
safely swim.

     The narrow passage
behind the hidden door goes
on for nearly a mile or so,
continually rising up stairs
until at last, it opens upon
a larger chamber.

     The statue of the dwarf
here seems out of place in
such a grand hall, yet the
nobility and strength of
character depicted by the
stonecarver's hands seem to
radiate confidence and
serenity. The bas-relief
stone murals depict the death
of a dwarven hero, and then
surprisingly, his return to
life again at the hands of a
healer. Great were the powers
of the First Fathers! Yet
even they could not prevent
their own deaths. Return to
life was granted by the Valar
only in times of greatest
need and only for the
greatest heroes of their Age.
An equally great sacrifice
was often required of the
being who was granted life
again.

     The barrier shatters,
fragments of stone flying in
all directions to reveal a
small opening into a dark
passageway beyond. One large
stone remains. Carved into it
is a message: "Ask a question
of the creator of the Naugrim
ere you pass beyond."

     Tom's wife, the
beautiful Goldberry, is here.
She is lying in bed, ill.
Beside her, a blackened
willow leaf floats in a bowl
of stinking water. "My
lilies..." she whispers. "My
special pool lies south of
this house. Please... bring
me lilies. Take this token
and whatever you may need
from this house." She offers
you her token, a golden leaf
pasted against oak bark.

     A statue of a dwarven
craftsman stands here, his
arm raised in the air, poised
to deliver a skilled blow to
some object on his work
table.

     Your feet disturb a deep
dust on the floor, and you
stumble among things lying in
the doorway whose shapes you
cannot, at first, make out. A
table in the middle of the
room, a great oblong block of
white stone, is carved with
dwarf-runes, deeply graven.
"It's like a tomb." one of
you comments. Brushing aside
the dust, you read 'BALIN,
SON OF FUNDIN, LORD OF
MORIA'. "He is dead, then,"
another of you comments. "I
feared it was so.'
  Upon closer examination,
the room reveals its secrets.
"This is 'Mazarbul,' the Hall
of Records of old. We have
come too high. We are on the
seventh
level."  To the east, a small
passageway opens upon a stair
that leads sharply down. All
around you are the signs of
ancient battle -- broken
swords and axe-heads, cloven
shields and helms. Whatever
was once here is now gone and
plundered.

     You have entered the
library of Bag End. There are
many books of hobbit lore, as
well as several volumes of
elven lore from Rivendell.
You loathe the idea of Lotho
fingering Bilbo's beloved
books, but somehow doubt that
Lotho Pimple has the
imagination or curiosity to
ever look at them.

     The air in this mighty
hall is hot, very hot. The
great hall is lit with a
fierce, fiery red light. Down
its center stalk a paired row
of towering columns. They are
carved like the boles of
mighty trees whose boughs
uphold the rough with
branching tracery of stone.
At the base of two of the
columns, a great fiery
fissure has opened. Flames
crackle and dance from its
depths. You have come upon
the eastern end of the great
hall. Hopefully, the fire
lies between you and your
pursuit.

     Not since the days of
Angband has the world known
such cold. Ages ago, an evil
spirit entered the Misty
Mountains and begrudged all
creatures who travelled on
his slopes, for it viewed the
mountains as its own personal
property. And as the ages
passed, the spirit of
Caradhas grew colder and
colder, and it begrudged all
warmth, and plotted to
destroy it. And so the spirit
Caradhas captured some of the
warmth of spring, in the form
of a bird, and imprisoned it
in a cage of ice. Since then,
the mountains have been
subject to the unchallenged
will of Caradhas, and its
malice has grown as great as
its might. This cave is the
dwelling place of cruel
Caradhas, spirit of the
Redhorn; imprisoned in a pack
of ice is the bird of spring.
The great coldness seems
shocked that anyone would
dare challenge it. "Fool!" it
hisses like blowing snow
rolling upon ice. "Dare you
to challenge the power of the
winterchill?" It howls like a
blizzard. "First you climb my
slopes, now you invade my
home? Die!" the voice growls
like breaking ice.

     Though nothing here
would indicate the presence
of evil, an overwhelming
dread grips you, nearly
forming itself into abject
terror.

     With resounding
splashes, each member of the
Fellowship strikes the
surface of the dark swirling
waters below. Darkness closes
over you and consciousness
fades.

     You have come to the
site of a recent battlefield.
Many orcs lie dead, but the
elves who fought here were
all slain -- save one.
  "The orcs have an
encampment... swamp." The elf
is clearly dying from many
wounds; nothing can save his
life. "They must be killed...
before they can set up a
camp. Unless you do so now...
the quest might never cross
the...."
  With that, the elf gives
his last breath.

     On this piece of grass a
young elf maid sits. She is
not frightened of you, but
your presence has not changed
her melancholy demeanor. "I
sit in the shadows," she
says, "and I think of the
Great Shadow to come. Lorien
is doomed. The Shadow has
won."

     "And if I were after the
Ring, I could have it --
NOW!"
  Standing up, Strider seems
to grow taller. "I am the
real Strider. I am Aragorn,
son of Arathorn; and if by
life or by death I can save
you, I will." And so saying,
he draws out a sword that had
remained hidden until now in
the folds of his travel
stained cloak. The blade had
been broken off about a foot
below the hilt, its hilt
lacked a gem, and one of the
wing shaped cross guards was
missing. "Not much use, is
it? But the time is near when
it shall be reforged anew."
  "A light from the shadows
shall spring;
  Renewed shall be blade that
was broken,
  The crownless again shall
be king."

     In the bottom of
Grimbosh's chest is a scroll.
You read it carefully:
  "I am interested in several
matters in your area. I
understand that the Golden
Wheel may be near; it must be
obtained. Any weapon of such
power will be useful against
my Enemy, not to mention
essential in finding Durin's
Axe.
  "As for the voices in the
stone circles that you
reported, I am also
interested in that. Try
dropping items deliberately
in the circle and record the
voices that you hear. It may
provide clues to the halls of
Khazad-dum, which I have not
visited since before the
coming of Durin's Bane.
  "Your obedience is
essential. Do not make
enemies. As for that other
matter, *SHE* is handling
that. Keep your ears open,
but do not meddle with it
unless it comes to your
doorstep. The use of force
may attract the Nine Riders,
and They must be avoided at
all costs!
  "I am pleased with your
work to date. Tell Oldenad
not to bother me with non-
essentials; the shipping
company is only a matter of
minor amusement to me, of
little consequence in my
overall plans." ---S
  The scroll is emblazoned
with the symbol of a White
Hand.

     The elf lifts himself
painfully, and begins his
tale.
  "A few weeks ago, I had
strange dreams of a glowing
bird trapped in a cage of
ice. Everywhere around it was
ice. It was obvious the bird
was trapped, and needed my
help."
  He groans, and then
continues.
  "The dreams did not stop,
so I sought the guidance of
Galadriel. She brought me to
her Mirror and we saw a
secret passageway in the
eastern part of the Redhorn
Pass. We saw a huge monster,
made of ice, with the bird
from my dreams imprisoned in
ice. The ice monster seemed
to draw strength from the
bird, which it used to
increase the power of the
winters in the mountains.
  "I immediately asked
Galadriel to give me
permission to battle this
monster, but she refused,
saying that no elf of Lorien
was destined to prevail
against it. The dreams did
not come again, but still I
could not forget this. So I
left, alone, for the Redhorn.
There I was attacked by orcs
and injured, and so I came
back to Lorien."
  "If the orcs of the Misty
Mountains have sealed Redhorn
Pass, then both Rivendell and
Lorien are in peril. If the
spirit of Caradhas, as
Galadriel has named this
monster, grows stronger, then
eventually it will bring the
cold of Morgoth upon us all.
It must be defeated. Redhorn
Pass must be freed."

     Though your own light is
dim and feeble, countless
facets in the sparkling walls
reflect and intensify its
light until it seems you
stand in bright daylight.
Mithril! Here, countless
years ago, the dwarves of
Moria delved for the precious
metal. And here, too, did
they unleash Durin's Bane.

     Oin's spectral voice
whispers. "From Dwili's
cairn. WEST. NORTH. EAST.
NORTH. EAST. NORTH."

     In the section marked
Other, you find the following
entry in a book entitled
"Hobbit Life in Bree."
Weathertop, the southernmost
of the Weather Hills near
Bree was once the site of
Amon Sul, an ancient fortress
destroyed by the forces of
the Witch-king. There are
said to be crypts and caverns
beneath its ruins, though
they were sealed by the
Witch-king of Angmar, and
only the use of the same
magic word that he used to
seal the caverns can counter
his spell. There are rumored
to be other entrances into
the caverns within the ruins
of Weathertop, but none of
Bree has ever confirmed this.
One notable feature of
Weathertop is the Lonely
Stone, believed to have been
placed by the survivors of
Witch-king as a burial marker
to honor the dead slain by
the Witch-king in those
ancient wars.
  The Stone Alone was honored
in a prophecy made by the
famed Seer Malbeth:
  When Isildur's Doom Awake,
  And Its lost bearer Dreams,
  Then the Stone Alone shall
shake,
  To find a Broken Wing.
  Reforged shall be a
shattered sword
  The hope of the Dunedain;
  The weak shall overthrow
the Lord
  Destroyed shall be the
Bane.
  A scribbled footnote says:
"As usual with Malbeth's
prophecies, no one can truly
understand a word of them."

     Six statues of dwarven
warriors stand guard here.
They look like they could
speak, but then what would
you say in return?
Nevertheless, deep inside,
you feel a disquietness.
There is something more to
these finely crafted statues
than just stone. Could it
have something to do with the
dark discolorations on the
warriors' weapons?

     The brown bird spreads
its wings. For a moment, you
have the impression of a
face; like Gandalf's, maybe a
bit younger. A voice comes
from the bird, speaking
in the Common Tongue:
  "If you have not found the
elves, seek them at night on
the roads leading to Green
Hill Country. Ask them about
Elbereth, for her name has
the power to protect you, as
will the name of Luthien. But
that one you will not learn
there."
  "The Old Forest is long and
hard and dangerous, but the
Enemy will not follow you
there. Seek the Master of the
Forest. Call for help in dire
need."
  "Gandalf! Gandalf!" Then
the bird is gone.

     The air seems to shatter
around you as a hollow voice
shrieks in anger! Dark forms
shamble from the shadows as
the air temperature continues
to drop. Evil hangs in the
air like smoke. Cold
chuckling voices murmur of
death, darkness, and doom.

     "Athelwyn!" you cry, and
the final note echoes through
the chamber. But it is no
use. She is gone. "We must
make certain her sacrifice
was not in vain." you say,
holding back the tears.

     The scroll is dated a
hundred years ago and says:
"The fortress of Dol Guldur
is ten levels tall, from its
deepest pit to its tallest
tower. Within its fortress
are many orcs, and dark
magicks, but its most
terrifying occupant is the
Necromancer, who is indeed
Sauron of Mordor, given new
shape again. I urge the White
Council to press for an
assault; it is to be hoped
that the revelation will make
Saruman less intractable."
The scroll is signed "G",
obviously the symbol of
Gandalf.

     The one standing alone
is Gloin, an old king of
Durin's folk. The others are
dwarven warriors, probably
heroes, though you cannot put
a name to their faces. Deep
inside, you feel a
disquietness. There is
something more that you
should remember about such
finely crafted statues. Could
it have something to do with
the dark discolorations on
the warriors' weapons?

     As the grey mists and
your heads clear, you find
yourselves in a dark columned
chamber. The means by which
you came is not apparent. Nor
is there any obvious way to
go back the way you came.
Meanwhile, dark passages
beckon from all directions.

     Oin's spectral voice
whispers. "From Buri's cairn.
WEST. SOUTH. EAST. SOUTH.
EAST. NORTH. WEST."

     Here in the nitre-coated
crypt wall, the dust collects
upon an empty stone shelf.
The carvings beneath indicate
that this bier has been
reserved for Pelissar, a
Prince of the Dunedain.

     As you enter, characters
on the wall begin to glow
until they are quite legible.
The script is obviously
Gandalf's. It reads: "I hope
you find this. The evil ones
have driven me underground
for now. My spells will hold
them, but not for long. Do
not tarry here, for they love
the dark. Remember the name
of Elbereth, for it has power
over them. What little aid I
give you is a new name
!LUTHIEN, which summons aid
over water. Use it wisely.
They come now and I must flee
deeper ere I see the light of
Arda once more. Gandalf."

     The old man rifles
through items on the shelf.
"Aha!" He cackles with joy.
"Take what I give you to my
nephew Nob. I'm certain your
gift was his idea. And take
this for yourselves now."

     Some in your party are
more affected than others.
Standing apart, they gaze
awestruck at the wonder of
the Mithril ore. All other
concerns seem trivial in this
great and wonderful place.

     With the dirt and rubble
brushed aside, deep runes can
be read in the rock floor.
The simple characters state:
"With the Sign of Seven,
Durin's Axe may be regained."

     The dark form that is
crossing the narrow bridge is
recognizable as Durin's Bane,
the slayer of Durin VI. It
was this creature that drove
the dwarves from Moria, and
has haunted the memory of all
dwarves ever since. You are
doomed.

     The great hall is dark.
Down its center stalk a
paired row of towering
columns. They are carved like
the boles of mighty trees
whose boughs uphold the roof
with a branching tracery of
stone. At the base of two of
the columns, a great fissure
has opened. Lazy plumes of
smoke float gently upwards to
lose themselves in the
darkness.

     This huge doorway has a
swan shaped keyhole, about
which the word "FINARFIN" is
written in elven script.

     After all that, all you
find is a crumbling skull.
The scroll has two words
carved into it. "DURIN'S
BANE." As you handle the
ancient bone, it crumbles
into dusty fragments.

     Bilbo gets up from his
chair with a start! "There
was something that I
desperately needed to write -
- I hope I'm not too late!"

     Haldir removes the
blindfolds. "You have come to
Cerin Amroth, in ancient
times the heart of our realm.
Here ever blooms the winter
flowers in the unfading
grass: the yellow elanor, the
pale niphredil. Follow the
stream to Galadriel.

     The barrier shatters,
fragments of stone flying in
all directions to reveal a
small opening into a dark
passageway beyond. One large
stone remains. Carved into it
is a message: "Ask of the
number of dwarven fathers."

     The sounds of your
digging echo through the
halls. With a last, mighty
blow, a crawlspace is cleared
at the top of the debris
pile, large enough even for a
big man to squirm through.

     Tom Bombadil will go no
further. He advises you to
seek an old inn in Bree named
the Prancing Pony, whose
innkeeper is named Barliman
Butterbur. From there, he
tells you, you are on your
own. "Be bold, but wary! Keep
up your merry hearts, and
ride to meet your fortune!"
  You beg Tom to come with
you, at least as far as the
inn, and drink once more with
you, but he laughs and
refuses, saying:
  "Tom's country ends here;
he will not pass the borders.
Tom has his house to mind,
and Goldberry is waiting!"
Then he turns, tosses up his
hat, and departs, his song
fading into the distance
behind you.

     Once, Mirkwood was known
as Greenwood the Great. Then
Sauron the Enemy built his
great tower of Dol Guldur in
the south end of the forest,
and slowly corrupted it, so
it became known as Mirkwood,
a dwelling place of evil
things. His dungeons were
corrupted by Sauron's magic,
so that even when he wasn't
there, the prisoners would be
tormented by his presence.
  A more recent scrawl says:
Only two creatures are known
to have entered Dol Guldur
and escaped, through a secret
entrance. The first is the
wizard known as Gandalf the
Grey. The second is the
creature Smeagol, now known
as Gollum.

     Hidden here in the
dancing shadows, you find a
great stone chest, worked
with runes and carved with
intricate, interwoven
designs.

     A chill settles on the
party and the light flickers
but does not fail. A hollow
voice, half-heard yet fully
clear, whispers. "I sense one
of the folk of Bilbo here.
Maybe even of his noble
line."
  "True, Ori." a second voice
chimes in. "Yet they will
have to prove themselves ere
we tell them much." There are
no creatures visible here,
not even a ghost.
  "If they don't survive the
crossing," the first voice
replies, "then they will be
of no use to us at all, my
good Oin."
  "Hmmph! I still say we need
proof that they serve not the
Shadow."
  "Orcfeathers!"
  "Oh, shave your beard!"
  The chill passes and you
cast glances amongst one
another. Surely the
oppressive darkness has begun
to drive you mad.
  Without warning the chill
returns.
  "Seek to end our plight,
whether day or night, in the
seventh deep, where the
spirits sleep.' There,
wagglebeard, does that
appease you?"
  "Beware, I sense our
master. We must return ere he
finds us absent."
  Once again, the chill
passes and you are alone
beneath the stone of Moria.

     After all that, all you
find is a crumbling skull.
The scroll has one word
carved into it: "MORIA." As
you handle the ancient bone,
it crumbles into dusty
fragments.

     You quickly climb down
the handholds to the lower
level.

     "Thieves!" a booming
voice commands. The chamber
seems empty, except for a
pair of stone wings; but the
voice is that of a dragon.
"Touch my hoard and I shall
curse thee for eternity! Come
closer and I shall make this
chamber your funeral pyre!"

     The troll who stands
here is a giant, even amongst
its own kind. Powerful
muscles ripple beneath its
scaled skin. In one massive
hand, it clutches a small
brown bird. "Gandalf.
Gandalf!" the bird cries out.
As the behemoth troll stuffs
the bird into its filthy
satchel and reaches for its
massive war club, the bird
seems to say "Gandalf, it's
I..." only to be cut off by
the muffling leather.
Twirling its club like a
baton, the monster advances,
gurgling in what it might
consider a chuckle.

     How odd. This should be
a dangerous climb, as the
sides of this pit could
collapse at any time, but
you've never felt safer, more
secure. You see what caused
the bright gleam -- it is a
gem, as big and as beautiful
as you have ever seen. It is
a blue sapphire, and in its
center, an image of a golden
eagle can be seen.
  "The Eagles of the North
never had a chance to thank
Bilbo for his part in the
death of our enemy, the
dragon Smaug." a voice from
the gem says. "We offer this
as a gift to his people, the
hobbits, on whom the fate of
Middle-earth rests. We will
come to your aid in a time of
dire need -- but only when
the need is uttermost. Only
one of Bilbo's people can
summon us; this is our gift
to them. We hope the time
never arises where you will
need to use the Gem of
Eagles, the Eye of Manwe."

     The book tells of the
grim last moments of Balin's
Folk. Oin was taken by the
Watcher in the Water. Loni
and several others fell
attempting the East Gate. "We
cannot get out!" the writer
despairs. "The end comes...
Drums, drums in the deep.
They are coming!" Then there
is nothing more.

     In the distance, you
hear angry words -- it's a
Black Rider, arguing with the
man who had been so rude to
you before. The Black Rider
lifts his sword, and the
death scream is terrible to
hear. Fortunately, the Black
Rider rides away, but who
knows where it might be
lurking?

     A hobbit-sized figure is
sitting on the throne,
looking at you with mock
cheerfulness. It is Frodo! --
but not the Frodo that you
know. He has become a wraith,
a shadow under the power of
the Dark Lord of Mordor.
   "Greetings my friends.
Don't look so alarmed, I
understand everything now.
The truth. Gandalf has
deceived us all. He never
cared for Bilbo. He never
cared for me, or the Shire.
  "No one cares for the
Bagginses except the Ring,
and Sauron made the Ring.
Only Sauron cares for the
Shire -- he made the Ring to
help us all. It should never
have been stolen from him in
the first place; even the
elves acknowledge that It is
his property, and it is our
hobbitish obligation to
return stolen goods, not try
to destroy them. Gandalf
wanted to destroy it. It's
Gandalf who's evil, not the
Dark Lord." Foolishly, you
try to dissuade your former
friend from the cause of
Sauron. "The enemies of
Mordor must die!" the wraith-
Frodo cries, and he attacks
you.

     The mallorn tree is
surprisingly easy to climb;
it boughs are strong and
sturdy. No wonder the
dwellers of Caras Galadon
built their homes in the
trees, you think to
yourself as you carefully
survey the area.

     It is a long hard match.
Eventually, you force your
opponent to the ground, and
hold his shoulders there.
Belegcam grins: "You are
indeed mighty! It has been
long since I had such a
contest. May your strength
endure for all your days."

     A handsome, tall, young
elf sleeps upon the ground.
As you approach, he awakens
and smiles. "Members of the
Quest! I just had the oddest
dream. In it, I saw the East
grow dark until the blackness
was absolute, and the
blackness spread until it
overwhelmed Lorien. All
seemed lost, but suddenly a
light came from the west and
told me that you would come
soon. It gave me a riddle to
tell you. Converse with me
further, and I shall tell
it."

     The creature that
approaches is a Balrog, a
spirit of great and ancient
evil. Eons ago, they were
corrupted by the Dark Lord,
Morgoth, into the service of
evil, and Morgoth made them
his fiercest warriors, and
gave them great power. Only a
wizard, using the full power
of his staff, might defeat
this monster; either a
wizard, or a relic of a
greater power.

     The dwarves among you
forget the recent misfortunes
that have befallen the
Fellowship and get very
excited by the sight of the
stone. "This pillar marks the
place where Durin first
looked into the Mirrormere.
Let us look ourselves, ere we
go!"

     This is the council
chamber of Elrond. Upon the
dais there are many chairs;
this hall is used by Elrond
to discuss matters of great
importance.

     Erestor strokes his chin
in concentration. "Of course,
there are the tales of
Trollslayer, a weapon of
great power said to have been
buried atop the Hill of Teeth
above Rivendell by the mighty
elven Lord Gil-galad
himself."

     Gazing around, you spot
a huge mallorn to the west.
Surely that must be the home
of Galadriel and Celeborn. To
the east, you spot the great
river Anduin, and beyond it a
dark mass of trees. That must
be the forest of Mirkwood. A
black cloud lies across it;
that must be Dol Guldur, the
northern citadel of the Dark
Lord.

     "This should be the turn
of Aragorn, son of Arathorn."
says Elrond. "But alas, he
could not be with us. The
Sword that was Broken is
Narsil, the sword of Elendil.
It was broken in battle
against the Enemy long ago,
and its pieces were lost long
ago. They must be found so
the sword may be reforged."
  "Isildur's Bane is the One
Ring, the Ring of Sauron. It
was found by the halfling
Bilbo, whom we honor here
today. The Ring is our
greatest peril, and perhaps
our only hope. Of these
matters, Gandalf has much to
say..."

     The book continues on an
unsullied page. "Lest it fall
into evil hands, we took
Durin's mighty Axe and hid it
where few would find it,
protected by many traps and
guardians. So well did we
disguise it, that only by
means of Queen Galadriel's
Token would one find it
again. This token we cast
into the shaft of Durin's
chimney.

     A note attached to the
crate says:
  "I, Lotho Sackville-
Baggins, Boss of the Shire,
hereby agree to provide in
perpetuity, to the Sharkey
Shipping Company, the best
pipeweed that the Shire can
grow, in exchange for
machinery and able Big Folk
to assist me in the expansion
of my improvements to the
Shire.
  (Signed) Lotho-Sackville
Baggins."

     On the floor of this
place is a skeleton, a man
who died within this barrow
many years ago. He is covered
in rags; even a cursory
glance can tell that he was
not a prince or a soldier. A
tomb robber, perhaps? If so,
one can scarcely imagine a
worse choice of tombs to
plunder. His only gain was a
gem, still encased by his
tightly clenched hand, but he
did not live to take it out
of here.

     The scroll is dated a
hundred years ago and says:
"The fortress of Dol Guldur
is well-guarded. It would be
folly to try to assault it
without the advantage of
surprise, but sentries east
of Dol Guldur make this
impossible -- except for the
forest labyrinth south of Dol
Guldur. There are many
spiders and monsters in the
maze (it was obviously built
as a place to torment his
prisoners, but I have made a
secret exit in the eastern
face of the maze below the
Lawn of Statues). Through
this exit, we can avoid the
sentries." The scroll is
signed "G", obviously the
symbol of Gandalf.

     "The last guardian must
be summoned by name ... "

     The scroll is dated a
hundred years ago and says:
"The fortress of Dol Guldur
is thirteen levels tall, from
its deepest pit, to its
tallest tower. Within its
fortress are many orcs, and
dark magicks, but its most
terrifying occupant is the
Necromancer, who is indeed
the Witch-king of Angmar,
given new shape again. I urge
the White Council to press
for an assault; it is to be
hoped that the revelation
will make Saruman less
intractable." The scroll is
signed "G", obviously the
symbol of Gandalf.

     The waterfall holds
special meaning for Legolas.
He tells the story of
Nimrodel and Amroth, two
elves who loved each other
deeply. "When dwarves awoke
the evil within the
Mountains, many elves fled
Lothlorien. And Amroth waited
for her to come to the elf-
havens in the South, but
Nimrodel was lost in the
White Mountains, and was
never seen again. And yet
this waterfall remembers her,
for if you listen very
carefully to it, you can hear
her voice, singing, in the
sound of the cascade."

     The Nazgul withers. You
have a feeling he is not
quite dead; he has merely
abandoned this form,
travelling shapeless and
disgraced to Mordor. A thin
but terrifying voice says:
"The hour of Sauron
approaches soon! Thy doom
draws nigh!"

     "All right!" the man
breaks into sobs. "You know
the truth about poor,
poor..." He struggles to
compose himself, and doesn't
do a very good job. After a
few minutes, he manages to
continue: "He was looking
into what happened to Nob
Appledore, and he went to
that place, and nosed around.
And they killed him! I saw
it! But you mustn't tell
anyone. They'll kill us all!"

     You race around the hill
eight times. It is grueling,
even to elves as seemingly
tireless as Legolas and
Bragolhir. Legolas wins --
barely. "Truly Nessa herself
could not have given a
greater effort." Bragolhir
pants. "May the Valar bless
thee."

     Earendil's star is the
light of the Silmaril taken
from the Iron Crown of
Morgoth, the Great Enemy, by
the human hero Beren One-
Hand. The Silmaril was taken
to the West by the sailor
Earendil, who pleaded to the
Valar for help against
Morgoth. The Silmaril was
placed in a ship by the
Valar, and hallowed, and
Earendil was made captain of
the vessel. So late in the
evening and early in the
morning the Star of Earendil
can be seen, a symbol of the
downfall of evil. So great is
the power of the star that
its reflection is sometimes
captured in magical pools
hallowed to Ulmo, the Vala of
water who kept his friendship
to elf and man even in the
time of exile. An empty
vessel, filled with such
water, will shine with the
light of the star.

     Galadriel continues:
"Take any of my commanders,
even the Lord Celeborn. There
is time to return to
Rivendell if you are quick,
and gather aid from Elrond.
Also, I give you an option of
great power and peril..."
  "On the west wall of this
cleft, you will find an
entrance. This leads to an
underground area I sealed
long ago. It connected to
Moria, but when Durin's Bane
stirred, other evils also
wakened. I was forced to
close that ancient entrance.
  "Within its caverns are
great dangers, but also great
treasures of wisdom and
power. Few would dare it,
fewer still have the power to
try. Only in such desperate
times as these would I offer
the key to anyone. Take it if
you wish this peril. If you
succeed, you may find a way
to save the Quest of the
Ring!"

     "Greetings visitors. I
am Linwen," a beautiful elven
voice says in greeting. She
turns to you and says: "Soon
I will depart, and either
flee the Shadow and the
Enemy, or die. "What matter
most troubles thy heart?"

     There are many damaged
pages then one reads briefly,
"By Mahal, who created the
Naugrim, I..."

     An elf is firing arrows
into a target. He looks at
you, and says: "I am Urthel.
Welcome, strangers, to Caras
Galadon, the heart of
elvendom in Middle-earth. May
the stars shine on your
faces."
  Urthel is a cordial and
friendly fellow, and you
discuss many things.
Conversation turns to his
archery practice, as you
admire the skill with which
he placed arrows into the
target. Urthel is pleased by
the compliment. He decides to
offer you his assistance.
  "I know that you are on a
dangerous quest. I am
considered a good archer, and
an even better teacher. I can
teach one of you the art of
the bow, if you have the
time." Do you accept Urthel's
offer?

     "You see before you a
large dark pool of water. In
the center of the pool are
three extremely life-like
granite statues, of what
appear to be humans in heavy
robes. Carefully aiming your
light at where their faces
should be, you see a look of
mixed surprise and horror.
The water itself is still and
very black."

     A note says: "This is
Galadriel's token. It is a
symbol of the friendship of
the Eldar and the Naugrim.
Two of these were made long
ago by Queen Galadriel to
King Durin when he helped her
escape from Sauron during
ancient wars. Only one other
token is known to exist, in
Moria. This token is used as
one of the safeguards to
prevent Durin's axe from
falling into the hands of our
enemies. The other is the
Golden Wheel. Only with these
items can Durin's Axe be
regained."

     To your horror, you
recognize the dark shape that
is crossing the chasm, a
shape from the nightmares of
all elves -- a Balrog of
Morgoth. During the wars of
the First Age of Middle-
earth, many elven heroes died
at the hands of these demonic
creatures: Fingon, Ecthelion,
even the great Feanor
himself. Of all of the elf-
banes of Middle-earth, only
Sauron himself is more
deadly. You are doomed.

     This is the Hall of the
First Father, the heart of
dwarven kind on earth. To
your wonder, the orcs have
not marred these crypts, as
is typical with their kind.
There are many stone
sarcophagi here, more than
you have ever seen before.
They are covered in ancient
inscriptions, written in the
secret dwarven tongue.
  "This is no tomb." Gimli
draws your attention to a
stone marker. "In time of
great need, the tool of Durin
will show the way..." he
reads. "Alas, I know not of
this marker or its meaning.
It was not spoken of in the
legends that survived
the fall of Khazad-dum. It is
clearly a barrier of sorts,
but to where?"

     Well now, here's a bit
of the unexpected. The nose
is a bit weatherworn and the
robe has seen better days,
but this is most certainly
meant to look like the wizard
Saruman himself. What an odd
place to put a statue.
Perhaps there is more here
than meets the eye?

     Carefully smoothing out
the crinkled, ale-stained
pages of the ledger scroll,
you make out barely literate
writing. The word "ORTHANC"
has been written in, along
with yesterday's date. Both
have been crossed out. Below
them, the word "ISENGARD"
stands out on the page.

     In a bold hand, the
following is set forth:
"Galadriel has extended her
influence to include the pass
high above Lothlorien. Even
the spirit of Caradhas now
bends his will to hers,
allowing safe passage
throughout the year. To call
upon the Lady's power, simply
speak her name to the
spirit."

     Many are the treasures
within Khazad-dum. Within its
labyrinthine layers are gold,
silver, and some of the
mightiest weapons ever
forged. While it is probable
that the orcs have despoiled
most of the wealth, it is
unlikely that they have
uncovered every hiding place
of the cunning dwarves.