The Dawi in Arda (Hiatus)

[Skitzyfrenic]

[x] The Depths
-[X] Bring Runelord Gutfroy
[x] The Kazad Hargrobi
[x] The Mountain Pass
-[X] Bring Deadeye
[x] The Ranger Stations
[x] A Grudge Struck Out

I sorta promised I'd do this, so. And I'm doing it cause I wasn't sure if we got more than one option to look at, so I did this up anyways. As for rewards, I'd like that this actually happens and we can for sure scout the Kazad Hargrobi for suitability or bonuses to the rolls to find interesting things in whatever we actually end up doing.

An Elder's Wisdom

Elder Urtain of Clan Leadbeard had lived for a few centuries. Certainly longer than his thane or the Greatmantle shaping up to be King.

But in those long years, he'd never seen a healer like young Gatrim. So ready to march with the Throng, to even fight with the Throng right at the very front. It said good things about his intentions to hold to his responsibilities, even if he'd rather be in the Healers' Hall. That Lord Gatrim was also the one to pull the Leadbeard Thane out of a pile-on of Hargrobi was going to do wonders for his standing in the Warrior Clan.

The Lord had quietly inquired about Grudges for fatalities. A count of the corpses was nine short. Only nine of a perfect one hundred enemies slain for every fatality taken during the settling of the Grudge of Rock Lobbers.

Well, Urtain was perfectly alright with saying a few dozen Hargrobi fell to their death to boost the number. It was likely true. Nine corpses? Some of the Hargrobi likely got caught in the fire, or had fallen into chasms. Further there had been the Hargrobi killed by the rangers before the Kull, those actually did count towards the Grudge.

Urtain grumbled, of course, as he should. But reminded the younger Lord about the Rangers' kills from the previous year. The lad managed to not let the relief show on his face, but it did show in a slight movement of the shoulders. The Elder laughed inside, Gatrim had likely been stressing about finding nine more hargrobi soon enough to settle the Grudge with the same speed he'd settled this one.

This level of approval is what lead Elder Urtain Leadbeard to walking around the smoldering embers of 'Kazad Hargrobi,' with a few of his fellow grumblers. The (King) Lord had grumbled about not being able to explore all the things he wanted to, and Elder Urtain had 'volunteered' to inspect the site as a possible outpost or turned into a lesser village.

He should be back at the Training Halls showing Beardlings how it's done, instead he was observing and making judgements on hargrobi craftsmanship!

Bah!

The things he did for the Hold.

 

[Skitzyfrenic]

The Lord and the Lady Stay Up All Night to Get Lucky

Before him was a large number of tankards, many of which had previously been filled with his wife's second most special personal brew.

Lord Gatrim Greatmantle contemplated life even as he raised his tankard to yet another cheer.

Was any Dawi as lucky as him? (Besides that creeping suspicions that they weren't where they were supposed to be, at all.)

His hold loved him.

His throngs were mighty and it showed with the crushing of former inhabitants of the now named Kazad Urbaz.

Karstah was healthy, happy, and beloved by all the Clans of the Hold.

His wife, Valaya bless her, with wit that shaved beards and lifted hearts, her long still bronze-coloured plaits, beautiful sapphire coloured eyes that sparkled in every light, cheekbones sharp enough to carve gromril with, dimples like clefts full of oathgold, skin like the finest white marble, lips carved from rose marble...

Gatrim was going somewhere with his thoughts, until his wife, Daungrumm, caught his eye. They'd definitely fallen in love since those early days on that rock. What a lovely rock, maybe they could do something more than kiss upon it.

Maybe... they could do more than kiss upon it!

A quick word with the Elder Bogrur secures Karstah for the night.

Then sneaking some kisses upon his giggling wife, they steal away.

When Gatrim brought Daungrumm to their special rock, she caught on right away. Time to make another Garazi!

XxXxX

Elder Bogrur kept (soon to be) Princess Karstah entertained with his mighty 'bah!'s and grumbles about her father, laughing in his head off internally watching the lad stumble 'stealthily' out of the hall being lead by the hand of his wife. Karstah would be further entertained by Bogrur's tales of the mighty weapons he once crafted in his youth.

More than a few elders across the Clans exchanged looks, for the Lord and Lady were not the only ones sneaking off to 'chisel out the cleft.' Youngsters these days. Could barely hold their ale, and could barely keep their hands to themselves.

A good thing. A bumper crop of Garazi would be good. Especially a royal one, death came all too sudden now-a-days.

Truly, brewing was the Blessing of Valaya's wisdom.

XxXxX

Desired result is getting Karstah another sibling. Maybe another boost to pop growth overall, though given the timing they wouldn't be beardling/general dice until turn 40, I think. Or this particular crop of Garazi and Beardlings 'ripens' early for a pop update on turn 30.

So I've just been wondering, and please correct me if I've been blind, but has our dwarven population just not been... growing?

Click to shrink...

The current pop tempo is an update to the total number of dice every twenty turns as the Garazi become Beardlings and the Beardlings become Greybeards.

I expect that as our pop grows that tempo might increase. Which is why I keep pushing for pop growth omake rewards.

As to the council and stuff, iunno, we don't officially have a king yet, but the Throne Hall is getting built now, so that might change. And include the creation of a council and a redo of our options and how many we can handle a turn.

 

[P41erman]

@Warkeymon
One day the fare elves found a sight most strange,
The far mountain folk, traveling woods.
So they set out, to find the truth
Of whense they came.

Far they traveled, wide they went,
Till they came 'pon one cloudy 'mount.
There they found a heavy gate
And 'crosses top the wall.

Our brave travl'ers called out a greet
Yet what came in turn, was a tongue most strange,
So they tried a 'nother, and another more,
Till, the mountain folk began to sing.

It seemed a test of sorts,
Of what kind, none there knew.
Its seemes they passed, for the mountain folk,
Gave a message 'pon a slab of wood.

So our travelers and elves most fare,
Having found the truth of whense they came.
Traveled back to their wood 'an home,
And told a tale most strange.

 

[Professor Vesca]

Gartrimm sat across from Elrond, gently tugging on his beard as he considered the matter of the foolish Greybeards. So insulted by the Noldor remarking upon their mountain homes that they took leave of their senses and violated Dawi hospitality. For anyone to feel unsafe in a Dawi hold of all places? Such a thing was nigh-unthinkable to the point of mandness. Yet such was the matter now before the Lord of the Noldor and Dawi respectively. For the Noldor and their families claimed that they were not safe in Karak Drekfut. Unspeakable! Unthinkable!

Dishonorable!

The Greybeards had clearly forgotten their histories, and would need to be taught anew. Yet there was still the stain upon Dawi honor. The Noldor did not know the Dawi. Not as Umgi and Elgi did from the Fated Place. Here in Middle Earth? They knew them only as Dwarves. Despite all claims to the contrary, it is quite likely that they be seen as Dwarves and not proper Dawi. Forgiving, flexible, greedy, uninterested and apathetic to the goings on. Content to wander where they will and take what they will. Uninterested in higher concepts such as grudges, oaths, and honor, such as the ones known as Nain and Thrain, King of the line of Durin. But we were not Dwarves, or so Gartrimm supposed. We were Dawi. To the Dawi, honor is life. To be without honor is to be without life. Without honor, there was no point to life but to seek to restore it.

Whatever reckoning Gartrimm gave, he knew that it would satisfy the Dawi. But the true question; would it satisfy the Noldor?

Gartrimm tugged at his beard a little harder. He must make them know, to understand, what awaited the Greybeards who had so foolishly bundled off the Noldor in the dead of night.

"Lord Elrond" Gartrimm began in the Sindar tongue. "Tell me, what do you know of honor?"

The Lord Eldrond leaned back in his chair, quirking a single eyebrow as he observed his Dawi counterpart.

"I suppose honor is in things that are good. That are just. There is honor in justice, and in oaths fulfilled"

Gartrimm nodded, pleased. "To a Dawi, honor is life. To be without honor, is to be without life. A proper Dawi shepherds is honor through life, protecting it from those who would slight it, and when it is slighted, righting that which has wronged him. Even if that thing be his own foolishness. The Dawi strive with every breath to right that which has been made wrong."

Lord Elrond frowned at these words, leaning forward has he considered Gartrimm's words. "I suppose you are referring to the... greybeards you called them?"

Gartrimm nodded. "I am."

"And what is to become of them, if I may ask?"

Gartrimm sat back in his seat, tugging at his beard. Reaching out he seized a mug of ale that had been set before the two Lords, though Elrond had refrained from touching his. Gartrimm tipped it back and took a swig of the sweet and bitter drink, thinking as he did. When he finally set it back down he tugged at his beard some more, grumbling as he thought. Eventually he spoke. "They have dishonored the hold, and myself, and themselves with their actions. Clearly their education is lacking. They will be given over to the Lorekeepers to be taught as beardlings on what the histories say about those who violate the guestright."

Elrond nodded. "And what do the histories say about the guestright?"

Gartrimm merely leaned back in his seat. "Lord Elrond" He began after a while. "For anyone, for anything, to feel unsafe in a Dawi hold? To claim that a Karaks walls cannot protect them? Nonsense! Madness! Yet here we are, for these greybeards have violated guestright. The histories say many things about those who violate guestright. Mostly about Umgi and Elgi and such and so forth. But there are Dawi who have violated guestright. Of them, they say one thing and one thing only." Gartrimms began tugging at his beard again as he considered Lord Elrond.

"It is a stain upon their honor that can only be righted with their deaths."

Elrond said nothing, but perhaps it was his lack of response that spoke to Gartrimm the most. Taking the silence as invitation to continue Gartrimm spoke once more. "If proper and true Dawi they be, when they learn of the histories they will learn of the magnitude of the stain they have brought upon their own honor and upon the hold and upon me. If proper and true Dawi, their hearts will ache at this dishonor, and their very beings will cry out to see it righted. They will be taken up to the Hall of Shrines to stand before the Ancestors. There they will swear the slayers oath." Gartrimm's tugging increased. "They will be shorn of their beards, the very manifestation of their honor, and cast from Karak Drekfut. Never again will they be given shelter under Dawi roofs and behind Dawi doors. They will come before me to beg me tell where my enemies lay, so that they might go there and kill them. Or die trying. In their deaths in combat against the enemies of the Dawi, their honor will return to them, and they can rest amongst the tombs of our ancestors at last."

Elrond's gaze was steady, and when it was clear Gartrimm had nothing more to say on the matter of honor, he finally spoke. "Do you not think this is... perhaps overly harsh?"

Gartrimm reached once more for the stone mug, half empty now. He stared into it, swirling the golden liquid about. "No. I do not." before tipping it back and finishing it off. He set the empty mug on the table before him.

"Lord Elrond." He said after silence descended once again upon the two. "We are few. We are not like your Dwarves. I have gone to them and spoken to them. They do not care for grudges or for honor. They act with greed unfitting of a proper Dawi. I had hope, when Glorifndel spoke to me of Kazad Dum, for in our tongue it means The Dark Hold, or The Dark City. But when I went to them I found their tongue as alien as yours. Their histories match with your telling of it. They cracked open Framburg and slew its king when he did not wish to gift them back their stolen treasures. Taking not only what was theirs, but what was not theirs. I see... hints of ourselves as though through a twisted mirror. But they are not us. We are alone in this world, we are few."

"I am King, Lord Elrond. It is my duty to uphold our honor, and when it is slighted, to see it made right again. To strike out the dishonors brought upon us. To render judgement. But even so, we are few. When they have told me what punishments they choose for themselves, they will be presented to the families of those they have wronged, as well as before your lordship. There they will beg for your judgement. Does their chosen punishment fit the wrong done to their honor? Will the families of those they have wronged understand what the Greybeards propose to do?"

Gartrimm leaned forward in his seat, tugging mightily at his beard.

"Lord Elrond." He said. His voice low and quiet. "You, they, must understand."

 

[Moneris]

The Blood of Thungni

(I am not a great writer but I will try my best)

Gutfroy sighed in a mixture of frustration and disappointment as yet another prospective student failed his test and was sent away with his head bowed in shame. The young fool had presented himself with pride, carrying with him his first forged axe, a shoddy piece of work though above the usual standard for a beardling, however when put to the test he quickly withered under his stern eye.
Everyday beardlings would enter his hall, each carrying the pride and hope of their clan, but in the end each was sent away with a dismissive wave as none bore the blood of Thungni.
Since his kings command to find an apprentice the clans of the hold had sent him their most talented Beardlings in hopes one would pass his test and earn the honor of his tutelage, but none bore the gift, not even the sons of the finest Greatmantle Warsmith's had the spark, none could hear the song of the runes as they where struck.

So Gutfroy delved deeper, he scoured the lower halls of the Stonebeards and walked among the herders of the Ironploughs, but his wandering brought him no comfort, just a growing sense of disappointment as the truth became clear to see. He inspected every Beardling he could find, even those that had not been sent to him to test in the vain hope one would bare the gift. But none did, none resonated with the Runes, none could hear its song.

Usually Gutfroy would never go to such lengths to find an apprentice, back in the Karaz Ankor there was an endless line of applicants to choose from, if he truly wished for an apprentice he could find one. But the Kings announcement that the local Dawi where not truly Dawi struck him with a stark realization.

He was the last of the Rhunrikki.

Unless by the ancestors grace the hold was reunited with the Karaz Ankor, he was the last barer of runic lore. If he died, ages of lore would die with him, it was a bitter truth to swallow but it only served to strengthen his resolve like tempered Gromril.
It was with this resolve in mind that he made his way down into the holds healing halls, passing under the eyes of Valaya in a last hope to find one of the blood.
Gutfroy had realized a few beardlings had passed beneath his notice due to minor injuries confining them to bed rest. So with a nod of respect to the matrons he carefully inspected the dozen or so Beardlings laid upon the stone beds. But his hopes where quickly turned to ash, just as before he knew none bore the gift, he did not even need the full test to plainly see the truth.

None of the Dawi of this generation bore the blood of Thungni.

With his last hopes dashed Gutfroy quietly made his way towards the exit, brow creased in distress as his hand absentmindedly passed over the decorated walls, his mind elsewhere while he processed the outcome of his efforts. While deep in thought, his fingers registered every detail carved upon the halls walls, his digits tracing every rune engraved into the stone. He knew how each was shaped, his minds eye adding each rune until it slowly formed a payer to Valaya. He stopped to stare at the wall, whoever had carved this section of the hall had an eye for quality even he could acknowledge.

It was then he felt it, a resonance so minor he would never of noticed it without directly touching it. Tracing the feeling he looked up, only for a carved face of Valaya to stare down at him with eyes of hard stone.
But his attention was drawn to a small carving in the likeness of a necklace around Valaya's neck.

His eyes widened fractionally as he instantly recognized the mark.
Before him was a finely carved master rune of Valaya, engraved with great care within the locket.

Turning around with a sense of urgency he questioned one of the matrons about the carver of the wall.

She pondered for a moment "Oh that wall was carved by Linn Skaldottir, a fine young lass, poor thing, her father died fighting Urki, she has been helping us in the healing halls ever since."

"what clan does she hail from?" Gutfroy questioned.

"She hails from Clan Greatmantle, only child by her telling, she is supported by her kin until she is of marrying age"

"Thank you" Gutfroy replied, finally making his way out of the healing hall.

A female dawi of the blood? it would be unorthodox, alien to even contemplate. But was it not Valaya who struck the first rune that safeguarded the Dawi against chaos. Was it not Valaya who gave birth to Thungni and was the proginator of the most ancient runic lore?

Perhaps it was a mistake to only test the beardlings, if he is right about young Linn he wondered what he should do.


Notes: Right, I hope that is ok.

Btw its not an actual Rune of Valaya, just carved in its likeness.

 

[Moneris]

Lessons For a King

Gatrim watched in disapproval as young King Gisilhari latest attempt at strategy fell apart before his eyes. He knew from the beginning the lads gambit would fail, the young king had envisioned a clever strategy in his head and now was reaping the consequences as reality failed to conform to his carefully laid plans.
He easily dissected every mistake the young king made and grumbled when Gisilhari failed to once again heed his elders council.
The plan was over-complicated relying on a series of maneuvers that would fail if not properly timed and executed, they lacked flexibility which left his formations vulnerable if things did not go to plan, and he failed to account for external factors such as the problems rocky terrain would cause to his horses.

Worse of all Gisilhari failed to heed the council of those with greater age and experience than him and failed to properly delegate tasks to his subordinates. This often caused him to become frustrated when his carefully laid out plans did not work as intended. Gatrim saw many flaws in the young lad, but it was also a stain on his abilities as a teacher that he failed to properly impart the lessons he intended on the young king.

So when he spotted the young lad sitting alone after his latest failure sniffling into his arm, he decided to go for a more delicate touch.
The lad was still so young, still a child even by the standard of his own people, but Umgi lived such short lives, they had to learn fast to achieve anything of note, he was determined to train him well.

He placed his hand over the young kings shoulder startling the boy, who looked up at him with a face streaked with tears. The lads face was red and puffy, cheeks burning with embarrassment as he tried to hide his crying from him.

Patting his shoulder in a comforting gesture he urged the boy to stand up.

"Come with me lad, no point sitting out hear lamenting your mistakes, lets talk about what you have learnt today"

The child rubbed his eyes and nodded mutely, following close behind him as he guided the boy through the holds vast halls and decorated tunnels until they were standing in front of his private study.
Opening the door he gestured for the confused child to sit on a small stone chair across the hall while he retrieved a finely crafted game board from a nearby stone shelf.

Soon they where sitting across from each other with a low lying table between them. On the table was a game board with a 15x15 grid of squares, with 48 Dwarf and 12 Elf figures. The Asur where concentrated in the central fortress, while the dawi where arrayed around it.

"This is called Alvatafl It is game of strategic warfare popular among the Dawi, and a reminder of broken oaths and ancient grudges. But before we play, can you explain to me what went wrong? do you know why your strategy did not work?"

The boys face contorted into a distressed grimace, but he managed to explain all the things that went wrong during the training exercise without too much embellishment. Gatrim did non interrupt, letting Gisilhari explain to the best of his abilities to see what he had learnt so far.

Soon the boy wound up his tale and Gatrim signed. "You explained what went wrong and how it went wrong but you did not explain why it went wrong, which is what I hoped you would understand"

Before the boy became too distressed Gatrim tapped the board. "let me explain how to play this game, take your mind off the training for now"

After a thorough explanation of the rules and the basic movements of each game piece, both settled into a game, Gatrim played as the Dwarfs while Gisilhari played as the Elves.
The boy tried his best, used all his cunning to try and outmaneuver him with his fast moving forces, but for each attempt he was rebuffed and soon his army was crushed as Gatrim systematically isolated and pinned down each attack. It was not a poor showing, the boy had a mind for tactics, but he was constantly overthinking, he often got set on a specific strategy leaving him open to mistakes on an evolving battlefield.

After a couple of games, they switches sides. Now Gatrim played as the Elves while Gisilhari played as the Dwarfs, the young king looked a little more confident as he had the numerical advantage. But Gatrim quickly dismantled his unfounded confidence, easily picking apart his defensive formations with his fast moving pieces, ran circles around the young kings slower forces.

Thoroughly disappointed in himself and with his confidence crushed, Gisilhari looked down at his feet, trying to hide his watering eyes.

"Look at me Gisilhari, I did not beat you to prove I am better, this is a lesson, why did I win and why did you lose" He said hoping the boy could keep his emotions in check.

"Because your older and better than me" the boy hiccuped out.

Gatrim stroked his beard "Partially correct, one should always listen to his elders, long life brings wisdom that can help you rule well if you choose to heed their advice. But the truth goes deeper than that young Gisilhari, every gambit I used against you I learnt from a greater master. Through my youth a played against countless opponents, from each I learnt new strategies. Now I have used those same strategies against you to gain victory, my victory is a legacy from better older Dawi who still advise me to this day."

Gatrim leaned forward "So tell me Gisilhari, why did you not heed the advice of your Huscarls, who each have fought longer on a saddle than you have been alive? they could have told you about the terrain, adapted your plan to better deal with a changing battlefield"

He leaned back to give the boy some breathing room "think on this, you are surrounded by elders willing to advise you, by war veterans with a lifetime of experience. Trust in your people, trust that they can perform their duties and let them contribute to your plans. No king can rule alone, a king needs to know when to delegate and accept help from those more wise than themselves."

"you did well for a beginner" Gatrim says gesturing at the board "I would like to see how you improve in the future."



Notes: Right all done, hope its ok.

 

[EVA-Saiyajin]

The Blood Awakens


It had not come to him because of the honored dead.

It was an easy mistake to make. For in the wake of the first great loss of life in this, unbeknownst to them at the time, strange new world, why else would the blood of Gazul awaken, stirred into action at those seeking entrance to the Underearth?

Ever since their arrival he had been uneasy, uncomfortable. The stones and air and earth smelled off, the tools they made from lumber harvested rested uneasily on his palms. The taste of the water in the back of his throat had him twitching. Only after the fourth time he'd vomited out the stonebread supplementing their early meals was he not required to partake, and while none wished ill of him, there was an undercurrent of resentment among his peers of age that they suffered through the rations while his lack of proper Dawi endurance and stubbornness was tolerated.

He should have sought the wisdom of his elders, but he was always prone more to self-reflection, and after the healers of the Cult of Valaya declared there was nothing wrong with his body and his mind seemed sound, he could only assume it was something they would have no experience with.

A part of him would regret that bit of youthful brashness, but he was given to being by himself already and the reasoning that his oddities would only discomfort the others gave a moral imperative to his increasing isolation. Besides, there were surely more important things in a newly founded Karak than one beardling's discomfort.

Though there was one avenue of exploration outside of his own knowledge. Lorekeeper Sedlim had often indulged his bouts of knowledge seeking absent companionship, and as he grew into a beardling and his education as a productive member of Ankor society intensified, so too did his fascination of the records of lore and past as a pastime fit for lone activities.

A quiet request for materials relating to an environment inducing uncomfortable sensations into a Dawi was met with a raised eyebrow and quick direction after several moments contemplation. As he left, the elder laid a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment, and in that time he felt reassurance. The moment passed and he continued on aware that his unstated plight was not unheard, nor was his means of dealing with it to be disrupted. It spoke much of the trust he had in the beardling's judgement. Buoyed by the weight of newfound moral responsibility he perused the knowledge collected and found ample evidence relating to the polar hells and unusually strong or concentrated magical phenomena; the tales from Karak Hirn and that terribly unnatural forest occupied him for many an hour.

But lone individuals among many bearing such symptoms and issues were rare, or swept into disturbing accounts of targeted malignant sorcery. It had taken him hours to work up the courage to approach Lord Gutfroy about the matter. The keen eyes of his elder had seen his hesitance to take this matter up with others, and after much sniffing and poking and prodding and fiddling with tools and runed objects the purpose of which he could only guess at, he stated with certainty there was no such foulness upon his being. The indignant grunt and glare he received at asking for surety wrought much color to his cheeks and forced his head low in shame.

He left the Rhunrikki with a promise that he would either seek proper care and wisdom for this situation soon if he could not resolve it.

So he suffered in silence, deep contemplations of his condition spiraling into out of control forays of depression. Only in the deepest and darkest pits of the mountains that were nominally secure (and some a bit less so) and oddly enough up among the peaks when the moon glowed or the sun shone did he feel something akin to ease of mind.

Long were the hours spent puzzling over what was wrong with the world or him. And as hints increasingly appeared telling a tale of oddities and strangeness inherent in the land, his mind was further convinced of the land being the cause of his disturbance, even as his heart stubbornly persisted in worry of the sanctity of his soul.

Then came the battle, as the Hargrobi assaulted their defenses in their thousands. He had volunteered, serving as part of the reserve and assisting in the movement of ammunition, wounded, and dead.

It was the smell that got him. The smell of the goblinoids dead, their tainted blood. The hundreds, thousands of assaulted his senses even as their twisted caricatures of features burned themselves into his mind. The world became hazy, his thoughts overwhelmed by visions of darkness, death, twisted mutilation, mountains rising and shadows falling over the world, essence mangled and wrought unspeakable change upon.

A song all-encompassing tinged with discord, a land tainted, a world rendered impure.

He didn't know when it ended, stumbling about from duty to duty, torn between madness and stoic duty. He could remember little detail save a certainty that these grobi were wrong, and that somehow their miserable existences were tied with what had made him so discomforted all these years. All he could do was stumble forward, and let himself fall into darkness.

One step then another, hurried, without pause. All he could do was run forward, uncaring that he could not see though he could perceive the murky tendrils piercing the darkness, stretching and twisting and making a mockery of blackness about him.

He was going downwards, hurtling forward at times falling off his feet and rolling always before he picked himself up off the stone floor and carried on.

Then came a knock of recrimination, hurling him off his feet once more: his face stung with shame why shame? He could see? No, rather the darkness molded itself into rock of night's darkest pitch and there was a beard, a stout form bestowed with smoky facial hair. He could not make out a face but the weight of paternal disapproval was palpable.

A gloved palm was on his cheek, the pain faded and his gaze was gently moved to the side, and there lay a pool of water that reflected the blackness off itself and thereby was sighted.

The hand upon his face was gone, he looked forward again and the darkness was but darkness, yet in it there was peace.

Drawn by the curious sight, nay the only sight, he moved to peer into its depths. Mesmerizing in its absolute defiance of the ebony surroundings, so intent and wandering was his gaze he perceived the slightest fluctuation. Old scripts and records came to mind mixed with lessons passed to all children of the Ankor, and he stepped forward, palms outstretched for the stony wall he somehow knew was there. And he laid hands upon it, then eat, and listened and felt. Back and forth between guiding water and echoing stone he went, the song of moving earth and shifting stone heard and respected since before the Ancestors themselves calling him on.

At last he found where the points aligned and took a deep, fortifying breath, the hint of familiarly unfamiliar air sparking a fire in his veins.

Up was risen a pick the origin of he knew not, and he began to chip and cut away. No miner by trade; the art of delving earth and stone was in the blood of every Dawi.

Time escaped him as he hacked away. The rhythmic motion becoming everything. Miners' songs of old rang in his ears, and perhaps uttered aloud with his scant used voice.

He only knew he had broken through when his pick swung forward once more and was stopped not by cracked rock but an unyielding grip upon the haft.

It was not his grip.

"Careful now beardling. Haste has a place in all things but it needs be tempered by discipline."

The voice was smoky, signs of lack of use that should have been awkward somehow instead reassuring and even endearing. The low, hemming grumble left him feeling as though he stood on sturdy carved marble lined with gromril, his back straightening unconsciously.

But he couldn't see.

Did he speak aloud? He didn't think so. And yet, from the pitch-black comes a response.

"You will get used to it. Dawi are masters of the mountain, be it it's heart, peak, or bowels. Remember that. For now though, I'll make it easy for you."

Fire blossomed.

He had seen and envisioned weapons wreathed in fire. The flames ghosting off the edge, casting flickering shadows, the heat a constant warning of the danger it represented, mixing obscuration with illumination of the blade from which the bound inferno emanated.

This was not one of those.

Rather than a wispy blaze fluttering about a sharp edge of steep, it was as if fire had been wrangled into immobility and wrapped about a sword until it was as solid as fiery diamonds, the flat shimmer so enmeshed with the blade's shape he could not tell where the weapon ended and the flame began.

No. That was a lie. Rather than a flickering fire it was a flickering blade of pure ebony, a metal spine in a blazing body that only showed itself when you stared deeply. He couldn't conceive of what it was made of, but something deep in him said it was in no way inferior to the Gromril making up the armaments of the greatest and eldest of his hold. And upon it, burning a white that shone through the inferno about it, were runes of primordial provenance that breathed with power.

The air did not heat up around it, rather, it grew colder, and no shadows were cast. Instead the room tunnel was brought into being, as if a faint shine emanated from the surroundings themselves rather than a singular glow in response to, while around the blade itself the darkness grew, light drawn in and devoured.

It was an impossibly eerie spectacle that lent a sense of otherworldliness to the cave.

The bearer of the sword was cloaked, only faint of glimpses of dark armor visible. His beard was black as soot with streaks of grey, like the burnt remain of the finest Wutroth tended to from birth to life and ended in a fire tended to eternally and shaped into fine facial hair.

And he was not alone. Dawi in their owns and twos strode about at the edges of his vision, garbed in the finest accoutrements with neatly trimmed beards, and then they were blooded, weary and wounded, and then they were something in-between, a passing illusion spawned by torchlight.

"Quite the drawpoint you youngsters have stumbled upon." the dark figure spoke again, leaning to the side. The darkness flooded in where he once was until it seemed as if he had moved out of a painting.

"Purest Gromril on one end," he tapped a stony wall and the sweetest, most well-conducted chorus rang out, filling his mind with joy and hope and wonder, "and the basest foulness on the other." He tapped the other wall and had it always been so close or merely been there only when he tapped it?

Again music rang out, but such a term is insulting to the discordant, raucous mess that elicited fear and anger and the most terrible sorrow and discomfort.

"And it might well be that grouting would do more harm than good for once." Undertones of more than one meaning lay heavy in that statement.

"Haven't felt like this since my earlier days, when I first went awandering and found all sorts of new odds and ends. A walk can do you good, if you keep your feet firmly planted." And if his tone was wistful, the beardling dared not guess at why.

"There always needs to be someone looking within instead of without. You've gone in one direction, now wander the other. If you should wish to take unto yourself greater responsibilities, you will find me again."

He turned, and as his sword was obscured by his body the strange lightness vanished, the deepest darkness there as if it had never left, his eyes adjusting 'ere the light had never been.

Other Dawi stepped forward, their shadowed forms a bit clearer, more defined. He was led up and out until there darkness was not so absolute and the lights situated at exact measurements guided him further.

Up and up he went until he was outside, and there was a path up the peak that had not been there before. He strode forward with increasing surety, the words spoken earlier echoing in his mind, his very being: Dawi are masters of the mountain, be it it's heart, peak, or bowels.

The climb became ever more strenuous, but his will became firmer with each step. And when he stood at the summit and looked out, a blazing figure caught his eye, branded into the clouds, like the barest indications of a portal down under in rigidly defined lines and angles.

At last, the world was not so unpleasant, but it could be made better.

 

[Skitzyfrenic]

An omake. Cultural Exchanges:

The Book of Grudges:

Captain Hagrim longed to share a tankard of the incredible Bronzeplait ale with his fellows, and discuss their young master. But he stood with the King in this ceremony. The people of the Eotheod arrayed before them. Only three Dawi stood witness, King Gatrim, Queen Daungrumm, and Matron Gorgissa.

The Eotheod was scattered or dead, but what was here, in the lands of the Dawi, was healing and growing stronger.

These mountain folk, not to be confused with the hated dwarves, were generous to a fault. Respectful. Helpful. Exacting. Their King Gatrim had sworn an oath to Gisilhari King, and the whole of the Ankor moved to enact his will. The Lord of the Karak was having success in teaching the young Horse Master kingship.

And now that more of the Dawi learned Rohirric, and more of the Eotheod spoke Khazalid, there were more exchanges and friendships blossoming.

"Mine Foster-Father, Good King Gatrim of the Dawi," the well spoken seven year old called out to his people, his voice the high pitch of all boys but full of his righteous anger, "Has taught me much this year, of the core of good kingship. Of the importance of oaths, and the nature of debts. Of what I have or will swear to you, of what I owe you and what you owe me. Of what we owe the kind Dawi who shelter us in our time of need despite knowing us not, and of what we owe the foul Urk-things who despoil the lands of our forefathers."

Hagrim was impressed with his young lord's delivery. Then again Hagrim had practiced this speech with Gisilhari King for a few weeks now.

"He also spoke to me of a tradition of his people. The Dammaz Kron. The Grudge Book. A repository of all who have wronged the Dawi, and the method of restitution. A book of mighty oaths. I cannot yet judge fully what would be a proper restitution for I do not know the extent of what has been wrought against us, but I do give you an oath. I call for a Dammaz. Against those that hold the Framsburg and defile the Horse Lands. And, here, let it be recorded."

When Gisilhari had spoken to Hagrim about this, the captain knew that the Eotheod was going to have a king like no other, and that King's choice to make for the Dawi who had spoken of peace and reckonings was a brilliant one. With determination the Huskarl had gone to source a book.

When asked what the book was for, the grumbling of the Longbeards had decidedly changed, and he was asked to come back in a month.

A month later Gisilhari King was presented with a large book, with many pages, bound in fine dyed goat leather. Embossed with mounted horses off to war, and mighty Fram, who personally hunted for two years a bane of his people, slaying the dragon Scatha. The detail was so exacting it brought tears to the eyes.

Now, it would serve it's purpose as the boy had his hand cut open. Not a single sound of pain left his lips as he dripped blood into a bowl. As soon as there was enough, the wound was quickly bound.

With as steady a hand as he could, and in his best writing, Gisilhari wrote of the need to avenge the Eotheod, to retake the Framsburg, and to slay orcs and more.

The Eotheod stood silently as he wrote. Seething, stewing. When at last Gisilari blew on his blood ink to dry it, he turned back to his people.

"I might not be able to give a full accounting, but I know what the foe will pay the debt they owe us with," the boy took a deep breath.

"Death!" the boy screamed.

"DEATH!" they all shouted back.

Eventually everyone calmed and the human crowd slowly dispersed back to their tables to grumble in their own umgi ways, proud of their boy-king and his resolve.

Hagrim smiled to himself at the sniffs of approval from the Dawi present, Matron Gorgissa stepping over to the boy he was sworn to, to fix his hand with a proper bandage.

=====

 

[Moneris]

Tales of Karak Drekfut
(part 1)
Sorry if the Drawing are a little basic, still recovering from my motivation collapse.


Song of the Trees

When the Noldor first walked through the gates of Karak Drekfut, Drindut did not know what to think of them. They were tall, fair haired and dainty like the few Elgi she remembered seeing in her youth, but while Elgi walked with an air of arrogance and derision, the Noldor did not. They felt different and the more she watched them the more differences she could see.

The Noldor were proud, they walked with confidence, each movement was poised and elegant. But unlike the Elgi the pride of the Noldor felt earned, it was a pure type of pride like a craftsmen confident with his hands or a mother confident in her cooking. And while many of them were a bit aloof, and had a strange aversion to the holds hospitable halls they were patient folk, skilled and hard working.

Pity that many of the menfolk in her clan did not feel the same way.
When the Noldor started tending to the crops some of the Elders and Greybeards saw it as a slight on their skills a stain on their honor. The Noldor showed skills in farming which even she begrudgingly admitted far surpassed her own clans.
But the menfolk could not see beyond their beards, aye its true that wisdom is measured by the length of ones beard, all Dawi knew this. But womenfolk don't have beards, and neither do the Noldor.
She had long learnt that age brought wisdom, some of the wisest Dawi she ever knew were beardless womenfolk like her, none would dare disrespect an elder matron so she extended that respect to the Noldor.

One should always listen to their elders she was taught, and the Noldor were old, so very very old. The light of wisdom born through endless toil shone in their eyes, she could see it everyday as they worked in the fields. So when the Noldor spoke, she listened like a Plaitling to an elder.

Every day she watched and listened as they tilled the earth, removed the rocks, tasted the soil and eventually sowed the seeds each given a healthy serving of pure mountain spring water.

That is when they began to sing.

It was a strange thing at first, some of the Beardlings even scoffed as the Noldor dirtied their knees and hummed gentle lilting songs before the buried seeds. But the mocking was soon replaced with awe as the first shoot pushed its way out of the earth a mere hour after the Noldor started singing.

She watched them every day after that, listened to every intonation. The Noldor sang and everyday the seedling grew stronger, taller and more vibrant.
Her clans Menfolk desperately tried singing their own songs, chants of war and sagas of glory.
But what do plants care for glory, what does a seedling care for blood and battle. The Noldor were not demanding or aggressive, they were encouraging, nurturing and gentle with the seedlings.

When the trees grew over her head was when her kin did the unthinkable, bringing shame to all her clan.
A group of surly greybeards skulked in the night and attempted to kidnap one of the Noldor.
She still shuddered with rage and shame just thinking about her own kin violating guest rights. They had shamed her clan, her king, her hold and her ancestors, she was in complete agreement when the guilty greybeards took the slayer oath, at least they had enough honor not to shame themselves and their clan any further.

She watched in sadness as the Noldor left through Drekfut's gates, but while the Noldor were gone, the fruits of their toil remained behind. A great orchard extended before her eyes, tall strong and vibrant, dripping with ripe shiny fruits. When she took a bite out of an apple, she shuddered at the delicious taste, the juices were nourishing, sweet & refreshing, truly the best fruit she had ever tasted.

So she gathered the seeds from the apples core, five seeds were gathered and then planted in five stone pots. Four were left to grow alone, with plenty of sunlight and water, the fifth she kept for her self.
She sang to it every morning and every evening, but instead of songs and sagas of glory & battle she sung Valayan lullabies, songs of encouragement, songs of nurturing like a mother to a child she wishes to grow healthy and strong.

Bit by bit the young seedling grew, much slower than what she witnessed under the Noldor, but out of the five seedlings it was the tallest and most vibrant. Perhaps just perhaps she could sing to the trees much like the Noldor did, if only she could have learnt more from them before they departed.

Perhaps if she was chosen as clan leader she could restore her clans honor and learn from those much wiser in the way of plants than her.





Pride of the Eotheod

Elder Vodder gazed into the eyes of the Umgi sitting before him. He'd called the young lad to a private meeting in hopes of getting some answers regarding his kin.

Out of all the Umgi training under clan Shatterspear, Folmund was the most dedicated, while other Umgi walked away Folmund stayed, while other Umgi fell in exhaustion Folmund continued working.
He hoped the young Eotheod could provide him with a bit of perspective, he wanted to know why the other Umgi were leaving their apprenticeship that his clan so generously offered.

Vodder had a lot of pride in his ability to teach, he had turned more than one generation of Beardlings into fine craftsmen.
But while the Dawi tolerated endless hours of practice and hard work, these manlings quickly gave up and walked away the minute he applied little extra pressure.
They did not appreciate his stern lectures, instead of taking his helpful criticism to mind, they seemed to wilt under his reasonable scrutiny.

A poor teacher would turn around and blame the manlings for being shoddy and lazy. But he was used to teaching Dawi, a Beardling was expected to take a tongue lashing, learn his lesson and keep working. Umgi and Dawi were different, when he pointed out every mistake the Umgi made, they seem to grow frustrated and saddened instead of motivated to improve.

Could they not see he only wanted to impart wisdom to them? some of the Umgi were even becoming half decent masons by Beardling standards, yet when Vodder pointed out their flaws instead of jumping to correct themselves they seem to just grow disappointed.

Settling into is carved stone chair he decided it was time to get some answers.
"Good of you to come Folmund son of Falrim, you've come along way since starting your apprenticeship last year, do you feel the clan has treated you well within my halls"

The young Umgi nodded "Aye, no complaints"

"And how have you found your training?"

"Tis hard work, but good work" he stated simply.
Vodder could see he was a man of few words, better to be blunt.

Vodder sighed "The reason I called you here is to know why the apprentices are leaving, your closer to your kin I would like to know what you think"

Folmund seemed to ponder for a moment "They are grateful, they want to help, but they don't really know why they have to learn"

"what do you mean?"

"They don't know why you want to teach them and rather work on other less harsh work" Folmund elaborated. "Also some extra rations and shorter working hours would help"

Th Elder considered his words, it seemed the Umgi lacked proper motivation to keep learning, disappointing, but he knew Umgi could be tenacious when given proper purpose.

"Perhaps I should have explained that the training was to help your kin learn how to rebuild your homes when Framburg is reclaimed"

Folmund let loose a smile "Aye that's what I gathered, bigger wall more protection, less Orcs safer home"

"Anything else you think would help training your kin?"

"Give them some encouragement, my people respond better to positive reinforcement" Folmund elaborated

"Positive reinforcement" the words sounded foreign in Vodders mouth, but if it would help with these Umgi, so be it.
He should let his fellow Elders know what he learnt lest they fail like him.




Comments: Right, first half done, Tired now.
Still need to finish two more short stories to complete the set.

Two Plotting Shipwrights
A Homely Brew

 

[Moneris]

Two Plotting Shipwrights


Deep in the Underhold of Karak Drakfut two dissatisfied Dawi meet in secret to plot & innovate...

"Gregdun did you bring the ship plans?" asked Dwordustir Glintgear in a low voice while he nervously looked over his shoulder.

Gregdun Swiftcarver scowled "do you take me for a clan traitor?" he said heatedly "no, I memorized everything we need, did you bring the Engineering Vellum?"

"Aye right here" Dwordustir unfurled a large well cured piece of engineer grade vellum from under his arm and flattened it over a large flat rock. "Are you sure your clan will tolerate you sharing what you have learnt?"

Gregdun hesitated "I believe so, the clan rules that no clan member may share clan secrets without permission from the clan head, but this is a Noldor ship design, not Dawi, it does not belong to the clan alone"

Dwordustir stroked his beard "good good, let's begin! we will show them that Dawi are just as mighty on the water as on land"

For days the two Dawi met in secret, everyday refining the ship plans, everyday scrapping designs and making new additions.
Gregdun insisted on keeping elements of the Noldor wooden design, it was a tried and tested ship schematic, that per the Elf's claims had been in use for thousands of years. To alter the design too heavily would be disrespectful to the ancient master Shipwrights who shared their craft with them. Dwordustir in contrast insisted on replacing as much of the weak wooden structure with steel as possible while adding various other Dawi innovations, proclaiming it a perversion of Dawi craft that as shipbuilders they would abandon tried and true methods used in Barak Varr for generations.

"We should keep the sail" insisted Gregdun causing Dwordustir to growl "Why? sails are flimsy, they burn and can be cracked by a single cannon shot, better just add an extra engine"

"And waste all our coal?" Gregdun countered. "What If we run out and are left stranded and drifting miles from home, better to have both rather than abandon these clearly high quality sail designs"

Dwordustir concedes with a dissatisfied grumble "fine, for the trade ship but our warship should be better defended, lets add an extra paddle engine on the Gunboat, it can still run on one engine to save coal"

With both Dawi Satisfied they rendered an image detailing both designs, now they just needed to present them to their respective clans.





Dawi Tradeship

• A Barak Varr Gunboat grade steam engine powering a Nautilus style Propeller.
• Two Noldor Style subsidiary lateen sails.
• Sheltered Captain cabin.
• Frontal Siege weapon mount.
• Hardened Noldor Style trade ship hull with Dawi steel reinforcements.
• Front and aft waterproof storage space for trade goods.

Dawi Gunboat

• Two Barak Varr Gunboat grade steam engines powering a Nautilus style propellar & two Gunboat grade paddle wheels.
• Steel armored Gunboat deck & cabin.
• One front facing Cannon & Two broadside cannons on each side.
• Noldor style hull encased in Dawi steel.
• Lookout point on the upper deck.