"Welcome, esteemed Dragon Knight Commander!" Thorin greeted the arriving Caslow warmly.
"Greetings, honorable King Under the Mountain! I have come to inform Lord Balin about the rendezvous for the expedition," Caslow stated his purpose directly.
"Oh? You mean the expedition to Moria? Has King Rynar already made his preparations?" Thorin pondered for a moment before recalling the matter.
"Indeed, my lord has already assembled his troops. Now we are only waiting for Balin and his forces," Caslow confirmed, emphasizing that Rynar was fully prepared and only the dwarves remained to be ready.
"They have been preparing for quite some time. However, in recent days, they have been gathering provisions. I'll send someone to check if they are ready to depart." Thorin had not paid much attention to these details. Having achieved his ambitions and become King Under the Mountain, reclaiming Moria was a secondary matter to him. While he supported the idea, he was not in a rush. After all, the dwarven kingdom had already been re-established in the Lonely Mountain. Even if Moria could not be reclaimed, they still had a home to return to. This mindset allowed Thorin to remain quite relaxed.
"Thank you..." Caslow nodded in appreciation.
...
"Oh! By my beard! Sir Caslow, you have come personally? What an honor for us!" Balin exclaimed the moment he saw Caslow.
A cacophony of excited chatter erupted among the gathered dwarves. Caslow immediately felt a headache coming on—after all, the dwarves took great pride in witnessing one of the world's greatest warriors, a Dragon Knight, in person!
After much effort in calming the enthusiastic dwarves, Caslow finally had a chance to ask his question. "So... are you all ready to depart?"
Observing the dwarven warriors in full battle gear—jerky hanging from their shields, cheese skewered on their spear tips, and massive chunks of black bread strapped to their backs—Caslow couldn't help but twitch his lips. Were these stout figures going on an expedition or a picnic?
"Of course! We spent a great deal of effort preparing these provisions! After all, warriors should never go hungry. Freshly baked black bread made from the finest barley! Premium dwarven roasted jerky! Rich, water-free dwarven ram's cheese!" Balin enthusiastically introduced their supplies.
"Uh... If you and your men are ready, then please proceed to the outskirts of Riverguard to rendezvous with us. My king has already led the army out of the city this morning..." Caslow sighed, three black lines forming on his forehead. They were supposed to depart today, yet these simple-minded dwarves were still fussing over their food supplies.
"Oh! By the Dragon God, what is that?!" Caslow suddenly caught sight of an eye-watering spectacle—a dwarf carrying an oak barrel taller than himself. Judging by the sloshing sounds inside, it was obviously filled with liquid. But what could it possibly contain? Surely, dwarves wouldn't go to war carrying a barrel of water?
"Ah! The finest dwarven ale! The very source of our strength and spirit! With this, the lads will fight all the harder!" Balin declared with gusto.
"..." Caslow suddenly reconsidered whether this expedition was a good idea. These dwarves seemed terribly unreliable. Compared to the lean, battle-hardened image of Thorin's company back then, these warriors looked like they were setting out on a feasting tour.
"Good grief... Drinking alcohol during wartime... His Highness is going to have someone's head for this..." Caslow wiped the sweat off his forehead. Only the dwarves would be this reckless. In the military laws of Zaltarion, drinking was strictly forbidden during campaigns except to steel one's nerves before battle or to celebrate victory afterward. A drunken soldier was a liability, and matters of war were no laughing matter.
"You humans and your endless rules! How do you expect my warriors to fight without ale?" Balin scoffed.
"Floi! Óli! Óin! Gather the lads! We march to strike down those fiends!" Balin bellowed, swinging his battle-axe.
...
"May your journey be safe, and may you return in peace," Thorin bid them farewell at the gates of Erebor, bowing slightly.
"Give my regards to King Rynar and thank him on behalf of our people for his willingness to aid us in reclaiming our homeland." Thorin then gave Caslow a deep, solemn bow.
"I will pass on your words. Now, I must inform my king to make ready," Caslow responded with a nod before raising his dragon whistle to his lips. With a sharp, resonant note, the air split apart, and the sleek, powerful form of the wind dragon, Kaldor, emerged from the void.
"Roaaar!" With a majestic cry, the dragon took to the skies, carrying Caslow away on the wind.
...
"How did it go?" Rynar sat on a tree stump, absentmindedly carving his nails with a dagger. As Caslow descended from the sky, Rynar asked in a bored tone.
"Uh... They have set out..." Caslow hesitated, his mouth twitching as he recalled the sight of the dwarves. He decided to keep it to himself. If he described the scene, Rynar might just turn his army around and head home.
"Good heavens, those dwarves are far too laid back!" Rynar sighed in exasperation. He and his 500 men had been standing around in the cold wind all morning, while the dwarves had only just managed to depart.
"Let's wait a little longer... We've already waited this long," Omsk suggested, rubbing his stiff neck.
"I suppose we have no choice. We can't just turn back now, can we?" Rynar said, unknowingly uttering the very words he would regret the most in hindsight.
Caslow glanced at Rynar, gulped, but ultimately chose to remain silent.
...
"Your Highness, the dwarves are catching up!" Caslow rode up to Rynar and reported.
"Thank the heavens, they're finally here... Do you have any idea how frustrating this march has been?" Rynar sighed. They had barely covered 20 miles in half a day, forced to slow their pace significantly to allow the dwarves to keep up. It felt more like a sightseeing tour than a military expedition.
"Alright, let's take a short break and wait for our friends," Rynar waved a hand, signaling his men to rest.
...
"Oh, heavens! What is that?!" Even from a distance, Rynar spotted an enormous oak barrel nearly as tall as a man.
"By the Dragon God! Are the dwarves planning a picnic?" He gawked at the dried meats and cheeses dangling from spears and shields, utterly dumbfounded.
"Oh! King Rynar, it is good to see you!" Balin approached with open arms.
"Hey! Balin, I need an explanation!" Rynar demanded, gesturing at the dwarven force, which looked more like a traveling feast than an army.
"Oh! We had no choice. Unlike you humans, we don't have the luxury of space rings to store provisions. As you know, most of our alchemists have disappeared, and there are few enchanted storage artifacts left. We simply can't afford to waste them on food supplies," Balin explained, eyeing Rynar's troops, who carried no visible supplies—likely stored within magical containers.
"Then how do you explain the ale?" Rynar's face darkened. The last thing he wanted was for his allies to be a bunch of drunken warriors in the heat of battle.
"Oh! You know our ways. Without ale, you might as well ask a dwarf to fight without his axe!" Balin shrugged.
"..." Rynar was speechless. Faced with a race that treated ale like water, there was little he could do.
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