“After counsel was held beneath the stone with Ori the Wise and Balin, lord of the reclaimed halls, we resolved to return to the Fifth Hall, accompanied by many of our kin, for no Dwarf suffers a mystery to defile the dwellings of his fathers for long.
Having found neither rune nor lore to lift the spell set upon the door, we swore to break it as iron yields beneath the hammer. Thus was the company of Edda assembled, with Vidarae, Okam, Brom, Bruni, and Virùn, and they bore the ram with the strength of elder days. With a mighty blow, the door at last gave way — yet the mountain answered in wrath, and the ceiling fell with a thunderous roar. By Durin’s beard, none perished that day, though the very stone sought to bury us.
Beyond, we found a hall defiled, filled with the stench of ancient death. There lay our kin in armor, frozen in strange postures, bearing no visible wounds, as though struck down by a terror from beyond the world. Upon the walls, drawn in dark red like dried blood, were visions of battle: Dwarves contending against a thing of shadow and flame.
And that thing did not remain mere paint.
As we drew near the tomb set at the heart of the hall, it revealed itself — a specter of hatred and fire, an echo of an ancient evil that would not die. We faced it as only the sons of stone can, without retreat or lament. And amid the clash of arms and the cries of battle, a blow was struck, true and terrible, and the creature was dispersed, like smoke swept away by the deep winds.
Within the hall, we found a treasure worthy of ancient kingdoms, and among it a coat of mail of mithril, the work of a forgotten master. Bruni claimed it by his right, yet alas, it bore a curse, and the mark of its former bearer clung to him like a shadow.
As for the tomb, none could say which king or lord lay within — perhaps a king Nain himself, maybe a son of Durin? In his hand rested a ring of mithril, bound to several keys. One of finely wrought steel, matches the Eastern Gate of Moria. The other is twin to a key that Bruni found upon our first entry into the mines some weeks past.
On the road back, the darkness did not leave us in peace. Great bats descended from the heights, their wings fouling the air with their stench. Yet we struck them down without faltering and cleansed our halls of their foul presence.
Thus was this march recorded — in stone, in blood, and in the memory of the Dwarves.”
-Chronicle of Khazad-dûm Krusaders