The Decidedly Unpleasant Wake-Up Call And The Disastrous Events That Followed by Tyelca

The Decidedly Unpleasant Wake-Up Call And The Disastrous Events That Followed

Read The Decidedly Unpleasant Wake-Up Call And The Disastrous Events That Followed

Darkness fell as a warm blanket as the balrog rolled over to its other side. It released a deep sigh that manifested itself as a small spurt of fire, softly illuminating the cavernous hall deep down the dwarven mine. A steady rumble from its chest created a pleasant rhythm as it echoed to and fro.

The balrog was content in its dreams that consisted of things it could not name. But that was alright; they were only dreams, after all.

A shrill noise, thin and metallic, pierced the pleasant atmosphere and managed to even penetrate into the balrog’s dreams. It manifested itself as a sudden shift in tone, and the dreams turned into nightmares. The balrog twitched slightly, still in the thrall of sleep but trying to wake up. Its tail cracked like the whip it preferred to handle and its massive wings fluttered. The flames from its breath soared high and hot.

The acoustics of the immense hall were such that the noise was amplified a tenfold and the increased volume was enough to have the balrog thrashing. Chunks of rock were knocked out and about the room and the previously smooth stone quickly turned into a miniature mountain range.

With a roar the balrog woke and found its favourite sleeping chamber destroyed. This added fuel to the fire that was its anger, left over from its dreams that it had forgotten as soon as it woke. Only the sense of unease lingered. The shrill noise that had so disturbed it had died down to a whisper in the air, barely audible over the balrog’s roar that still hurled from wall to wall. In this weakened state the noise wasn’t nearly as aggravating and the balrog only paid it any mind in order to find its origin, determined to make whoever was responsible pay for his rude awakening.

His whip lay as ever in its holster which the balrog bound to its hip. His broadsword was sheathed and bout to its back, and so armed it set out.

It encountered not a single living soul as it made its way to the origin of the noise; the orcs and goblins knew well enough to keep out of its way or suffer the consequences. But it was hungry and sustenance was deemed necessary. It turned a few corners and lashed out with its whip and when the fiery lash curled back and unfortunate goblin was struck in the coils. The balrog inspected the goblin before lifting it to its mouth. The goblin’s neck broke with a satisfying crunch as the balrog bit down. It wasn’t long before the entire goblin was gone, the sword and dagger that lay uselessly on the ground its only remains.

The balrog licked its lips for spray droplets of blood and then it was ready to exact its revenge for its interrupted sleep. Soon the smell accosted its nostrils, sweet and clingy and easy to follow. There was a tinge of something older, something greater, but it was so vague the balrog decided it must be its imagination. The scent led him to the single bridge over the enormous chasm that separated the two halves of the ancient dwarven establishment. In the distance it saw small figures running towards escape and decided that was not how it wanted things to be. The balrog strode forward, its massive legs easily covering the distance that separated it from its prey. But the prey was fast, the little creatures already halfway over the bridge.

The balrog took out its whip and sword and wreathed itself in flames and smoke. It cracked the whip once before throwing it out. It hit the base of the bridge, barely missing the last little bugger. The balrog narrowed its eyes. This was the one that smelled of old times. The balrog widened its stance and brought down its broadsword, the sharp edge blunted by its sudden impact on a white glowing shield. The light hurt its eyes, used as they were to the fiery darkness of the caves, and made the balrog angry. He slashed again, cutting through air but not the intangible shield. Focused on this single enemy, the balrog did not notice the others had all safely reached the other side of the bridge.

Trying another tactic, the whip came out of nothing as it attacked the shield at the same time as the sword, but even their combined might was unable to penetrate the old man’s protection. It was a challenge, the balrog perceived, a contest of power. The balrog breathed out and fire danced over its body. Its enemy said something, but the words spoken by the feeble voice were lost in the balrog’s ears. Ready for the contest to begin, the balrog stepped forward, intend on simply grabbing this insignificant challenger and declare itself the winner.

What the balrog had not accounted for was that in order to grab its enemy, it had to step on the precariously balanced stone bridge. As soon as it shifted its weight it heard the ominous sound of breaking stone, the rock quickly lacerating under its clawed feet. The balrog immediately saw the danger of its situation and moved to take a step back, but the ancient rock already crumbled. It was not dissimilar to sinking in a lake, the balrog thought as it started to fall. Its eyes caught sight of its enemy, still safe on the bridge, and the anger that roared as a furnace came to the surface again. The contest was not yet over, despite the balrog’s distinct disadvantage.

The whip was still clenched firmly in its fist and the balrog threw it out once more. It caught the ankle of its enemy, who had already turned around in assumed victory. As it fell, the balrog yanked at the whip’s handle and swiped the feet from under the figure.

The enemy, diminished to almost nothing now, made a little gesture of shock and was timely enough to grab onto the ledge. But the balrog was falling now, falling into the deep chasm of dwarven-make, and that same weight that became its demise also became the end of its enemy’s.

There was a vindictive pleasure in that thought and the balrog pulled in the whip to get its foe closer. In its other hand, it still hold the sword that, though dented and blunted in the places where it came in contact with the shield, was still lethal.

But again the balrog miscalculated: the little blade of its enemy shone with an inner light and what should have been a barely felt pinprick was complete agony. Somewhere the balrog was reminded of its pleasant dream that suddenly turned into a nightmare. It really should’ve just turned over and continued its nap.