Chapter 13: Dwarves in Chains
The Mirkwood fortress was a labyrinth of stone and shadow, its corridors echoing with the clank of iron chains and the sharp tread of elven boots. The air was heavy, damp with the scent of wet stone and the faint musk of captivity, a stark contrast to the forest's crisp pine. Mark Baratheon stood in the shadows, his tunic soaked with sweat, clinging to his lean frame, chafing his shoulders. His wrists throbbed, raw from old chains, and he rubbed them absently, the sting a sharp anchor to reality. Dust gritted his teeth, the taste bitter, coating his dry throat with every tense breath. His heart pounded, a frantic drum in his chest, his meta-knowledge a map guiding his moves. "Thorin's here. Kili's here. Gotta keep him away from her," he thought, his modern lilt a defiant whisper in this ancient world.
The dwarves marched in a grim line, their armor clinking, their beards swaying, their defiance a palpable weight. Thorin Oakenshield led them, broad and stern, his heavy fur cloak brushing the stone, his eyes burning with pride and fury. The Mirkwood scout, Theryn, wiry and cloaked, moved with quick feet, her forest-earth scent sharp, her cloak rustling like dry leaves. Elven Guard Valthor, tall and sharp-voiced, barked orders, his armor glinting, his boots marching in rhythm, a relentless cadence that echoed off the walls. A faded carving on the corridor's stone—a cracked elven shield, its edges worn—whispered of a long-ago battle, its story silent but heavy. Mark's pulse surged, his wrist stinging as he rubbed it, grounding his racing thoughts.
The elves were distracted, their focus on the prisoners' sheer number. Mark seized the moment, his breath catching, the system's runes humming like a glitchy storm in his mind. He focused, willing his body to dissolve, a ghost among the living. Phasing was smoother now, effortless, a rush of power that tingled through his veins. He glided past the first cell, its bars cold and slick, then the second, the damp air chilling his ghostly form. Kili was being led toward a cell near the main thoroughfare—too close to Tauriel's patrol route. "Not happening," Mark thought, jealousy flaring, his wrist stinging as he rubbed it.
He phased closer, a silent shimmer, and with a subtle push of will, nudged Kili's path. The dwarf stumbled, his boots scuffing the stone, his braided beard swaying. Valthor cursed, annoyed, redirecting him to a far, isolated cell, tucked in a dark corner, its stone cracked, a faint scratch mark hinting at a prisoner's despair. Mark solidified behind a pillar, his body tingling, sweat stinging his eyes, the damp air heavy in his lungs.
[Phasing Lv. 3 unlocked. MP -15. Jealousy's a great motivator.]
[Phasing Lv. 3: MP 15/100. Cooldown: 35s.]
[Character HUD: Mark Baratheon]
[Level: 5]
[Essence: 450]
[Skills: Push Repulsion Lv. 3, Phasing Lv. 3, Repulsion Field Lv. 1, Minor Transportation Lv. 1, Phase Echo Lv. 1]
[MP: 85/100]
[Achievements: Possessive Protector, Heart-to-Heart]
[Trust: Tauriel 25%]
[Quests: Control the Dwarves (Active)]
The system's snarky jab cut through, a glitchy pop-up in his mind, its irony biting. Mark's grin was tight, triumph and guilt warring in his chest. "Got him out of the way," he thought, but his moral hypocrisy gnawed at him—manipulating the dwarves' fate to control Tauriel's, like Rick Grimes rigging a deal to protect his group. The cracked shield watched silently, its worn edges a reminder of the stakes, the corridor's chill seeping into his bones.
Kili was shoved into his cell, his dark eyes flashing with defiance, his armor clinking as he turned. "Think you own her, human?" he sneered, voice a low growl, his beard braids swaying, the damp air chilling the space between them.
Mark's jaw tightened, his wrist stinging as he rubbed it. He phased threateningly, his form flickering, a ghostly menace outside the cell door. "She's taken, dwarf," he said, voice a cold whisper, laced with menace, his modern lilt sharp.
[Achievement: Possessive Protector. +100 Essence.]
Kili's eyes widened, fear flickering beneath his bravado, his hand twitching toward his empty scabbard. Mark held the pose, his form shimmering, the system's runes pulsing like a glitchy heartbeat. The cell's silence was heavy, broken only by the faint drip of water, a distant echo in the stone.
A sudden silence gripped the corridor, an unnerving absence of sound, like a held breath. Mark's gaze swept the cells, counting the dwarves—Thorin, Fili, Dwalin, Balin, Bofur, Bombur—but one was missing. Bilbo. "Where the hell is he?" he thought, his blood running cold, meta-knowledge screaming of the Ring's presence. A faint rustle, like a cloak brushing stone, stirred the air, a whisper of an unseen figure. The cracked shield seemed to watch, its faded lines a silent warning of hidden dangers.
[Intuition +0.3. Something's missing. Stay sharp.]
Mark's heart raced, the system's jab a prod in his mind. "The Ring's here. Gotta stay careful," he thought, his wrist stinging as he rubbed it, the damp air heavy with suspicion. In a quiet moment, he lingered by the cracked shield, his fingers tracing its worn edges, the stone rough under his touch. The corridor was silent, save for the distant clank of Valthor's armor, the sound echoing like a heartbeat. His sister's laughter rang in his memory, her voice reading Tolkien by flashlight, the pages worn and loved. The loneliness was a weight, pressing against his chest, the system silent for once. The damp air cooled his sweat, the dust gritty on his tongue, anchoring him in this alien world where every choice was a gamble, his moral hypocrisy a shadow he couldn't outrun.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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