"Ever since the North sent 6,000 elite cavalry south, this land has never recovered. Disaster has never strayed far from here. All we can do is struggle to survive—for ourselves, for our families! The once-prosperous Dale was a rare haven of stability in the North. Under the leadership of its lords, trade flourished... Merchants traveled endlessly, crossing the river and heading down the Old Forest Road toward the Lonely Mountain. But alas, the wealth of the Dwarves ultimately attracted the covetous gaze of Smaug the Terrible... The last sanctuary of men in the North collapsed." Beorn poked at the embers in the fire, muttering to himself.
"Can you lead mankind to reclaim its foothold in the North?" Beorn suddenly looked up, his gaze solemn.
"Establishing a kingdom in the North… That is not a wise choice. Orcs, barbarians, fell beasts, disasters—every horror and evil you can imagine will seek to destroy you!" Beorn bowed his head again before Rynar could answer.
"I..." Rynar wanted to say something.
"Through the whispers of nature, I have glimpsed fragments of the future. Perhaps you will accomplish great deeds... or perhaps you will be buried in the North. Rest well. I hope you leave tomorrow and do not disturb the fragile peace we have carved out here." Beorn stood up, swaying slightly as he left.
"Omsk, what did he mean by that?" Rynar asked, puzzled.
"Perhaps this druid foresaw something in his visions of the future..." Omsk mused before offering his explanation.
"No, I meant his last sentence." Rynar pressed.
"Uh... Who knows? Prophecies always have two sides. No one can say whether they are true until the moment they come to pass." Omsk shrugged indifferently. Unlike spellcasters, warriors placed no faith in gods or fate—they trusted only the weapons in their hands and their own skill in battle.
"I hope so. Maybe I'm being too pessimistic." Rynar shook his head.
"No need for pessimism. Harsh environments and scarce resources will never stop us from pursuing our ideals!" Omsk reassured him.
"Indeed, Your Highness Rynar. Our Longbeard Clan wandered for years—who would have thought that just a handful of us would reclaim the Lonely Mountain? Even minstrels would call it a madman's tale! But now, the banner of the Longbeards flies over Erebor once more! We have returned to the Lonely Mountain! The kingdom beneath the mountain has welcomed back its king." Balin smiled warmly. He, too, had once felt the same confusion as Rynar. But some things simply had to be done. It was their duty.
"To wear the crown is to bear its weight! You have brave and loyal followers—far more than Thorin had when he sought to reclaim Erebor! Hahaha!" Balin pointed at Rynar's crown and laughed heartily.
"Perhaps I am being too pessimistic. You are right…" Rynar nodded. He had to admit, he was shaken by Beorn's description of the North's dire state. He had never realized that beneath the surface calm, the lives of the North's people were so dire. He should have expected this—why else had no human kingdom ever risen in the North? Only Bard's lineage had ever held onto Dale, and even then, it was merely a viscounty at best, far from meeting the standards of a true kingdom.
"The revival of the North will be an arduous journey. Darkness has descended, and the calamities of Middle-earth will soon begin once more," Balin sighed deeply, his gaze distant.
"Bah, enough of that. Right now, I'm more worried about Moria... I feel like we're rushing in too recklessly," Rynar said with a frown.
"???" Balin's mouth dropped open as if he had just witnessed something unthinkable.
"Your Highness, we've come all this way... You're not seriously thinking of turning back now, are you?" Balin's expression twisted into something akin to a horrified caricature. Retaking Moria wasn't a problem—the Orcs there were nothing against Dwarves, whose combat prowess in tunnels and mines was doubled. But the Balrog lurking in the depths? That was an entirely different matter. Without even a single Rank Six Overlord among them, the Dwarves had no means to stand against such an ancient terror. Rynar was Balin's only hope. While they could follow history and avoid the depths, who wanted to live with a time bomb waiting to explode at any moment?
"No, no, don't panic, Balin. I'm not retreating. I'm just thinking—after all these years, we're bound to face unexpected difficulties..." Rynar rubbed his chin. His presence had already altered the course of Middle-earth's history. Could the butterfly effect have caused Moria's defenses to grow even stronger? History had a way of correcting itself...
"We fear nothing! We will lead the way, but I beg you—help us destroy the Balrog in the depths... Please, Your Highness." Balin choked back emotion. If Rynar, King of Zaltarion, hesitated at the crucial moment like Thranduil once did, then the Dwarven expedition would be doomed.
"Don't worry, Balin! Our friendship remains unchanged. We will not betray you. We never intended to leave, and besides—I need that wealth to improve my people's lives." Rynar reassured him. But words alone wouldn't convince the stubborn Dwarves—only shared interests would unite them in a true alliance.
"Then what exactly worries you? Returning there is like going home for us. We know every stone, every staircase!" Balin asked, confused.
"It's been years. The Orcs have likely altered the terrain... Ha! If there's one thing Orcs excel at, it's destruction!" Rynar sneered.
"We don't have a single scout or rogue in our ranks. Our intelligence-gathering capabilities are severely lacking..." Rynar shook his head. Even Gandalf had to find Thorin a burglar (though not a very reliable one). Their thousand-strong allied force had so far relied on the rangers of Lordaeron for reconnaissance in the forests. But in the underground depths? Rangers were useless without trees to swing between. Rynar had only just realized that for such a massive force, they had no qualified scouts. It was sheer luck they hadn't encountered major issues thus far.
"That..." Balin opened his mouth but had no words. As a seasoned veteran, he understood the importance of intelligence. If the Balrog lay in wait for them, it would be a disaster. Moria—Khazad-dûm—was vast enough to let a dragon spread its wings and glide, let alone hide a Balrog, which was much smaller than a dragon but no less deadly.
"You are right... We are in trouble." Balin clutched his head in frustration. (Why didn't Balin's expedition in the original story awaken the Balrog? Because that expedition had only a few dozen members—hardly enough to stir up trouble. But a thousand heavy infantry? That was an entirely different story.) He didn't need to think hard—marching an army into Moria was bound to awaken the ancient terror lurking in its depths.