#Dwarvish anvil+hammer

[raventhrush]

More Pixel Icons for Acorns & Oak leaves Discord server.

I've made a couple more pixel icons for members to enjoy over in the Discord server.

[thedwarrowscholar]

🧾A Note From Behind the Beard

Every now and then, I receive questions that stray a bit (or a lot) from Tolkien, Dwarves, or (Neo-) Khuzdul. Nothing too intrusive—don’t worry—but more personal curiosities: “What are your hobbies?”, “What’s your background?”, and even, after the release of our semi-nude calendar (yes, that happened), “What’s your orientation?”

I’ve always made it a point to keep my personal life in the background here. Not out of secrecy, but simply because I wanted The Dwarrow Scholar to focus on the Dwarves, their language, and lore—not on the one behind the curtain. With the possible exception of my end-of-year rambles, I’ve tried to stay behind the runes, so to speak.

I never set out to make this about me. But after years of questions—and kindness from this community—I figured it was time to offer a little glimpse at the one behind the stone wall. Heads-up: if you're just here for Dwarves, Khuzdul, and the like—feel free to skip this one entirely.

📆 About that Calendar...

Let’s address the elephant in the forge.

Yes, there was a semi-nude Dwarvish calendar. No, it wasn’t entirely serious.

It started as a simple, genuine idea—I wanted to create a physical Dwarvish calendar with proper Neo-Khuzdul months, cultural motifs, the whole nine yards.

Then a friend casually joked:

“Oh, like those fireman calendars?”

And I couldn’t unsee it: Half-naked dwarves posing with hammers, anvil glistening, beard windswept. Too absurd not to bring to life. So we did. You’re welcome. Or I’m sorry. Possibly both.

🌱 Hobbies

Over the past few years, gardening has become my main thing ("obsession"?). I now live in a beautiful, hilly part of Flanders called the Flemish Ardennes—a land of rolling hills (Think The Shire—but with better beer. Truth. Deal with it, Hobbits.), known for its cycling mainly.

A look at a section of the garden I've created

Plum trees are abundant in my garden (amongst other trees), and I've even started making homemade plum liqueur from them. It’s surprisingly decent. Brewing beer has somewhat crept into the background too (when in Rome).

I don’t watch sports often, but I do have a few faithful loyalties:

As a somewhat fierce fan, I’ve resigned myself to the Toronto Maple Leafs’ yearly playoff disappointment.

Luckily, my joy levels were high thanks to Wrexham’s earlier promotion to the EFL Championship. (And no—I didn’t hop on the Hollywood bandwagon. I’ve followed Wrexham since I was a kid. Still, I’m cheering them on.)

Why these two teams, far from the Belgian coast where I grew up? Well, trips to Wales and fanatic hockey-fan uncles go a long way toward explaining that.

And I’d be remiss not to mention Lili, my white Chow Chow—a four-year-old ball of fluff and sunshine who’s easily the friendliest creature in the entire Flemish Ardennes. She supervises all garden activity with quiet dignity (and frequent naps).

These past two years I’ve also been developing a fantasy management game—a single-player project where you run a Dwarven fighting stable.

You’ll train warriors, forge gear, negotiate with sponsors, go on quests, learn the lore of the land, mine for resources, and aim to win the Emperor’s Cup. It’s a blend of tactics, unique rich lore, and stubborn Dwarven grit, naturally.

More on that when it's ready to leave the mountain.

🎭 Background

Believe it or not, my background has nothing to do with linguistics, fantasy, or Tolkien studies. I actually studied the arts, and ended up in a completely unrelated career. But languages? That’s been a passion since childhood.

Long before I knew the word “conlang,” I was creating imaginary languages in my notebooks for fun. I grew up in a multilingual family and country, which helped—but really, I just enjoyed puzzling through grammar systems like some people enjoy crossword puzzles.

I speak Dutch, English, French, some German, and have dabbled in Japanese, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, and Hebrew.

🪓 Why Khuzdul?

Khuzdul pulled me in not just because it’s the language of the Dwarves, but because it’s very unlike anything else in Middle-earth.

It’s Semitic in structure—structured, yet mysterious and methodical. There’s beauty and hidden meaning in every root. Yes, it can be daunting at first—especially without a Semitic background. But you don’t need to be a trained linguist to enjoy or explore it. Curiosity and patience go further than any degree.

🌈 The Other Question...

Some asked about orientation—fair question, given the tone of my calendar. I’m a straight fellow, with an open and accepting mind. Been happily married to my wife for nearly ten years (together for twenty), and I deeply respect the spectrum of identities others bring to this community. You're all welcome here.

✨ Fun Fact Speed-Round!

First Dwarvish word I ever coined? Honestly, I can’t recall—it’s been thirty years...

Favourite Khuzdul root? Probably [KhGR], which is one of the rare winks to my local childhood dialect. A “kegge” is West-Flemish for “big nose,” and that’s exactly where KhGR came from—it’s now the Neo-Khuzdul root for “nose.” Most personal Khuzdul word I’ve coined? That would be ugloriskh��na—meaning “wise woman known for kindness, humour, and the ability to enjoy life.” The word (and its meaning) was inspired by the nickname of a dear friend of mine.

Most surprising moment? When I visited HobbitCon in Bonn, Germany. I dropped by the booth of the German Tolkien Society to say hello to a kind acquaintance—only she wasn’t there. Instead, someone had a full-on fan moment and asked for a picture with me.

Most moving request I’ve ever received? Someone once asked me to translate a poem for the funeral of their brother.

Best compliment I’ve received? I get more praise than I feel I deserve—but one that truly warmed my heart was:

“You would have made Tolkien proud.”

Most ridiculous runic request? Well, aside from someone asking me to translate The Hobbit in its entirety (which would take me years), nothing truly “ridiculous.” Folks ask because they’re curious—and that’s never a bad thing. That said... the biggest chuckle? A tattoo request for “Meat is back on the menu”—to be inked on a very private part of the body.

And just so you know who’s been rambling behind the beard all this time—here’s a noble mashup a friend made of me, in full Gimli regalia. (Yes, that’s me. No, I don’t imagine I swing an axe nearly as well.)

If you’ve read this far—thank you. Thank you all for being part of this strange and wonderful journey. Your curiosity, kindness, and shared love for Dwarves have kept the forge warm. I hope this answers some of the more personal questions that found their way into the queue. Now, let’s get back to the runes, shall we?

Ever at your service, The Dwarrow Scholar

[cagemasterfantasy]

DnD Magic Items: Artifacts: Axe of the Dwarvish Lords

Type: Weapon (Battleaxe 1d8 slashing damage and can be used with 2 hands to instead deal 1d10 slashing damage)

Rarity: Artifact

Attunement: Yes

A young Dwarf prince set out to forge a weapon that would be regarded as a symbol of unity among his people. Venturing deep under the mountains deeper than any Dwarf had ever delved the prince came to the blazing heart of a great volcano. With the aid of the Dwarven god Moradin he first crafted 4 mighty tools: the Starmetal pick the Earthheart Forge, the Anvil of Songs and the Shapping Hammer. With these tools he forged the Axe of the Dwarvish Lords.

Armed with the Artifact the prince brought peace to the Dwarf clans ending grudges and answering slights. The clans became allies, and they threw back their enemies and enjoyed an era of prosperity. This young Dwarf is remembered as the First King. When he became old, he passed the weapon which had become his badge of office to his heir. The rightful inheritors passed the axe on for many generations.

Later in an era marked by treachery and wickedness the axe was lost in a bloody civil war fomented by greed for its power and the status it bestowed. Centuries later the Dwarves still search for the axe and many adventurers have made careers of chasing after rumors and plundering old vaults to find it.

Magic Weapon: The Axe of the Dwarvish Lords is a magic weapon that grants a +3 bonus to attack and Damage rolls made with it.

When you attack a creature with the axe and roll a 20 on the d20 for the attack roll the axe deals an extra 20 slashing damage.

The axe can be thrown with a normal range of 20 feet and a long range of 60 feet. When you hit with a ranged attack using this weapon it deals an extra 1d8 Force damage or an extra 2d8 Force damage if the target is a creature of the Giant type. Immediately after hitting or missing the weapon flies back to your hand.

Blessings of Moradin: While attuned to the Axe you gain the following Benefits

Darkvision: You gain Darkvision with a range of 60 feet. If you already have Darkvision its range increases by 60 feet.

Fortitude of Stone: Your Constitution increases by 2 to a maximum of 20 (+5).

Gifts of the Creator: You have proficiency with Brewer's Supplies, Mason's Tools and Smith's Tools.

One with the Forge: You are immune to Poison damage and you have resistance to Fire damage.

Sunder: When you hit an object with the axe the object takes the maximum amount of damage possible.

Conjure Earth Elemental: While holding the axe you can take a Magic action to summon an Earth Elemental. It appears in an unoccupied space you choose within 30 feet of yourself understands your languages obeys your commands and takes its turn immediately after you on your Initiative count. The Elemental disappears after 24 hours when it dies or when you dismiss it as a Bonus Action. You can't use this property again until the next dawn.

Random Properties: The artifact has the following Random Properties

2 minor beneficial properties

1 major beneficial property

2 minor detrimental properties

Travel the Depths: You can take a Magic action to touch the axe to a fixed piece of Dwarven stonework and cast Teleport from the Axe. If your intended destination is underground there is no chance of a mishap or arriving somewhere unexpected. You can't use this property again until 3 days have passed.

Destroying the axe: The only way to destroy the axe is to melt it down in the Earthheart Forge where it was created. It must remain in the burning forge for 50 years before it finally succumbs to the fire and is consumed

[tarninausta]

@secondageweek ⁕ day 3: dwarves; narvi

Celebrimbor had "an almost 'dwarvish' obsession with crafts"; and he soon became the chief artificer of Eregion, entering into a close relationship with the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm, among whom his greatest friend was Narvi. [In the inscription on the West-gate of Moria Gandalf read the words:Im Narvi hain echant: Celebrimbor o Eregion teithant i thiw hin: "I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs." The Fellowship of Ring II 4]. Both Elves and Dwarves had great profit from this association: so that Eregion became far stronger, and Khazad-dûm far more beautiful, than either would have done alone.

-J.R.R. Tolkien, Unfinished Tales, “The History of Galadriel and Celeborn”

[ID: An edit for Narvi from the Tolkien legendarium. It consists of 10 pictures mainly coloured grey/black and blue

A lighting bolt

Neon Text on black ground reading "Believe in your dream"

The beard of a person wearing fantasy-style armour

Light blue text on a dark blue field reading "Narvi, master smith of Khazad-dum"

The gate to Moria as portrayed in the Peter Jackson movies

A hammer on an anvil

The halls of Moria as portrayed in the movies

bioluminescent algae (?) in a cave

mountains seen through mist

a cape fastened with a brooch at the shoulder

End ID]

[daughter-of-arda]

Hiraeth: Chapter 0--The Beginning

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: labor and childbirth, character death

Author's Note: This is my first true post and I'm terrified. But it's time to throw some of my writing into the void.

Khuzdul Translations:

Azaghâlithûh - young warrior, warrior that is young

Khajimel - gift of all gifts

Lukhudel - light of all lights

Uzfakuh - my greatest joy

Muhudel - blessing of blessings

——————————————————————————

In terms of delivery, the birth is smooth. It’s what comes after that’s the problem.

Of course, Rhai isn’t prepared to give birth. This far along in her pregnancy, things are becoming more uncertain and the contractions a regular occurrence. The breaking of her water is the moment everything becomes much more serious, to which her sister Khai shouts once for Timr to fetch the midwife before guiding her to the bed with shaking hands.

The first months of Rhai’s pregnancy had been remarkably Dwarvish—dams carry for twelve moons, splitting their time into quarters, and Rhai’s first quarter was full of growing pains and angry rages that her childless sister Khai, once an apprentice to a Dwarvish midwife back in Dale, said was completely normal. The second quarter began with cravings, followed by a tense third quarter in which the nine-moon due date for women of Men came and went without pause.

Bree’s midwife, a kind daughter of Men named Heather, has admitted to never caring for a Dwarf, let alone a Dwarf carrying a child from a father of the race of Men. Women of Men carry for nine moons, which isn’t that far off from twelve, but the fact remains that Rhai enters her fourth quarter distinctly unprepared.

In spite of what is perhaps wise, Heather hasn’t yet turned her away, promising to help work through the challenges of Rhai’s unprecedented pregnancy. There is never a need to acknowledge the dangers of such a pregnancy. There is a reason children of Dwarves and Men are rare.

Heather is an ally in Bree, this town of Men that Rhai and her sister have settled in alongside Khai’s betrothed, Timr. The Dragon Smaug had torn from them their homes in Dale and Erebor, stealing the lives of their parents in the process. The three aren’t intentionally making for the growing colony of refugees at Ered Luin, but as the years pass they drift further westward.

Rhai had become pregnant in Bree and was determined to reach a safe place for her child to be born and grow up, without the constant displacement that had become so commonplace for their people, but the babe has other ideas and is born just as Rhai enters her eleventh moon of pregnancy and Timr begins to mutter about uprooting and moving west, past a land known as the Shire to the feet of the Blue Mountains and a trading town called Rockfells.

Assisted by Heather and her sister Khai, the delivery is efficient. Much to Heather’s interest, Dwarflings are born small for better passage through the birth canal. Dwarrowdams are thus put at both an advantage and disadvantage: very rarely do dams leave their cities or towns, and when they do they dress as their menfolk for protection. With a smaller babe and thus a smaller belly they are more easily able to conceal their conditions if circumstance forces them to leave. But a small child is a fragile child, and dams have the responsibility of caring for a small babe that is not necessarily weak, but more susceptible to the dangers of the world. It’s not uncommon for a dam to stay in her home for upwards of a year after her child is born, dedicated to the health of her babe.

At Heather’s urging, Rhai pushes one final time, clenching her lower abdomen and wailing at the sudden stretch. Her sister Khai, gripping her hand and hovering somewhere near her head, holds tight and unflinching.

The widest part of the babe’s head emerges with an intense strike of pain that feels as if her body has been laid atop an anvil and cloven in two with the Maker’s hammer. The rest of the tiny body slips out soon after and the pain fades. It doesn’t disappear, instead beating with a sharp ache in time with her rapid heartbeat.

Rhai sobs, her chest heaving with exertion as she hears her child cry. Khai works to wipe away the blood and sweat covering her body, replacing bloodied sheets with fresh ones, while Heather expertly cleans and examines the crying child.

“It’s a girl,” Heather says proudly. “You’ve a little lass.”

“By Mahal,” Rhai says faintly, a smile ghosting her lips, “my daughter has been blessed with large lungs.”

She gathers her daughter in limp arms, bracing the little blanketed bundle against her chest. At the contact, the babe quickly calms, growing warm and familiar with her mother. She’s not much yet, just a little scrap of a person in reddened skin, but Rhai knows her puckered mouth will one day host thousands of smiles. Hey eyes, currently screwed shut, will glow with the sun, and her tiny fisted hands will grip hammers to forge beauty.

“Push once more,” Heather urges, squinting between her legs. “Once more, a small one. The afterbirth must come out.”

With jellied limbs and muscles that protest, Rhai pushes, and feels nothing except a flash of pain as the wet afterbirth emerges. Heather notices her grimace.

“You’ve torn,” she says, gently spreading her legs wider. Her sister Khai kneels down as well. The knowledge of two women staring directly at her brings heat to Rhai’s cheeks, and she deliberately focuses on her baby.

“Our women have larger babies with bigger heads,” Heather explains. “With a father from the race of Men, your daughter was larger than your body could reasonably accommodate.”

Heather is toneless as she says this, a fact Rhai is thankful for. Khai has never voiced her displeasure, nor Timr, but it is clear that neither approve of the origins of her daughter’s father. No doubt they both believe Rhai should have killed the child before it became a child.

“You’ll bleed for some time as your body recovers,” Heather continues, standing and wiping bloodstained hands on her apron. “Perhaps longer because of the tear. And your recovery will take longer—I trust you will help her out of bed and to the toilet, and fetch things for her?”

The last comment is directed at Khai, who nods firmly in response. No matter her displeasure, her loyalty to her sister always wins.

“Good,” Heather says. “Now I must return home to fetch some herbs for you, Rhai. I shall return with food as well. I’ll be no more than an hour.” She leaves with many thanks and at-your-service’s to her back.

“What will you call her?” Khai asks after Heather departs, switching to Khuzdul. Their native tongue is thicker and harsher than Westron, but a wave of comfortable familiarity envelops Rhai as her sister speaks thick consonants.

“Branna,” Rhai says, having thought about names for both daughters and sons during her pregnancy. “She will be called Branna, daughter of Rhai.”

“Surely you want to name her after mother?”

“You are the eldest daughter, Khai,” Rhai points out, adjusting her child in her arms. Little Branna snuffles. “You can name your firstborn daughter after mother.”

Khai is silent. A somber thoughtfulness takes root in the room, tucked into the corner of the little house the three Dwarves rent from an old farmer in exchange for labor. They have no gold to their name. That too the Dragon stole.

“They should be here,” Rhai says quietly, running gentle hands through Branna’s warm cinnamon-colored hair. She’s taken after Dwarves in this aspect, born with nearly a full head of hair. The color, however, comes from Branna’s unknown father. Both Rhai and Khai have dark brown hair, beaded back with daily beads, clan beads, and, in Khai’s case, a betrothal bead with Timr’s runes engraved in the metal.

“I know.”

“I miss them.” Rhai wonders how her parents would react to Branna. They would have loved a grandchild, yes, but her split-race parentage means she would more likely be disowned than anything. It’s a cruel blessing that Branna won’t experience their racism.

“I know, sister. I as well.”

——————————————————————————

“...teeth?”

Rhai blinks awake. She stretches, feeling sore muscles protest and a distinct sticky spot under her backside. Groaning, she tries to rise from the bed, but the instant shot of pain between her legs tells her it is more comfortable to remain in a bloodstain.

The baby. She’s not holding the baby.

“Of course. All Dwarves are born with teeth,” Khai says, and Rhai turns to see her sister and daughter, tucked up together on a chair dragged in from the kitchen. Heather, Bree’s midwife, stands before the pair. Rhai relaxes. “Are children of Men born without?” Khai continues.

Wordlessly, Khai stands and deposits Branna into Heather’s embrace. She moves to Rhai, helping to pull her up and drag the bloodied undergarments down her legs. The movement, however small, stings, and an uncomfortably thick gush of blood comes away when Khai swipes the cloth across her inner thighs.

“Our babies begin teething at half a year old and lose their primary teeth by their eighth year,” Heather says, gently studying Branna’s small white teeth with interest. “Do Dwarves still have a second set?”

Khai and Rhai hesitate. Heather recognizes her blunder.

“I apologize,” she says hastily in Westron, strangely accented as if she speaks a second tongue. “Dwarves are a secretive race. I do not expect that to change between us.”

Rhai laughs, settling back on the bed and raising her arms toward her daughter. “You have seen the most intimate parts of me and aided me through this pregnancy,” she says, allowing Heather to nestle Branna in her folded arms. “If anything, you deserve to know that we do indeed have a second set. It comes in when we are nearing fifteen years of age.”

Branna whines, opening her mouth to reveal two rows of short, white teeth. Among its blunt fellows, her canines appear especially sharp. Recognizing her daughter’s need, Rhai slips her loose tunic off one shoulder and exposes a breast, guiding Branna’s head toward her.

Nothing happens.

Khai, sensing the failure, comes to her sister’s side and gives aid. In moments, Branna is suckling, making little gasping noises as she is unable to drink and breathe simultaneously.

“...Does it not hurt to nurse?” Heather asks, almost timidly. “I cannot imagine teeth on that sensitive flesh.”

“No,” Rhai decides, feeling a twinge of discomfort as Branna adjusts and her tiny jaw clamps down for a brief moment. “A little,” she amends. “But it is worth everything. Azaghâlithûh.”

“Sister!” Khai admonishes. Then she translates the term and frowns. “Truly?”

“Yes,” she says emphatically. “She is my young warrior. My Khajimel. Lukhudel. Uzfakuh. Muhudel.”

Heather, a daughter of Men disallowed from hearing the native speech of the Dwarves, silently adjusts the chair from the kitchen. She folds the blanket.

“Rhai!” her sister snaps. “Enough!” Her face softens. “I know your love for the babe, but keep your head.”

“My head belongs to Branna.”

Khai shakes her head fondly, exchanging a quick, satisfied glance with Heather.

“We shall be fine,” she says, dismissing her. “You carry our thanks.”

“As soon as I recover, I am ever at your service, Mistress Midwife,” Rhai adds.

“Call for me if you need anything,” Heather says. With some difficulty, Rhai stands, swaying slightly from the sudden movement. She shuffles to Heather. Branna squawks, suddenly pressed between the two women as Rhai takes Heather’s shoulder and guides her down to press their foreheads together. With no more than two dozen Dwarves in Bree-land, most of them impermanent residents, it takes Heather a moment to recognize the custom, but a surprised pink dusts her cheeks as the two break apart.

She leaves with the promise of returning the following morning with more pain-relieving herbs. Rhai curls into bed with a fresh cup of herbed tea and her daughter in her arms.

——————————————————————————

Something is wrong.

Not with Branna. She’s less than two days old and looks the part of a newborn Dwarfling, with slightly Mannish features. Her eyes have opened, revealing bright eyes rimmed in brown that turn umber in the light. With a pert nose and a small mouth, and tiny hands and feet, Branna falls asleep to sleep-songs sung in tender Khuzdul. Already Rhai has wept twice, watching her child sleep in her arms. A daughter, so rare among their people.

No, nothing is wrong with Branna. It’s Rhai.

The bleeding won’t stop.

Initially, Khai had said the bleeding was normal. Every woman bled for some time after giving birth, and neither knew how her body would adjust after carrying a child from two races.

But when it doesn’t slow, instead seemingly growing heavier, and the pain in Rhai’s body is so intense she cannot move lest she risk collapsing or vomiting, Khai once again sends Timr to fetch the midwife. The slam of the front door wakes Branna, who immediately begins to wail.

Khai’s face is taut with worry and she forces Rhai into bed, ignoring her protest about caring for Branna and muttering what she belatedly recognizes as a prayer in swift Khuzdul. Head spinning, Rhai watches as multiple copies of her sister leave the room through multiple doors, looking for more clean linens to sacrifice. Branna’s cries come from all directions. They grow more intense when no one appears to help her.

Rhai has to tend to her daughter. Branna needs her.

Her body is incredibly heavy. It’s hard to draw breath.

Rhai tries one last time to reach her daughter, and fails.

A final breath passes from her lips.

One hundred forty-six years later, Branna enters the shop owned by Sílas, an explosive Man born and raised in Rockfells, searching on her aunt’s orders for a set of colored inks. She has never known a mother.

Two Dwarves argue with Sílas. Branna cannot resist interfering.

[dapper-delinquent]

NEW DWARF LORE

Dwarves are cryptids and the stuff of legends, because (as the story goes) in ages long past, the dwarves were master craftsfolk. Their creativity and enginuity knew no bounds, and their hubris led them to challenge the gods themselves. The god of invention and innovation accepted the challenge. A team of a hundred dwarves was deemed sufficient to challenge the god, and the stakes were set: should the dwarves win, they would appoint one of the craftsfolk as a new god of creativity, seperate from the god of invention, and should they lose, the entire race of peoples would be sundered from the thread of creativity in its entirety.

And so the contest began; the dwarves working in teams, with a fervor unmatched, and the overconfident god laying about, believing his divine power more than a match than these mere mortals who dwell in the dirt. The dwarves worked tirelessly, not resting for two full weeks, the sound of their hammers ringing through the hills like a constant bell; their bellows stirring the wind to gale-force, nearly stripping the trees of their foliage; the heat of their forges sweltering to the point of boiling the nearby lakes and streams. In the final days, the god of invention saw the multitude of marvels the dwarves had crafted, as they neared completion of their final works, and experienced a new, alien emotion... Panic. Realizing he may actually be challenged, and not the uncontested victor he assumed, he set about hastily working his magic to whip together a masterpiece to rival any creation he'd ever even dreamt before. The god's sweat poured, frantically working, desperate to maintain his position in the pantheon, not wanting to split his domain with another. He worked and toiled, borrowing power from the other gods, who would judge the creations of both competitors.

In the end, the dwarves presented their multitudes. Their weapons, armors, machines, their vehicles, innovations, and advancements; each individual piece a match for anything the god of invention had crafted prior, and presented in multitudes, countless in number, and overwhelming in their splendor. The god of invention, terrified of losing a portion of his domain, watched in awe as the dwarves presented their works and demonstrated their functions, displaying the minutia of their details, showing gears that could be stacked atop a pin's head, to a tool of measuring time mapped by the cosmos themselves that followed the stars, so it would remain accurate even if they should shift.

The god of invention, while confident in his ability and his creation, had no intention of leaving this to mere chance, however, and had crafted a mechanical insect, not unlike a mosquito, to infiltrate the dwarves final presentation. Tiny to the point of being undetectable, save to those who knew to look, it stole into the final device and siphoned the golden oil that allowed the machine to function smoothly and without error. During the final reveal, the dwarves revelled in their sucess, clearly reading the god's awe plainly laid across their faces, felt secure in their victory, in no small way aided by the seeming lack of the god of invention's presentation. It was then, at the final moment, their last creation started to shudder, whir, and smoke. The dwarves collectively stopped in their tracks, their hearts dropping the the core of the earth. The final machine melted under its own friction and heat, destroyed by its own power, for lack of lubrication.

It was then that the god of invention presented his mosquito-like creation, laiden heavy with the golden oil of the dwarves machine, as he smiled smugly, gloating that his single minute work was enough to lay low even the most marvelous of the dwarven wonders.

The gods laughed, absolutely raucous at the simplicity of the god of inventions prank, and declared him the victor. They deemed the dwarves had put up far more than a fair match, and decided that they would be able to stay connected to the thread of creativity, but would be barred from the heavens forever. The dwarves, however, did not accept this, as they felt they had been made fools through a dishonerable act of deception, and turned their creations against the got what slighted them. They delcared war on the god of invention, and any who stood between them and their vengeance. Quickly, in the instant between the declaration of war and the other gods ability to process what that meant, the god of invention acted. He revealed his true invention, for which he had planned to use in the event that he lost the contest: an emmense tower of stone and gold, laid through with gems of power and veins of liquid magic, weaving a cage impenetrable, inescapable, and immovable. He dropped this tower atop the dwarven realm, collectively trapping the entirety of the race (and all they had created) beneath it.

This tower, it is said, was the first of the mountains. The dwarves, being creatures springing from fonts of creativity themselves, kept forming throughout the ages, and the god of creation dropped more and more mountains atop them across the plane as they came into existence, until they seemingly stopped. The dwarvish culture is lost to all but the oldest of fables, passed down in hushed tones, never written down.

It is rumored, however, that the dwarves still yet exist. Toiling beneath the mountains, furious at the god who would deny them their merit, ever working to be free, seeking to dethrone the god of invention....

Still, it is said, that if one were to venture to the fabelled mountains, to the depths of the deepest caves, one may be able to hear the faint sound of hammers on anvils, the heat of the forge, and the smell of sweat... But then again, the most prudent among us would argue it wishful thinking paired with hallucinations in the deep darkness of the caves...

Who's to say whats fiction from fact, and whether this story is an ancient myth, or a recounting of history... Only time may yet reveal the truth.

[3in1ringbearer]

Headcanon: The Elves of Doriath were quite Dwarf-like

Altenatively: the Dwarves are quite Iathrim-like

The primary source for this headcanon of mine is the similarity of certain lines in the Lay of Leithian and the Song of Durin.

The Lay of Leithian:

King Thingol sat on guarded throne

in many-pillared halls of stone:

there beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

and metal wrought like fishes' mail,

buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

and gleaming spears were laid in hoard:

all these he had and counted small,

for dearer than all wealth in hall,

and fairer than are born to Men,

a daughter had he, Lúthien.

The Song of Durin: 

A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote;

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built.

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Of course, the non-worldbuilding answer is that Tolkien reused lines and imagery from his older, unpublished work; we all do it at some point. There was never any intention to draw a deliberate parallel between Thingol and Durin.

However, it would also make a lot of sense for there to be significant cultural exchange between the Elves of Doriath and their Dwarven neighbors.

During the Age of Stars, there would have been a lot of contact between the Sindar and the Dwarves, and they appeared to have been mostly positive. (Not counting, of course, the early encounters with the ill-fated Petty-Dwarves.) Thingol was on friendly terms with the Dwarves of Belegost and Nogrod.

Menegroth was commissioned Dwarven work. The architecture is certainly a Dwarvish influence. Most Elves preferred to live beneath the open sky, beneath Varda's beloved stars. Only the Elves of Doriath — and Nargothrond and Thranduil's halls in Mirkwood, both inspired by Menegroth — chose to live underground; even Eöl, who hated light, lived aboveground.

Doriath enjoyed frequent trade with Nogrod in the Blue Mountains and Belegost all throughout the Age of Stars and well into the First Age through the Dwarf-road. Menegroth amassed much wealth and weapons in the form of Dwarven crafts. Going by Nimphelos, it seems that Menegroth traded pearls from the Falas with Belegost. This trade persisted until at least Thingol offending the craftsmen from Nogrod.

When the Haladin of Brethil sent for aid from Doriath, Thingol sent Sindar armed with axes, the traditional weapon of the Dwarves.

Doriathrin culture and Dwarvish culture would have developed side by side.

[darkelfshadow]

Session Summary - 76

AKA “The Light Of Truesilver Comes”

Adventures in Taggeriell

Session 76  (Date: 10th January 2020)

Players Present:

- Rob (Known as “Varis”) Elf Male.

- Bob (Known as “Sir Krondor) Dwarf Male.

- Paul (Known as “Labarett”) Elf Male.

- Arthur (Known as “Gim”) Dwarf Male.

- Travis (Known as “Trenchant”) Human Male.

- John (Known as “Ragnar”) Dwarf Male. <New Player>

Absent Players

Nil

NPC

- (Known as “Naillae”) Elf Female. <Controlled by Travis>

Summary

- Toilday, 9th Pharast in the year 815 (Second Era). Spring.

- The party begin this session, mid evening, in the dark forbidding corridors of the Yuan-ti Nest Complex, having just finished dispatching a small patrol of Yuan-ti at the end of last session.

- The black great sword in Gim’s hand, Hazirawn, speaks to Gim, “Fool Dwarf! You have taken me into the heart of the cursed Yuan-ti. I will not fall into their hands, I can not control their minds. Leave now Dwarf! Leave your friends behind and whilst the Yuan-ti kill and torture them you may yet be able to escape these lands.” Gim struggles to resist the control and does so, but the strength of the great sword is growing.

- The smell of mouldy food alerts the party and they check their backpacks to find that all their food is soiled and their water skins are empty. The party recall that that is one of the effects of entering into the lair of a Mummy Lord, which Diderius must be. They are now two and half days away from civilisation, in a inhospitable land, with no food or water.

- From down a nearby corridor, from behind a steel door, comes the faint sound of a male Dwarf voice shouting, “Berronar! Akyth offrumm tha ghoran!”  Varis, who is the only one in the party standing in that corridor hears the voice but does not understand the Dwarvish words.

- Nedumlin, the ancient Dwarvish symbol of the Knight Anvil speaks in a frantic voice to Sir Krondor, “Did you not hear that call for help?!”  Sir Krondor, standing away from the corridor shakes his head, “Heard what?”

- Nedumlin hurriedly replies, “A Dwarf calls out for Berronar Truesilver to send aid! That could be a Clan Peace Keeper, Cleric of Truesilver, in dire need of aid. We must go now!”

- Sir Krondor and Gim look at each other and nod and begin to run towards the steel door. Varis shouts as they run past him, “It could be trap! The Yuan-ti can put suggestions into your mind!”  Just then, a female voice, can be faintly heard from the door. She sounds as if in great pain.

- Trenchant yells, “Wait! That sounds very suspicious!”

- As the two Dwarf cousins run towards the door, Sir Krondor bellows, “We don’t have time to discuss this!”

- Gim reaches the door first and bursts through with a kick with Sir Krondor just behind him. They see a rectangular prison chamber with multiple prison cells comprised of black metal bars. The cells are filled with many people, all wearing just loin clothes or under clothes. By the look of their distinctive tattoos, most of the cells contain Cultists, about seventeen with two of them wearing black metal collars around their necks. One cell has an elderly male Elf, trying to get out to stop a Yuan-ti guard striking an elderly female Elf who is crouching on the floor with a bloody face.

- In one cell by himself is a male Dwarf, he too has one of the strange black collars around his neck. He looks over at the two nearly arrived Dwarves, and in Dwarvish speaks, “Praise Berronar! Quickly!”

- The party rush in and engage the Yuan-ti. They pull their blows, trying to avoid killing the creature, when one of the Cultists wearing the metal collar tells them they need the creature alive to unlock the collars. The party force the Yuan-ti back towards the bars, with Gim holding him against the cell, whislt the Dwarf stranger in the cell grabs the hands of the Yuan-ti and places them onto his metal collar which immediately unlocks and opens with a click.

- Quickly the party knock the Yuan-ti unconscious. In a corner of the chamber is a large metal cupboard with multiple drawers with the belongings of the prisoners all stored within. The party learn that the two elderly Elves, Dalern and his wife Elona, are travelling herbalist, historians and map makers. They had been wandering the Serpent Hills recording animal and plant life when they were captured by the Yuan-ti and brought here. A day later the Cultists were also captured in brought here.

- The lone Dwarf is called Ragnar Krakhammer, Cleric of Berronar Truesilver, Priest of the Light, and Clan Peace Keeper. He came to the Tomb Of Diderius looking for an ancient book that might be able to help him find an ancient relic, the Sun Blade.

- He was captured by Yuan-ti early today, just before sunrise, and brought here too, having slept most of the day thanks to the poisoned arrows used to capture him. Ragnar takes back his gear from the metal cupboard and gets back into his clothing and armour.

- He walks over to the unconscious Yuan-ti and raises his silver war hammer high, then smashes it into the creature’s face killing it, green blood splattering on the floor.

- Trenchant reels, “I thought you said he was a Peace Keeper. That doesn’t seem very peaceful.”

- Ragnar wipes the green blood of his weapon as he replies, “I am a Clan Peace Keeper for the Dwarves. Through the guidance of the Revered Mother, Berrnoar Truesilver, it is my duty to keep the culture, lore, traditions and family histories of the Dwarves alive. The existence of that evil creature is an insult to the Light that I serve.”

- The Cult prisoners beg for their release too but when they refuse to renounce their worship of Tiamat the party leave them in their cells but free the Elf couple, Dalern and Elona. The party move over to a stone door, that one of the Cultists tells them is the throne room of the Yuan-ti and also where Varram The White is being held captive.

- They open the stone door and are invited inside by a large female Yuan-ti who commands a large group of Yuan-ti, the Nest Mother.

- The party enter the large chamber, lit by green flames that erupt from numerous statues along the walls. A stone altar sits upon a raised platform.

- Initially the party are trying to negotiate with the Nest Mother, who stands next to the prone figure of Varram The White, who appears injured and confused but alive. The negotiations turn bad however and the party find themselves in battle.

- The party are fighting the Yuan-ti forces in the throne room with more Yuan-ti appearing from the rear corridor. The party concentrate their attacks on the Nest Mother and quickly force her to flee, badly injured. Trenchant goes back to the Cult prisoners and releases them, telling them to armour up and get out. The Cultists do that and as they run out of the Nest they encounter a Yuan-ti Abomination coming from the rear and engage it in combat.

- Shadow, Varis’s animal companion, is killed when he leaps towards on coming Yuan-ti trying to slow them down. The battle is hard, but one by one the Yuan-ti are dropped until only the party remain, though badly injured. Varis and Ragnar take the time to cast healing spells to give some much needed healing to the party.

- The bodies and area are searched. The outline of a secret door is found and after examining one of the statues, it is turned toward the stone altar to open the secret door. Within is found a large pile of treasure which the party then divide amongst themselves.

- Taking Varram and the elderly Elf couple with them, they then move back towards the circular chamber they found earlier, but did not enter, with the many holes visible in the floor. Entering this room, they discover that it has an anti-magic field enveloping it to protect barrels of food and water from the effects of the Mummy Lord’s corrupting influence. They take the opportunity to have a short rest, eating and drinking.

- Moving onwards, they check out a few other doors, until the decision is made that the book that Ragnar wants to find must be in the Tomb complex and not the Yuan-ti nest. They make their way back to the secret door that leads into the Tomb Of Diderius, Mummy Lord.

<And as the party prepare themselves to re-enter the Tomb complex in search of the ancient book, that is the end of the session.>

XP Allocation

Group - Combined (This is equally divided by the number of players who were involved)

Quests (Only quests that are completed or rendered undoable, during this session, are shown here)

- “We don’t have time to discuss this with the committee!” Save Elona (Elf Prisoner) In Time = 500 XP

- “Eyes up here buddy!” Force the Nest Mother to leave = 500 XP

- “Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge” Release Cultist Prisoners = 500 XP

- “I see many things. I see plans within plans” Learn the Zhentarim have the White Dragon Mask = 1000 XP

Creatures Overcome

- Yuan-ti Malisons (Type 1) = 2800 XP

- Yuan-ti Malisons (Type 3) = 2800 XP

- Yuan-ti Abomination = 2900 XP

- Yuan-ti Abomination = 131 XP (Shared with 15 Cultists)

Individual (This is only given to that person and is not divided amongst all players)

Special Bonus (Outstanding Role Playing)

Nil

XP Levels and Player Allocations

Player : Start +  Received = Total  (Notes)

Rob : 89420 + 1702 = 91122

Arthur : 70786 + 1702 = 72488

John : 64000 + 1702 = 65702

Travis : 81241 + 1702 = 82943

Paul : 70117 + 1702 = 71819

Bob : 76545 + 1702 = 78247

NPC (Naillae) : + (851)

[creativerogues]

Dress to Impress: A Guide to Impressing your God with Fashion...

Part 3: Moradin

What would a Priest wear?

Ceremonial vestments for priests of Moradin include flowing, shining robes of woven wire of electrum treated with blueshine.

Other ceremonial garb includes silvered helms, silver-plated warhammers, and earth-brown leather boots.

The holy symbol of the faith is a miniature electrum war hammer.

What would an Adventurer wear?

In combat, Moradin's clergy members favors chain mail or dwarven plate mail, a helm, and a medium or large shield.

Priests of the Soul Forger are skilled in the use of the warhammer, but many favor other weapons as well, such as battles axes, broadswords, and handaxes.

What do you call a Priest of Moradin?

Novices of Moradin are known as the Unworked.

Full priests of the Soul Forger are known as Forgesmiths and as the Tempered.

In ascending order of rank, the titles used by Moradite priests are Adept of the Anvil, Hammer of War, Artisan of the Forge, Craftsman of Runes, Artificer of Discoveries, and Smith of Souls.

High Old Ones have unique individual titles but are collectively known as the High Forgesmiths. 

Specialty priests are known as sonnlinor, a dwarvish word that can be loosely translated as “those who work stone”.

The clergy of Moradin includes all kinds of dwarf: gold dwarves, shield dwarves and even gray dwarves.

Most priests of Moradin are male, but Moradin's clergy is nearly evenly divided between specialty priests and clerics, and includes a handful of crusaders, paladins and fighter/clerics. 

[romera-rp]

WORLDBUILDING POST 009: LOCATION; KHAGGON

Khaggon was built thousands of years ago by dwarven miners who carved out a massive underground cave in the Drumgamau Mountains for the city to sit in. It has always prided itself on being one of the most defensible cities in Romera. If someone was able to hike their way through the cold, hazardous climate of the mountains while facing any dangerous beasts they would still find themselves up against a very solid, bolted door at the peak. King Rolland is extremely confident that if the war is to become extremely dire he will be able to defend his people within the city as no army will be able to make it through the mountains. Any people that the King and council has approved, including many of the adventurers helping the war effort, have been granted permission to use the teleportation circle which is the main way in and out of the capital. However, what the King doesn’t know is that the thieves guild is using a massive underground river that runs through Khaggon and out the mountains to Dustspire to smuggle people in and out.

CAPITAL OF HEGAEHEND: This is the residence of King Rolland II COUNCIL MEMBER: Thazmoug Greyborn DOMINATE RELIGION: Berronar Truesilver, Goddess of Safety and Truth OTHER RELIGIONS: Erathis, Aureon, Auril, The Raven Queen

PLACES: 

TRUESILVER TEMPLE - The temple is clearly the most prominent building within all of Khaggon as it is built upwards into the wall of the massive cavern the city is set in. It towers over the rest of the buildings with its multiple tiers of enormous, thick stone pillars that make up the front, each tier disappearing further back into the stone of the mountain. The ground floor is dedicated to worship, piles of offerings of silver and white flowers starting to form on the hard marble floor. The entire back wall is covered by a mural of the Mother of Safety carved out of stone. It shows her looking over this very mountain as she bestows the martial plane with her Thunder Blessing. Those lucky enough to ascend upwards to the next floor will find a museum of Dwarven artifacts and history. Even higher you will find the Council Chambers and the residence of Thazmoug Greyborn and King Rolland II.

ACADEMY OF THE ARCANE - The Academy, ran in conjunction with the Temple of Aureon, is the original and therefore oldest university and archive of knowledge. Taking up a portion of the city the multiple halls of the campus is filled with dusty, ancient tomes detailing all the knowledge Romera has from the last several thousand years. A person can find anything from the best time of year to sow the right seeds to who the knight was that defeated the notorious ancient red dragon in 1845 AT. As Aureon is of a lawful alignment and most of his teachings focus on law, the Academy of the Arcane is also where you will find the Courts, the priests attempting to deliver justice to any that may need it.

HIDDEN ENTRANCE - A massive underground river runs through the centre of Khaggon before disappearing off into the stone. Those who know the right people will know that this is the same river that exits the mountain at Dustspire. This has been made into a very convenient secret passage put into use by the thieves guilds in either city. Exiting, you will be lead down to a small cavern off Khaggon where you will board a small, rickety, wooden boat on the river before enduring a journey down the fast moving rapids. Many people have been warned to keep their head down to mind the stalactites. Those who don’t listen, arrive in Dustspire with no head. If that doesn’t sound bad enough, attempting to journey the reserve can be even more daunting as the thieves have required magic that sends the boat flying backwards.

FIGHT CLUB - The Fight Club is yet another enterprise run by the thieves guild. Being trapped inside a mountain, even in such a massive city as Khaggon, does leave people craving the adventure of the outside world. As such, the thieves guild decided to create a fight club in an abandoned construction site in the slums of the city. Despite the unsavoury location, the club still attracts people from all across the city and all walks of life looking for the adrenaline of a fight, or just for simple entertainment. Although it is all in good nature it can get quite competitive as there is a leaderboard of the top 20 fighters. Matches between people in the top spots will be advertised on posters across the city and bring in massive crowds and gold for the thieves guild.

THE DEAD NIGHTINGALE - As the most luxurious and popular bar in the city The Dead Nightingale draws in its young, prominent clientele through their large menu of unique drinks. Not only will you be getting any combination of exotic flavours, but in a world with such notable amounts of magic, you can expect all types of effects to be flying around the dimly lit room. With their most popular drink, Citrus Ale, it wouldn’t be uncommon to see people walking around with bright pink or green hair as it changes it to your favourite colour, while some more hidden drinks on their menu offer effects such as growing a beard, forcing you to tell an embarrassing story or give the person a supernatural boost to their confidence.

THE MINES - As the city was originally created by dwarven miners it shouldn’t be surprising that the large dwarven community who still reside within the city keep to their typical professions. Each day the sprawling mass of tunnels under the city gets larger as minerals, gems and other materials are brought up out of the darkness to be traded. Despite being a very profitable job it is also one of the most dangerous as very often the miners find themselves breaking through a wall into the upper levels of the underdark, releasing all types of horrific monstrosities into the mines. This as a result provides plenty of work for adventurers and bounty hunters who happen to find themselves in Khaggon.

VULANAVI FAMILY BLACKSMITH - With access to such precious materials from the mines and the knowledge of traditional dwarven blacksmithing techniques, the Vulanavi’s, a family of goliaths, have been famed not only in Khaggon but all across Romera for their great crafts. What sets them even further apart from normal blacksmiths is the ancient runes carved into their anvils, allowing them to create powerful magical weapons as long as you have the gold to back it up. The newest addition to the family is Laylo, the owner’s thirteen year old daughter, who has already been seen weighing a hammer and creating weapons that would put most other blacksmiths to shame for several years now.

TARJTEIR FARMER’S MARKET - Many people would assume that most of Khaggon’s produce would be shipped into the city via the teleportation circle considering most harvests and livestock would struggle underground with the lack of sunlight. However, they would be wrong. As the city grew over the years, new resources and magic became available to the residents meaning massive farmers were formed ran by druids. Next to such farms is the Tarjteir Farmer’s Market. Tarjteir, meaning a place of happy gatherings in dwarvish, perfectly describes the sense of community within the marketplace as it buzzes with new life each morning. If you are a local this is exactly the type of place each person would make an effort to know your name and greet you as an old friend.

[chille-tid-universe]

Heart of the Hidden Forge

As the murals along the wall slid upwards, three creatures stepped into the lair. Two appeared to be mechanical canines with enlarged jaws. The third was a humanoid, armed and armored,  whose abrupt motions betrayed it as another automaton. The walls began to slide back down. As they stepped toward Nissa, the gnome jumped back to the rest of the group. The animated suit of armor covered half the distance to the cave’s entrance and readied its sword, visored face sweeping back and forth as it searched for enemies. The slower direwolf-shaped machines lumbered behind it, vestigial tongues lolling comically between jagged steel teeth.

Brienne slipped Mjolnir from her belt and ran further into the room, tossing the hammer mid stride for it to collide with one of the canines before zooming back to her outstretched hand. In her next step, she tossed it again, a heavy metal clangor sounding as the canine was struck again. Brienne stopped before the armored automaton, Mjolnir ready in her hand once more, shielding the way to her allies. Two dents in the canine’s exterior sparked slightly with errant electricity.

“Guess we can call you Sparky!” Melpomene cried out, layering her voice with spellwork. The hound continued to pad forward, seemingly unfazed by the spell. The aasimar tsked. “Deaf as a dog.” At this point, the hounds had drawn even with the armored automaton. With the three in a neat line, Wun Way gestured, muttering an incantation, and the air around them filled with rapidly flashing patterns. The two hounds’ heads jerked back and forth, caught off guard by the influx of sensory data, but the dented one managed to refocus on the foreign intruders. The other hound, however, simply sat back on its haunches and, head tilted to the side, stared off at the afterimage of the blinking lights. The armored automaton had not so much as glanced at the glowing display, and stood perfectly still, sword still poised to strike.

The unstunned hound jumped back into a run, its razor claws scrabbling for purchase against the slick stone, and it darted past Brienne, marbled eyes fixed on Nissa. Brienne swung her warhammer out as it passed, clipping the side of its head. Unrelenting, the hound snapped at the fighter as it continued, skidding to a halt before the cluster of adventurers. Its large jaws parted, and a moment later a cone of frosty breath burst out from the construct’s mouth. The moment had been enough, though - no one was caught in the worst of the stream. The adventurers, shaking off sudden chills, settled around the hound and laid into it, with Pock summoning a glowing, spectral warhammer to swing into the beast’s side. Wun Way had lost concentration on her hypnotic pattern spell, and the other hound was shaking its head, looking around the crowded chamber.

The automaton had broken its guarded stance, striking out at Brienne. She knocked aside the first two blows, but the third found its mark beneath her shield. The automaton then straightened and raised a gauntleted hand toward a hound. A sound of whirring gears filled the air around it, and frosty breath began to spill from its mouth once more. “Watch out!” Brienne cried out, turning to address the mechanical canine. The automaton stepped quickly, interposing itself between Brienne and her friends. Grimacing in annoyance, the fighter turned her warhammer on the bronze chestplate.

The adventurers began spreading out from the chilled machine, wary of its breath attack. Wun Way turned her attention on the suit of armor, pulling forth magical energy to fuel a powerful spell. She unleashed a barrage of pure light, almost a half dozen missiles flying through the air and honing in on the clockwork foe. As they struck, however, the energy seemed to fade against the bronze metal, and the automaton failed to even acknowledge the attack. “Oh for two,” the bard mumbled.

The newly unenchanted hound turned its attention on Brienne and ran up to the automaton’s side. As it stepped in range, Brienne could hear the clockwork machinations within it ticking faster, could practically hear the pistons and enhanced machinery pumping harder. The automaton was having some sort of effect on the hound. Emboldened, the metal canine bit ferociously at the heroine, metal jaws clanging as they hit her magical armor.

Pock had extricated himself, and his floating warhammer, from the other hound, and was circling around the animated armor’s other side. He attempted to strike at it, but his blows were deflected with miniscule parries, the automaton’s blade never moving more than it needed to in order to intercept an attack. Taking advantage of Pock’s diversion, Brienne hammered away at the side of the automaton, and in a flurry of ticking gears the construct whirled around and struck back.

Melpomene threw herself at the other hound, blades dripping with psychic venom as she dragged them along its armored shell. Though it might not be able to hear her, it certainly had enough sentience to suffer from the aasimar’s blow. “Ah, a message you can understand!” she called out.

Wun Way’s eyes grew wide as the hounds and automaton paused for a moment, and in her mind’s eye she saw the perfect placement for a shattering spell. She made a few gestures and pulled up her magic, triggering a concussive blast across the room. The mechanical hounds appeared particularly shaken, with one of them literally falling to pieces as the blast reverberated in its carefully built body. The other still stood, but its jaw seemed partially unhinged, and a springy coil was all that was left of its tail. Like before, however, the automaton was unaffected, its bronze form seemingly impervious to magical tampering.

The remaining hound opened its askew jaws, and a torrent of lightning poured forth, falling in cascades over Brienne and Pock. The two were able to keep their footing, however, and a well placed shot from Nissa brought the canine down, a feathered bolt impaling its metal plated cranium.

With just the armored automaton remaining, Brienne pushed it forward with her shield, knocking it off guard as she struck with a flurry of blows. As the last hit, the helmeted head flew off its shoulders, revealing a bundle of sparking cables. The rest of the body stood for a moment before Pock gingerly tapped it with his own hammer, sending it toppling to the ground.

Finally getting a chance to look around, the group realized that one of the hidden door murals had not closed properly. Brienne was able to pull it back open, revealing a large room beyond it. Murals decorated the walls, depicting scenes of Moradin and the creation of the world according to dwarvish tradition. Around each mural were the sturdy letters of dwarven script.

Most of the room was taken up by bellows and a forge, along with an anvil and hammer beside them. The room appeared untouched for countless years; a thick layer of dust covered every available surface. Pock squinted at the anvil, then turned to the forge, a frown growing on his face. Meanwhile, Brienne walked the length of the wall, glancing at the script around each mural.

“What’s it say?” Melpomene asked, strumming on a lyre quietly as she settled into a comfortable position.

“Captions, mostly,” Brienne said, without turning, “descriptions of the murals. Some have prayers, giving thanks to Moradin, asking for his blessing, you know the like.” She paused at one of the murals. “There’s a proper noun that keeps coming up.” She turned to Pock. “A clan name, perhaps?”

Pock looked up from the bellows, which he had been testing, causing a puff of dust to explode out into the air. “Yes, most likely,” he coughed. “Signature, maybe?”

Brienne ran her finger along a series of runes. “If it’s a signature, then why is it misspelled here?” she mused, almost to herself.

There was a loud clang, making everyone jump, as Pock brought the hammer down on the anvil. The others stared as he moved the hammer, examining the fresh mark. “It’s never been used,” he said, then repeated himself louder. “It’s never been used. I don’t think anything here has been used to smith, or forge, or temper anything.” He indicated the tools and structures around him. Though dust covered all, the hammer was sturdy. Its edges were sharp, while a well-used forge hammer grew rounded around the corners. Likewise, the anvil was, underneath the veneer of dust, immaculate, save the one marring from Pock’s strike. “Anvils should be pitted and dented,” Pock muttered, tenderness in his voice, “Not sitting gathering dust, never knowing the heat of slag.” He gestured at the forge. “And there’s not a single sign of soot or charcoal.” He looked up at the others, finally noticing their stares. “It’s never been used,” he finished quietly.

Brienne turned back to the misspelled segment of wall, and noticed a faint scuff mark by the bottom corner of the mural. To either side of the carving, the wall was flush, and she could see no sign of doorway or other entrance, but the clue caused her to pour over the mural once more. After a few minutes, she cried out in triumph. There was a small sigil of an anvil halfway up the mural with the barest hint of an outline around it. It could have been just a few extra deep chisel marks, but Brienne felt around the anvil and finally pressed on the carving with her finger.

There was a clicking sound as the button depressed followed by a deep shudder in the floor, and then the mural spun on its center, pushing Brienne to the other side of the wall. “Hey!” Brienne heard from the other side of the wall, and a few seconds later the wall spun back. Brienne was back in the forge room, but Melpomene and Nissa were on the other side.

“Stand back!” Brienne shouted through the rock as she motioned for the others to join her at the mural. A few seconds later, they were all gathered on the other side of the hidden door.

Beyond, a natural cavern descended. As the floor sloped more, a steep wooden staircase began, covered in cobwebs and dust. Their descent was filled with creaks and cracks as the long disused stairs protested the sudden weight. Their journey brought them deeper into the heart of the mountains, and the air grew warmer further down. Minutes passed, until suddenly the stairs ended, and the cavern appeared to level out. Though a few torches were held among the party, a dull red glow could be seen from up ahead.

The remainder of the tunnel ended in a large portal, around which was carved runes praising Moradin for his skill, and thanking him for whatever this place was. The red glow came from within the wide passageway. Beyond was a perfectly round chamber, sixty feet across, carved seamlessly from the surrounding rock. A lattice of canals and qanats textured the smooth floor, with regular walking bridges crossing over the larger indentations. These met to form troughs and channels that fed into a central structure.

About the room, small wells were dotted, covered with odd bronze plates, presumably to keep in the moisture in this sweltering room. Sluice gates were placed regularly along the walls, and the air around them seemed to shimmer with heat.

At the center was an enormous structure, unlike anything anyone gathered had ever seen. There was a large anvil at its base, and Pock could tell from the entrance that this anvil bore the marks of fervent craftsmanship on its surface. Behind it stood a monstrous furnace, sitting atop the largest of the channels and smoldering with unquenchable heat, though there was no visible flame. The omnipresent red glow radiated from the grated opening of the furnace.

The most remarkable aspect of it all hung overhead, though. From a central spire hung dozens of mechanical arms, equipped with all manner of smithing tools and dextrous appendages. Laid bare from any sort of casing or cover, the intricate inner workings were visible and gleamed in the furnace’s eerie glow. The group was amazed to see the arms, so still in totality, humming with the whizzing of gears and ticking of other, more complicated parts. Gyroscopes spun ceaselessly at hinged corners, rotating propellers sat snugly against wires and cables, machines that they could only begin to guess at clicked and whirred and thrummed. 

For all this miniscule motion, though, the monstrous and foreign forge lay dormant.

Holding back at the wide entry, the group began discussing how to proceed. Without meaning to, they pitched their voices low, muting their arguments and moving as little as possible. Somehow, the aura of magnitude exuding from the machinery was almost tangible, and it weighed on them.

A few moments into the discussion, they looked around and realized Nissa was nowhere to be seen. As one, they turned to the glowing furnace room.

~~

Nissa, wearing her ring of invisibility, ducked under a low-hanging bifurcated arm, careful not to let her cloak catch on the delicate appendages that jutted out from it. She made her way across a series of short bridges and came before the central contraption. She let her eyes pass over the mind numbing array of wires woven into the central spire, over the solid metal shell of the furnace, over the large block of the anvil. There did not appear to be anything stealable, much to the gnome’s dismay. One portion caught her attention, though. There was a small table attached to the main anvil, slanted and with a sunken panel. 

A stack of thick papers in an attached leather pouch told her this was some sort of schematics table, which on normal forges would allow a smith to visualize the completed piece as they worked. Strange pulsing gems in the corners of this schematics table indicated this one probably worked differently.

On a whim, the gnome reached into her satchel and removed one of the gems she had secreted away. She placed it in the middle of the schematics table, then, when nothing happened, she added a crowbar from her bag. Still, the forge remained silent.

Thinking there might be some verbal command to start the whole thing, Nissa deactivated her ring of invisibility. As soon as her form blinked into view, she felt a tendril of foreign thought tentatively pressing on her mind. The gentle prod manifested as a voice in her head, rumbling and deep, clearly asking a question, though Nissa did not understand the words. Unless she missed her guess, it was speaking to her - rather, thinking to her - in dwarvish.

Nissa fumbled mentally to try and recall something - anything - she had learned in dwarvish from her companions, but nothing came to mind. She opened her mouth to ask the sentience to wait for her to go grab her friends, but apparently her delay was as good as a wrong answer. There was a metallic scraping noise from around the room as the sluice gates, long unused, began to open. Slowly, the lava they had held back began to pour into the channels along the floor. The dull red glow in the room grew brighter as the molten streams spread out.

While the lava was beginning to fill into the room, the many mechanical arms hanging over Nissa began to animate. With much clicking and whirring, many-segmented arms swung into action, pincers and hammers and all sorts of tools flying through the air, affixed to the now mobile appendages. They struck out at Nissa, clearly unimpressed with her lack of mastery of the dwarvish tongue, and the gnome was forced to retreat, hands over her head, back to the entryway.

As Nissa passed her, Brienne stepped into the active room and called out in dwarvish, “Is this the fire that forged my armor?” She held a hand to her breastplate, keeping her other hand on Mjolnir’s handle.

At her question, the room shuddered, and the lava seemed to glow brighter. The tendril of thought swept over the party, and everyone who could understand dwarvish heard in their minds, “Lord Dornlan, deceiver, you will die here.” The party leapt aside as the lava in the troughs around them became agitated, spilling parts of itself up onto the ground.

Wun Way pressed a hand to the coatl egg, tucked safely in its sling, and reached out with her mind, asking if it had any ideas. She felt the feathery presence of the unhatched coatl, and it replied, “This is a place of great anger. A temper this hot will never cool.”

While Brienne was shouting at the room, and Nissa was ducking beneath Ravain and Melpomene, and Wun Way was clutching her magic stone again, Pock peered around Brienne to take in the room. In the brighter lighting, he was able to make out a series of panels, each depicting one of eight murals around the room. Below each was signed in large runes the clan name from the previous room, spelled properly each time. The murals captured the discovery of the Hidden Forge, as well as several singular works of smithing, from helms and greataxes to intricate machinery and a brilliant crown.

The final panel had a carving of Brienne’s armor. There was no mistaking it - Pock could pick out those intricate silvered etchings in a room full of enchanted armor. The carving on the wall matched the piece Brienne was wearing exactly. Whoever had carved this last panel either knew the armor by heart - or had the piece with them as the panel was carved.

He turned to Brienne, pointing at the last panel, but the fighter was preoccupied dodging the globs of lava that were being thrown from the channels at her. When she proved too agile for the random sprays, the channels around her began to fill with more and more lava as a deep bubbling filled the air. Heat began to roll off the channels, and everyone began to sweat a marked amount more. Except for Pock, who had grown up around forges, and was only now starting to find the temperature a bit much.

The voice from before echoed in their minds once more, a deep tone filled with burning anger: “Lord Dornlan, your malice will never be welcome here.” The searing heat rose from the filling channels, and the group split up into different quadrants of the room, where the lava was lower and temperatures cooler (but certainly not cool). Nissa fired a bolt at the central mechanism of the forge, but the bolt clanged against a panel of wires and into a lava trough. There was a slight sparking, and a pair of bronze plates began to close off the entryway. Nissa’s eyes darted from the passage behind her to her friends, jumping over streams of lava. The gnome shrugged and sighed, then jumped back into the room as the thick doors clanged shut.

Melpomene crouched atop one of the foot bridges, ducking under one of the swinging arms that were rotating around the room. She had cast a spell of tongues on herself as soon as she felt the foreign thought, and was now crying out in dwarvish, trying to convince the forge that they were not associated with this Lord Dornlan. Wun Way echoed her sentiments, interceding on Brienne’s behalf. “This is Brienne of Tarth, God-Grappler, wielder of Mjolnir, savior of-” She was cut off as a pair of pliers whizzed by her ear. Checking around herself before continuing, she said, “Savior of Orlane! We do not know this Dornlan, but you are mistaken!”

As the chaos continued, Pock fended off a blow from a forge hammer with his shield as he muttered a prayer to Moradin. The lava ebbed from the area around the door and flowed to fill the channels around Brienne again. She batted a grabbing hand aside with her hammer and remembered the spell Elminster had cast for them:

Deep within a mountain spine

Where fire and stone become entwined

Dwelled a skilled but vengeful smith

Who made armor to mete justice with.

And for that act, who must atone?

The Hidden Forge, left all alone.

Find Xanderos and search his lair.

Your journey will begin there.

She cried out, “I am truly not Dornlan! But I know you atone for the injustice your works have caused. How can we help?”

“Lies!” the voice echoed, though it was not as indignant as it had been. There was a tinge of doubt around the corners of its tone, as if it could almost be heard as a question.

Sensing its will wavering, Melpomene cast a zone of truth around Brienne, motioning for her to repeat herself. This time, there was an audible ring of truth to her words, and she added, “How can we help you pay for the sins of your creations?” Lava bubbled up from the channels near Melpomene, but she stood firm, concentrating on maintaining the glowing white circle around Brienne.

Gradually, the spinning arms began to slow, and the lava started to seep back into the crevices in the floor. It was still very hot in the room, but perhaps it was growing cooler. After a long minute, the voice returned, this time tinged with regret, an old mind driven to wistfulness: “I suffer from lack of use.”

Pock hopped over a few steaming rivers of lava to the central contraption, heedless of the shimmering heat in the air. “As a forge cleric, it pains me to see such a good forge go to waste.” He placed a hand on the forge hammer, resting on the great anvil. “I would be honored if you would allow me to work upon you.”

There was a momentary pause, then the menacing red glow seemed to shift imperceptibly into the cheery red of a long-burning fire. Flames licked up in the belly of the furnace. The voice rumbled in their minds, and Nissa recognized the initial query she had failed: “What would you create?”

Pock thought for a brief second, head tilting to the side. Then, he said, “How about a badass sword?”

“A fine choice,” came the answer, and then the arms shifted back into sudden and purposeful motion. No longer twirling around the room, the arms began the intricate dance of maintaining the massive furnace, feeding it and operating the bellows, pulling chunks of ore from hidden areas around the room and heating them in the great fire. As the movements began, the door of the entryway slid back open, and the rest of the group happily left the sweltering room for the still-warm-but-not-overwhelmingly-so passageway beyond.

It was the most efficient and pleasing time Pock had ever spent with a forge, and he had spent countless hours before a wide variety of setups. The forge seemed to be in flow with him, from start to finish, which might have been partially explained by the constant caress of its consciousness on Pock’s. In any event, the forge was completely in sync with his actions and needs throughout the process, adding heat before the gnome could even think to ask, pre-forming the molten clump of slag as it left the furnace, offering tools Pock did not recognize but whose purpose and usage was instantly clear to him. Pock always enjoyed his time before a forge, but this was easily the most enjoyment he had pulled from his craft in a long time.

All too soon (though possibly not for those waiting in the heat of the middle of the mountain), the metal arms slowed to a halt, and Pock felt a tinge of pride from the forge’s consciousness. He held aloft a flawless longsword, shaped from sudden inspiration and sharp as a razor. It’s odd form was beautiful and efficient, and it cut through the air with a slight whistle as Pock gave it a swing.

“I have misjudged you…” the voice said to Pock; no one else was in the room to hear. Suddenly, the gnome’s vision went dark, and he felt the presence of the forge’s sentience grow stronger as memories flooded his awareness.

~~

A dwarf was laboring at the Hidden Forge, day in and day out. Though he smiled at the ring of his hammer on the great anvil, there was bitterness in his eyes, and it was clear this was the only thing that brought him joy. He finished the sword he had been working on, quenching it and laying it atop a growing pile of weaponry. The dwarf looked to the exit of the Forge and sighed, clearly dreading his return to the company of others, and one in particular. Outside of this forge, the dwarf was sad and angry, a blight on the otherwise well-knit community.

The dwarf returned to the forge, a cold, hard glint in his eye. Over a span of time, hours, days, weeks, it was impossible to tell, he crafted a wonderful suit of armor, etched with intricate silvered patterns. Into this armor the dwarf poured his malice, hatred, and vengeance. The dark thoughts of the dwarf seeped into the mind of the forge, which grew increasingly saddened as the scene continued.

Finally, the piece was done; the dwarf could finally add his own panel to the murals that surrounded the forge. It took all night and the next day to carve his magnum opus into the wall, beside those works of his predecessors. With the exact image of the armor immortalized in the walls of the forge, the dwarf scribbled upon the back of a schematic and wrapped his masterpiece in an oilskin. Without so much as a final glance, the heavy hearted dwarf left the forge for the last time…

~~

As Pock felt his own senses returning to him, he heard a gentle whirring. Above him, a spindly arm draped down, a sealed scroll case clipped to it. The arm stopped before the gnome, clearly offering the scroll. Pock removed the case and broke the seal, pulling out a rolled schematic for a sluice gate. On the back side was a note, scribbled in dwarvish runes.

“I have smithed my last piece. I will no longer tolerate the injustices of Lorn Dornlan. I will present my piece to him as a gift on Shieldmeet. As ‘thanks’ for all he does for me. Then I will leave the Forge forever and run as far as I can, for his vengeance will be swift and implacable.”

The note was unsigned.

Pock nodded humbly toward the central contraption, then repeated the nod in various directions around the room. He wasn’t quite sure where the forge’s mind lived. “Thank you for sharing this knowledge with me. May you slumber in peace.”

As he turned to bring the letter to Brienne and the others, the Forge’s voice echoed in his mind one last time, “Do not let me be forgotten again…”

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 10: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A vial of oil labelled “Tomonari’s anointment for long swords and other weapons of the distinguished nobleman.”

A vulture beak with string tied to it to make a mask

A walking cane with an iron ferule that strikes sparks on stone

A wanted poster that bears the face of one of the PC’s but has the name Clay Allison written as name of the outlaw. The bounty can be collected “Dead or Alive” and the reward is substantial.

A water-skin that sounds like it has something thicker than water in it.

A wedge of glass that shows the image of three strangely garbed children playing and one frightened child watching you

A weighted copper coin that, when flipped, always lands on its edge.

A white flower that always attracts bugs and never dies.

A white silk wedding veil

A white toga, neatly folded and immaculately clean, which smells strongly of damp musty earth and is reminiscent of a grave.

---Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

---Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A vial of oil labelled “Tomonari’s anointment for long swords and other weapons of the distinguished nobleman.”

A vulture beak with string tied to it to make a mask

A walking cane with an iron ferule that strikes sparks on stone

A wanted poster that bears the face of one of the PC’s but has the name Clay Allison written as name of the outlaw. The bounty can be collected “Dead or Alive” and the reward is substantial.

A water-skin that sounds like it has something thicker than water in it.

A wedge of glass that shows the image of three strangely garbed children playing and one frightened child watching you

A weighted copper coin that, when flipped, always lands on its edge.

A white flower that always attracts bugs and never dies.

A white silk wedding veil

A white toga, neatly folded and immaculately clean, which smells strongly of damp musty earth and is reminiscent of a grave.

A wicker doll that wards off the bad dreams of children and adolescents.

A wig made from from someone executed by beheading

A wire sculpture of a flower that releases petals when you blow on it. The petals “grow” back eventually.

A wood carving of an owl, so lifelike the eyes might blink at any moment.

A woodcutter’s axe, the head of which shimmers like downwards-flowing water.

A wooden ball that cannot be burned, but freezing it turns it to vapor

A wooden birdhouse that randomly reproduces strange bird sounds.

A wooden box which contains twelve more boxes each progressively smaller. The final box is approximately two inches in diameter and contains a miniature stoppered vial. If opened the vial lets out an acrid smelling smoke and booming laughter is heard.

A wooden box with a switch on the outside. When the switch is flipped on, a flap in the box opens, a little arm comes out, and it pushes the switch back off, before disappearing.

A wooden case containing n ancient, slender spearhead that is decorated with whirls and whorls engraved into the metal. The artifact was carefully wrapped in silk cloth before being packed away.

A wooden coin that feels and sounds like metal

A wooden collar that, when worn, makes the bearer absolutely certain they can communicate with trees. The collar does not actually grant this power.

A wooden cup, divided in half lengthwise with a sheet of aluminum.

A wooden plate with a drawing of the Sunrise Home, the dwelling place of the Lord of Dawn.

A wooden prosthetic leg with a hidden compartment inside of it

A wooden scroll case full of maps of various dungeons. Several maps are unmarked, but none of them seem to match the local area.

A wooden staff which has a hard to find hollow compartment. Inside is found a scroll which entitles the owner to an inheritance to be collected in a well-known city.

A wooden stein carved with the likeness of an orcish barmaid

A wooden tube with a creature carved on it. Every few days, the creature moves into a different position.

A wooden whistle that imitates the roar of a T-Rex.

A woodsman hat made of animal skin. While worn it grants the user random useless knowledge focusing on plants, animals, weather, geography and nature. The information is only rarely accurate but the user cannot determine what’s true or not.

A worm made of rust in a small wooden box. It’s alive and feeds on small amount of metal.

A worn and bloody apron. One of it’s pockets holds a small knife, a whetstone and a small vial of salt.

A yellow ceramic plate in the shape of the sun

An acceptance letter to a school of magic

An ancient bronze coin from an ancient city that was destroyed by natural disaster

An ancient bronze coin minted by a long fallen empire. The face of the tyrant stamped on it looks exactly like one of the PC’s.

An ancient copper bell with a remarkably musical chime

An ancient map of a legendary library believed to have sunk into the desert.

An ancient world map that appears to show the entire land was green and fertile.

An ankle bracelet that sometimes eases muscle aches

An antler from an unknown creature that continues to slowly grow

An azure steel spring that takes a remarkable amount of effort to compress.

An bouquet of funerary flowers that always looks and smells fresh

An ebony statuette of a standing bear of exquisite workmanship. A small fairy ring of mushrooms cast in silver rests in the base

An ebony walking stick.

An egg-shaped stone that, when cracked open, squeals and then puts itself back together

An emerald green silk turban with a black border. One end is intended to hang loosely over the shoulder and has five long tassels alternately coloured green and white.

An empty black box from which issue faint calls of “Hello?”

An empty scabbard with an intricate design etched into the leather. With enough study, it may be interpreted as a map that purports to lead to the location of the matching sword.

An extremely vivid and detailed portrait of the PCs going about their day, that seems to have been painted within the last week.

An extremely wide brimmed wizard’s hat

An eyepatch that when worn, shows a faint golden glow around certain individuals at random.

An hourglass filled with Randomly Coloured glowing sand that falls faster than it should

An hourglass filled with Randomly Coloured glowing sand that falls slower than it should

An hourglass that always takes a different amount of time to empty, but never an hour.

An hourglass that has something golden hidden in the sands, but before the object is revealed, the device always turns itself over to hide the treasure beneath more pouring sand. Smashing the hourglass reveals only sand within.

An incense holder carved in the likeness of a silt horror

An incredibly soft pillow that sometimes cuts your hair while you sleep

An intricate feather made entirely out of a single piece of clear glass.

An invitation to a magician’s circle on a date that doesn’t quite make sense.

An invitation to a party that’s taking place a month from now. The party takes place in a nearby city and the invitation will admit the bearer and a plus one.

An ivory hair pin with a set of fluttering wings attached to it

An ivory pipe carved in the shape of a crocodile.

An oaken backscratcher set with four cabochon-cut rectangular jade pieces.

An obsidian icon of a forgotten deity

An octagonal dinner plate that fills with unknown writing whenever a creature speaks in its vicinity

An old abacus with strange characters carved onto each of the beads.

An old, worn smith’s hammer. Its head is always hot to the touch.

An ordinary looking hens egg that defies all efforts to crack it open or otherwise damage it.

An uncut black gemstone. Occasionally it makes the sound of a hammer striking an anvil.

Half of a snapped oak battle standard. “We will fight to the last” is written in dried blood on one side.

Seven small beads of sandstone on a string, all different colors.

The blade of an ancient sword. A mysterious coat of arms is carved into it.

The broken horn of an minotaur, strung on a leather cord.

The broken horn of an ogre mage, strung on a leather cord.

The deed to a crumbling old manor house.

The fang of a white wyrm engraved with the name of a lost tribal chief.

The gold-coloured fleece of an unknown species of mountain animal.

The head of a pickaxe that was used in a lost gold mine, with names carved in Dwarvish runes along the sides.

The hilt of a dagger that was used to assassinate a king. Its onxy pommel glows ominously on nights with a full moon.

The pickled tentacle of a mind flayer.

The preserved fanged skull of a vampire, any blood spilt on the skull is absorbed into it.

The preserved finger of a hill giant

The preserved head of a mummy.

The preserved skull of a raven.

The silver badge of a powerful and secretive organization, with writing etched on the back that defames that group.

The skeletal hand with six fingers and a thumb. It a slight but constant aroma of brimstone.

The skeleton of a small bird with hands where its wings should be.

The stuffed and preserved remains of a large bat.

Three knuckle-bones that have been carved into dice.

Three small crystal vials of what appear to be red blood. The vials are marked with druidic signs for son, beast-man and bird.

Three stones linked together by a sturdy piece of rope, the stones are engraved with the words for ‘beginning’, ‘middle’ and ‘end.’

Two kitten whiskers pressed and sealed between two glass plates.

Wrapped in a gold handkerchief is a red bamboo finger puzzle patterned with white stars. Suspended in the middle of the puzzle is a small, fluffy feather.  

A crumpled piece of parchment with an inked grid. It can be written on and then erased if crumpled again. 1974 charges remain

A crystal cube with light trapped inside. Once per day it can be squeezed, causing it to shine as bright as a torch for one round.

A leather headdress that turns the bearer’s eyes completely black when worn

A pair of obnoxious dragon tooth cuff links.

An antique wooden box engraved with a forest scene.

[raudskegg]

Ooghie, Honorary Dwarf

Quick note: This is not my work, but from a 4chan greentext on Reddit, but I thought it was too perfect to not be shared.

Let me regale you with the tale of my parties beloved Oohgie, Honorary Dwarf.

Our party consisted of good friends that had known each other, a reformed That Guy, and Lucas the veteran. We had a pretty decent group, consisting of a Dwarf Warrior, Human Paladin, Human Warlock, Tiefling Rogue, me playing a Half-Elf Ranger, and a Human Mage.

We were in the relatively early stages of an epic campaign, and had been greeted by a sudden surge of slightly stronger enemies. What made these enemies slightly sturdier? Well, according to our DM, they had been gifted with what could only be described as ‘slap-dash metal riveted together by clumsy hands’. This led us to a few leads in town that culminated in hearing of an Ogre that had taken up residence in an abandoned forge and begun crafting rudimentary armor and weapons for the local minions, and of course this led to our first quest; Kill the Ogre, stop the attacks.

After what felt like an hour of minion stomping and quest cruisin’, we found the forge, and killed a few of the outlying minions to prevent an unwelcome intrusion with the upcoming boss fight. We prepared ourselves (No cleric, had to be especially careful with potion rations, added some fun to the game), and had the Tiefling sneak in and make sure we could sneak up without any trouble, or annoying traps going off. She gave us the all clear, and we shuffled inside, praying our sneak checks held up.

Inside the large forge, we followed the sound of clanging metal and deep grunts. Lucas took the lead, preparing to call in a few favors from Bahamut, with Raj the Dwarf following closely behind him. When we turned the corner, the DM informed us we saw the large shape moving around the anvil and smelter, which we all knew meant the Ogre. I asked to roll for initiative, to sneak in a shot and perhaps swing the battle to our favor, but Lucas had another plan.

Lucas rolls for a diplomacy check, and takes the lead by speaking with the Ogre.

“Why are you making armor for evil?”

The Ogre stopped and turned around in surprise. The DM apparently was surprised we didn’t flat out attack, and he asked us for a moment to pen something down. After his pen stopped, he cleared his throat.

“Make armor here. Ogre’s no like make armor, so make armor for gob-gobs. They like.”

The Ogre then went on to tell us about how he discovered a book about crafting, and decided to try making some himself. Judging from the simplicity of the story, our DM hadn’t expected us to be diplomatic and just threw together something to explain why an Ogre would want to spend his time with a hammer and anvil instead of hunting adventurers and eating goats.

As the story dragged on, and we learned that the Ogre had been kicked out for finding a book from another culture, we slowly kinda silently agreed to avoid killing him, since the image of this 9 foot tall Ogre tinkering away at an anvil to make small-medium sized armor was too funny to pass up. When the Ogre got to the part where he revealed he couldn’t read the book (which was a Dwarven guide apparently) and was just following the pictures, Lucas decided to chime in.

“Why don’t you come with us? We have a Dwarf who can translate the book for you, and you can learn to make better armor.”

The DM looked a little confused, but decided that the Ogre would be allowed to be a friendly NPC in the party if we all allowed it.

And thus we were joined by Oohgie the Crafting Ogre.

First thing we did once we went into town was calm the mob that had appeared and attempted to kill Oohgie. Five diplomacy checks, a bluff check, and almost a third of my gold later, the town relents and lets us stay with him for the night. Oohgie was really excited by this prospect and asked if he could visit the blacksmith, which Lucas had to explain was probably not a good idea. Since there wasn’t a room in town big enough to hold him, we told Oohgie to sleep in the stables.

“Oohgie understand. Oohgie try not make hummies mad.”

That night, before ending the session, we joked about how silly this all was, taking in an Ogre that didn’t want to fight. We told some jokes, made a few jabs at how we thought the Ogre was going to bite the dust, and called it a session.

Next session, we woke up, paid for food until the next town, and left the inn, picking up Oohgie from the stables on the way out.

During the journey, Oohgie kept bothering Raj, the Dwarf, and asking about 'Crafty-Smiths’ and 'Clang-clang tools’. Now, Raj is my Dude-bro I’ve known for years, and even though this is obviously bothering him answering every question, he at least tries to be nice to the insistent pestering. In hindsight, this was probably our DM’s attempt to leave Oohgie behind so he could get back to the focus, but we managed to persist and kept him with us to the next town.

This time, deciding that we cannot afford to argue Oohgie into town every and spend half our income. Being a ranger, I offer to set up a camp just outside the town’s borders that we can keep Oohgie and hunt some pelts for extra income. Raj offers to stay in camp with me and Oohgie, with Lucas heading into town for the temple and the Rogue, Wizard and Warlock will search for quests.

As we set up the tents, I ask if it’s possible to use Oohgie as a deterrent against mobs in the local area. The DM allows a roll, and with a 17, says that Oohgie’s natural 'musk’ alerts the other monsters in the area to stay away. Raj stayed behind as I pick off some local wildlife for our dinner.

While I hunted, Oohgie asked Raj more questions about the book.

“How Oohgie make?”

“You can’t. That needs a bar of iron and a forge.”

“Oohgie make forge?”

“I, uh, don’t think there’s enough materials around here to do that.”

The Wizard returned to our camp, letting the Rogue and Warlock threaten a local mayor for a better reward. The Wizard proposed he make a temporary forge for Oohgie using some spells and his fire magic. As for iron, the group has a bag of holding full of old weapons we had earned from defeating a minor demon. Oohgie, who was ecstatic at the idea, asked if he could make armor for his 'Dwarfy friend who read Oohgie book’. Not seeing the harm in such an idea, we agreed and Oohgie set to work.

In the morning, when we had awoken, Lucas, the Rogue, and the Warlock had also returned to camp. After we explained the plan for the newest quest, we gathered up our things and decided to wake Oohgie. Turns out the poor bastard had spent half the night banging away at the old pile of scrap and made a chest-piece, aptly titled by the DM as 'Oohgies Chess Peace o’ Protect’, which was described as a hodge-podge of metal sheets roughly slapped together. Raj, being such a Dude-bro, offered to wear it despite it having one less protection point against slash. As the DM described Oohgie’s dumb smiling face, I felt a pang of guilt for making fun of him.

Many quests continued on with Oohgie the Crafting Ogre, who had the neat ability to craft a priece of armor or weapon every 1d4 nights, and the DM would use 2d20’s to determine the item he crafted. About two months of in game time passed, and Oohgie had made us some slightly less than useful items, with no sign of improving. Sometimes we’d sell the things he made, other-times we wore them for Oohgie, just to make him happy. By the fifth quest, I had an 'Oohgie’s Wristy Gerd Gloves’.

When we finally located one of the main storyline quests, we also happened to pass by a temple of Moradin, which had two dozen forges surrounding it for his followers to craft weapons for Paladins. It was like trying to hold a 9 foot tall child back from a toy-store.

“Oohgie see Crafty-Smiths! Maybe one teach Oohgie make better armor!”

“Best not rush them, Oohgie,” Raj said, rolling for a diplomacy check to calm Oohgie down.

“But Oohgie want make better armor for friends.”

That hit us hard, and Lucas, being the de facto head, took the lead.

“Oohgie, you can’t enter the forges. They’re only for Moradin’s craftsmen.”

“What mean?”

“Only Dwarves are allowed in.”

Oohgie seemed a little confused, before whimpering like a hurt animal. We decided to drag him back to a tent outside town and let him calm down there, but not before he made a decision looking at those forges.

“Oohgie will become Dwarf.”

The next few sessions were filled with a mix of heartache and heartwarming. Oohgie tried extra hard to make better armor, and Raj now found a full time hobby teaching Oohgie to read Dwarvish script. Every now and again, Oohgie’s efforts paid off, and his armor would be as good if not slightly above what we were wearing, but it still was terribly built and barely held together. Just a result of something so big not having the dexterity to make the fine tuning of professionally crafted armor. Every now and then, Oohgie would ask the group, specifically Raj, how he was doing.

“Oohgie Dwarf now?”

“Not yet, I don’t think. Maybe if you try harder.”

“Oohgie can do.”

Oohgie seemed to become more determined every day, clanging away at his magic forge, combining what little scrap we found for him to throw together. He also began asking Lucas for help with contacting Moradin to become a Dwarf. We tried doing what we could in our spare time, but we also had to focus on the BBEG of the setting, since we didn’t want to derail the whole thing for our DM who had been a pretty chill dude up to this point about the whole thing.

We told Oohgie that we had to fight a big bad guy, and that we needed to focus on saving the world. Oohgie seemed to understand, and asked for a little bit of metal, promising to stop asking if we got it for him. We relented, and turned over the last pieces of metal for him in exchange for him helping us on the quests. The DM told us that Oohgie isn’t designed for the combat levels we were at by this point, but he could help a little if we were careful. Worst case scenario, we pull him back, Lucas performs Lay On Hands, and we’re good.

We slowly uncovered a conspiracy that ties to an ancient forgotten god, one who was worshiped as the god of destruction and undoing. Pretty sweet stuff as we kept getting closer and closer. The armor from Oohgie stopped showing up, but it was okay, we found cheap armor. We made an effort to save the pieces that Oohgie had crafted for us, out of loyalty to our curious, big Crafty-Smith friend. Oohgie never seemed to ask for metal anymore, but we heard him clanging away every night before we would fall asleep.

The lessons continued, with Raj teaching Oohgie more and more about Moradin, but he couldn’t answer the most spiritual of them, only being a warrior who happened to be a Dwarf. For the questions about the gods methods, Lucas was there to answer his questions.

“How Oohgie talk to Moradin?”

“You pray, and ask for guidance.”

“Moradin show Oohgie how make better armor?”

“If he sees fit to, he shall guide you.”

“How Oohgie know?”

“You won’t, but you have to believe.”

“Oohgie believe.”

After awhile, Oohgie began splitting the time between speaking with Lucas about Moradin, which he thought was the quickest way to becoming a Dwarf, and practicing his rudimentary Dwarvish, which he used to read his first book. He faded more and more into our groups 'project’, a background character. We still cared for him, but we just couldn’t afford to baby-sit him as we leveled up. He also insisted on having Lucas ask Moradin if he was a Dwarf yet.

“Moradin make Oohgie Dwarf now?”

“That is not my place to tell, Oohgie.”

“Oohgie pray but Moradin not talking. Did Oohgie do it wrong?”

“It is not my place to tell, but I believe the gods work in mysterious ways.”

“Oohgie understand. Make better armor soon for friends.”

As we cleared out more and more dungeons, we started to realize that we had made a mistake dragging Oohgie along. He just couldn’t keep up to our leveling, and he couldn’t get any useful perks. He started to become a hassle. By the time we were at the final stretch of the quest, facing the ancient cult summoning the god, we had a silent agreement to leave Oohgie behind, lest he get hurt.

We executed the play perfectly. The last town before the invasion, we told Oohgie to stay with the magic forge and practice alone for a few days, and that we were going to get him more metal to work with. Oh course the big lug agreed, and after casting a spell to keep the fires going for a week, we set out, Oohgie clanging away happily. We didn’t look back. But you can be damned sure we didn’t leave with a smile.

Two hours into the dungeon, and we knew we had messed up.

First off, we failed one too many sneaks and bluffs, and that meant the cultists had finished their mission in summoning the god of undoing. He was essentially an Orcus without the secrecy. Pragmatic as hell, he immediately begins to cast a bunch of seals and spells that trap us in the room, and then debuffs our armor to the point it’s unraveling back into scrap.

Our Warlock was protecting our Wizard with a low level demon, our Rogue was stealthily trying to pickpocket the dead cultists for anything that might help, Raj and Lucas led the attack, and I was firing a volley every chance I got, rolling for anything that might break his ungodly armor. We were using everything, and had run out of potions. Lucas had no more Lay On Hands available thanks to a dozen cultists cutting off his prayers to Bahamut. It was only now that we regretted not having a cleric.

The god approached Lucas and Raj, and without a hint of a monologue, proceeds to wreck their shit. He breaks Raj’s armor, shatters the divine shield Lucas was using, and then readies his next round of spells.

And then, the DM rolled for initiative..

From behind me, a large metal sphere flew out and thumped the god. Not enough to hurt him, but it was a high enough roll to disrupt his spell.

“Oohgie done crafting.”

From behind us, standing in the large doorway, stood an Ogre, clad in a terribly mismatched set of armor emblazoned with a hammer of Moradin on it’s chest piece. In his right hand, an enormous hammer the size of a stone column and made of the same dented metal. Suddenly, all the nights of clanging made sense. Oohgie wanted to help, and we just thought he was a burden.

Oohgie charged forward, rolling a 17 on his first roll, and with the god suffering from 'stupefication’ because of his entrance, landed his first hit. It was the most damaging hit we had done to the god, and it had been dealt by an Ogre that was wearing what looked like the rejected arts and crafts project of a preschooler.

We sat there for a moment in stunned silence, as the DM described the armor and hammer he carried, calling it a crude mimicry of the holy hammers and suits of armor worn by paladins of Moradin.

“You no hurt-”

Clang

“Ohgie’s friends!”

Clang

“No more!”

Clang

hree hits, each one doing a little less than the last, but still doing something. During this affair, the Rogue finally hit a natural 20, and found the cultist leaders emergency reagents to shut the whole spell down on his corpse. She rolled for the toss to Lucas, who had enough armor to take another hit if he needed to get close. Oohgie roared and attempted a grapple, using his natural modifiers to hold him, a god of destruction, for a brief moment.

“Oohgie palydin now, too! Help Moradin, help Lucas! Like real Dwarf!”

We felt a pang of guilt .

We had left this guy behind so he couldn’t bother us with his quest to becoming a Dwarf, but here he was, wearing that stupid smile, wearing that stupid armor, and pulling that stupid move. Lucas sighed heavily and we all rolled for our respective abilities. There was a brief moment where we thought that we had this thing down, until Lucas and our Warlock stopped and realized the flaw in the plan.

“Oohgie still isn’t high level.”

With that, our turn ended, and the DM rolled for the god’s attack versus Ooghies grapple.

I wish I could say Ooghie had a natural 20. I wish I could say that his modifier gave him just enough to hold the god down. But I can’t.

The god rolled 14

Ooghie rolled 5

The DM then informed us that not only did the god break the grapple, but now had stunned Ooghie long enough to cast a spell of 'Destruction’.

Point blank at Ooghie’s chest.

As I said before, very rarely did Oohgie craft armor that matched the level stats of armor we bought in town.

He was wearing armor that was almost 2 levels below his current level. And his current level was lower than any of us.

Oohgie collapsed in a heap, and the god turned to face us.

For those that don’t know, our Warlock was once That Guy. He had a major falling out with the DM and Lucas, and reformed himself. He never got along with Lucas, but he was willing to not be a jerk as long as Lucas didn’t call him out on stuff again.

This was the only time I saw our Warlock look across the table and ask Lucas for help.

“I need a favor. And I need it now.”

Lucas moved to cover the Warlock, who charged forward with a series of demons in tow. Our Warlock may have been a jerk a tad, but he was a jerk with a good amount of demons on call for favors.

He called every single one of them in.

The DM, knowing what this meant to us, didn’t bother to ask for our rolls. Every demon snuck in a hit, and with a Dwarf at his heels, a Wizard freezing his balls, and a ranger firing arrows into every square inch of flesh exposed on his hide, it was no wonder the god never saw our rogue behind him with the sealing amulet and scroll of desolation from the cultist leader.

Before the god even returned to the astral plane, we rushed to Oohgie, who was managing to hang on by the merest thread of life possible. Lay on Hands was next to useless, and with no potions, we all knew what we were watching. We were watching Ooghie die, and even after we had killed a god, conquered dungeons, and leveled evil kingdoms, we couldn’t even save our friend.

“Oohgie sorry he got in way.”

“You didn’t, you did great-”

“Oohgie sorry he not make good armor like Dwarf.”

“We love your armor, big guy, don’t think like that.”

I had never seen Lucas try so hard to call in a favor from Bahamut, or roll so desperately for a miracle. Even the Warlock was searching his sheets for a demon who might help without too hefty a price, no no avail.

Oohgie know why Moradin no talk to Oohgie. Oohgie hands too big n’ clumsy, so Oohgie not make small armor nice and pretty.”

“It’s fine Oohgie, just hang on, we’re going to save you.”

“Oohgie knew he not good Crafty-smith when he saw Dwarf temple, and Crafty-smiths look at him funny, but Oohgie try anyways.”

I’m a touchy-feely guy, and I know Oohgie was a figment of our imagination, but when you see Lucas, a veteran who lost his left leg to a bomb before he was twenty five, holding back tears, you know it wasn’t just me being blubbery when I say that we were tearing up.

“Oohgie not good Crafty-smith with armor and weapons, but Oohgie good crafty-smith at something. Oohgie can make good story.”

At this point, our Rogue hid behind her screen, and the Warlock just stared down at his sheet, having stopped searching for his demon to deal with.

“Oohgie think Dwarves make good armor and stories, which why Oohgie wanted be Dwarf, but Oohgie understand he not Dwarf, and he not be Dwarf ever.”

Oohgie’s breathing began to slow, and Raj grabbed his hand, holding it as best he could

“You could be a Dwarf, Oohgie. You could be the best Ogre Dwarf in the land.”

Oohgie closed his eyes and smiled

“Oohgie like that. He go sleep now.”

And like that, our party lost Oohgie the Crafty-smith, and we all think a little something died with him inside all of us.

We looted the dungeon, killed the remaining cultists, and made our way back to the nearest village, one that happened to have a temple and forge for followers of Moradin. When we entered the town, we all took notice that the forges were louder than ever, and half the town seemed to be gathered around the temple. Naturally curious, we moved closer.

At first, we were rolling to push through, until Lucas used a favor from Bahamut to project a holy shout and clear the path. We got closer and closer to the entrance, we saw more and more Dwarves, some wearing the emblem of Moradin, others in the attire of his sacred blacksmiths. As we reached the entrance, knowing we weren’t allowed in, we asked a priest if he could tell us what the fuss was. The priest asked us if we had been involved with the destruction of a god of undoing.

Of course we were, so he led us inside. Deep inside the mountain, past the pillars, and past the gorgeously carved hallways and stone arches, and into the deepest parts of the forge’s sanctums. We witnessed dozens of Dwarves mill around, throwing around orders and commands in ancient Dwarvish. The priest pointed to what had been causing the ruckus.

“We received divine word that Moradin the Creator has ordered a statue to be erected to honor the fall of the god.”

The Dwarves tugged out a large, metal and marble stature from a crafting vault.

“And the appointment of a new Apprentice to his mighty forges in the halls of his domain.”

There, crafted by the finest Dwarven artisans, was an enormous, thirty foot tall statue of Oohgie, complete with a golden hammer, a silver book of Dwarven crafting, and a beard befitting a Dwarf.

'Oohgie Good-Crafter, Honorary Dwarf of Moradin and Crafty-smith of the Forge.’

That was the first time I cried playing D&D.

After a year of sessions in D&D, I elected to have my hero, the Half-Elven Ranger, retire into God-hood as a Deity of Honorable Hunting. Upon ascension, I asked for a favor. As great as my weapons were in the mortal realms, the fact was that I needed something more suited for godly duties, so they needed to be reworked. And I knew exactly who I wanted to remake them.

Moradin welcomed me into his forges, obviously happy to have his apprentices practice with their skills in crafting weapons fit for gods. When I asked if it would be possible to have someone specific work on it, he knew exactly who I wanted, and led me to a grand hall where dozens of Dwarves were gathered around a large figure clanging away happily at an anvil.

There, wearing his iconic slap-dash armor over an enormously enlarged Dwarf robe, was Oohgie, wearing the biggest, dumbest smile you could ever imagine. He looked up, smiled, and picked me up, laughing and hugging as I tried not to cry. When he finally put me down, I showed him what I had wanted to show him ever since he left our group. I held up my hands, and showed him what I was wearing for celestial armor.

There, on my hands, were 'Oohgie’s Wristy Gerd Gloves’, battered from years of use and adventures, and raised to the level of a god’s armor.

And that is the story of Oohgie the Honorary Dwarf, and Crafty-smith of the Forge.

[itsquotational]

The dwarf halls rang to the sound of hammers, although mainly for effect. Dwarves found it hard to think without the sound of hammers, which they found soothing, so well-off dwarves in the clerical professions paid goblins to hit small ceremonial anvils, just to maintain the correct dwarvish image.

equal rites, terry pratchett

[ferithtolkienesque]

Gem-Light and Starlight

The Songs of Durin and Nimrodel and what they reveal about Dwarvish and Elvish Character

The Lord of the Rings trilogy is filled with songs that give a glimpse into the lives and history of the characters, cultures and places of the diverse peoples that inhabit Middle Earth.  Two songs in particular give such insights.  One is sung by Gimli the Dwarf in Moria, the other by Legolas, an elf on the outskirts of Lothlorien. Both are songs of incredible beauty that portray the deep meanings that their respective places have for elves and dwarves. They reveal the ideals of two very different peoples, and how these ideals could either conflict or complete each other.

Both songs are the answer to a challenge. They each paint a picture of the beauty and majesty that the realms once possessed and still represent.  Moria, the name given to the dwarf kingdom by the elves after its fall means the Black Chasm and that is what Sam sees it as:

There must have been a mighty crowd of dwarves here at one time… and every one of them busier than badgers for five hundred years to make all this, and most of it is hard rock too!  What did they do it all for?  They didn’t live in these darksome holes surely?

But to Gimli this ancient land means much more.

Gimli’s song describes the love for beauty in the hearts of dwarves, a love so deep it can only be expressed in song.  It tells first of the natural beauty of a world before corruption, a world beyond the realms of elves that the dwarves saw first and loved first, a world that belonged to them:

The world was fair, the mountains green

No stain yet on the moon was seen…

And then moves on to the makings of the dwarves and their magnificent works of art:

…The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone forever fair and bright.

It tells of a past that is now gone forever:

The world is grey, the mountains old

The forge’s fire is ashen-cold

No harp is wrung no hammer falls

The darkness dwells in Durin’s halls;

But it is a past that is still cherished by the dwarves and one that can still be imagined in their old realm of Khazad-dum, if you look hard enough:

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless mirrormere;

Gimli’s song demonstrates the dwarves’ love of beautiful things and describes the lost majesty of their realm.

Legolas too sings a song of beauty and longing.  Legolas’s song is also an answer to a challenge.  His song is our first look at Lothlorien and it comes soon after Boromir’s near refusal to enter it.  It too tells of the beauty of the world and especially of the beauty of the two characters whose story it recounts. It opens with a description of Nimrodel:

An Elven-maid there was of old

A shining star by day…

Later it paints a picture of Amrod as he tries desperately to return to her:

From helm to shore they saw him leap,

As arrow from the string

And dive into the water deep

As mew upon the wing.

This song too is about the love of elves for all that is bright and beautiful and filled with life, which is demonstrated by the rich descriptions of even the most trivial things; the water is not just water, it is “water clear and cool,” and not a pool but a “shining pool”.  

It is also a story of deepest longing and the sorrow for what is lost:

But from the west has come no word,

And on the Hither Shore

No tidings Elven-folk have heard

Of Amroth evermore.

Here too, though, the glory and beauty of the elven past can be seen, the stream of Nimrodel still sings her song and its waters bring healing.

In their deepest souls elves and dwarves share one thing in common: their love of beauty.  And to both races the world has been hard.  It has taken from them, to some extent, the beauty that they made and the beauty that they found in the slow passing of years.  Yet in many more ways elves and dwarves are complete opposites, and often enemies.

Of all the peoples of middle earth, elves and dwarves are the least like each other.  The dwarven poem is about the world of old as seen through the eyes of the dwarves.  It is about their discovery and their creation but not themselves.  It speaks of the world of Durin’s day but little of Durin himself.  Durin was a king of carven stone, the stone he or his people carved, that is what he takes pride in, his works and not himself, his possessions and not his people.

This is a song about beauty and perfection while in themselves dwarves are neither beautiful nor perfect, and dwarves know this better than anyone.  So they leave people out of their songs.  Because they find no beauty in themselves, they cherish the beauty around them all the more; because they are not beautiful they reach into the depths of their imaginations and make beautiful things, guarding them jealously as their own.  Due to this hoarding of light they are often seen by elves as greedy and lightless, like black holes slurping the sparkling things of the world to themselves while never managing to be filled and remaining dark.  Though it is true that the love of dwarves can far too easily become selfish, the heart of their love is not evil.  Dwarves cherish beautiful things and guard them, thinking that to give them away too readily would be to cheapen them.

Dwarves love the making of things almost more than the beautiful things they make.  The whole middle of the song is filled with nothing but a long list of the works of dwarves, often not even specifying what they are making

There hammer on the anvil smote’

There chisel clove, and graver wrote;

Dwarves have this deep-seated belief that the world can always be made better, and that their hands were made to shape and form beauty into perfection.  When Gimli first sees the caves in Rohan his immediate reaction is to want to work on them and fill them with light and chisel out new passages through them.  He has complete faith that the dwarves, if they came there, would make and not mar, despite their past failure in Moria.  The dwarves keep locked in their hearts a dim hope for a future, even believing that in the end their first king will return,

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

The Dwarves’ focus is not on individuals who can be greedy and proud as well as physically ugly, but instead they celebrate their people as a whole, who had the power to  carve mountains and make things glorious to see.  Over and over again the song speaks of “the dwarves” and their works.  Dwarves stand together in their will to make, fashioning from the dreams of their souls practical and delightful works of art filled with an individualism that they can rarely show in their actions.  Such is the love of the dwarves. In contrast, Elves are as beautiful as the rising sun.  Not only that, but they are more a part of the world and its beauty and gentle majesty than any other race comes close to being.

Beside the falls of Nimrodel,

By water clear and cool,

Her voice as falling silver fell

Into the shining pool.

Nimrodel is completely inseparable from the pool itself.  Her song completes its music and its shining beauty completes her own.  Elves value the beauty of their people and remember it with longing.  The song begins not with the beauty of the world as the Dwarf song does, but with the beauty of Nimrodel herself.

An Elven-maid there was of old

A shining star by day…

Not only is Nimrodel beautiful, she is a shining star, bringing life and beauty to the world as a whole.  Such is the way of elves, their beauty and joy and sorrow is contagious; it shines through the darkness and the brightness of day flowing through nature.  The light of their eyes is the light that dances on the water and when they laugh the earth is filled with joy.

The elves simply enjoy the brightness of the world.  They revel in its beauty and they laugh at the least provocation.  While dwarves are quick to see how they might perfect the earth, the elves are quick to notice its perfections.  Their eyes alight on all beautiful things that are part of the living world from the smallest dewdrop to the tallest tree.  The elven song is filled with rich adjectives and similes describing everything from Nimrodel’s shoes to the mountains as seen from the ship as it sails away from her.  But though the song is filled with adjectives, it has very few verbs.  The song is about Nimrodel and Amroth and their beauty and their sorrow, not their actions.  Each line of the song is suspended in time, a glimpse into a past which is unchanging and unmarred.  Elves do not wish to change anything.  They see the beauty of the world and they would rather soak it all in and fill the air with their songs of it than waste their time trying to improve it. They have decided, mostly from experience, that the world cannot be made better, and that meddling does more harm than good.  Elves are filled with a sort of joyful hopelessness, they believe that the world is filled with grief and that it will only get worse, that the nature of the world is to lose and not find, to fade and not grow, yet they find infinite pleasure in every blade of grass, in every sunbeam.  They never let the sorrow of the past or the failure of the future or even the tragedy all around to spoil the joy of today.  The story of Nimrodel and Amroth ends in sadness with the words,

But from the west has come no word,

And on the Hither Shore

No tidings Elven-folk have heard

Of Amroth evermore.

Yet Legolas is filled with nothing but pure joy and delight at the sight of the stream.

Unlike the dwarves, elves think primarily of individuals.  Throughout most of the song, only two people are ever mentioned, Nimrodel and Amroth.  These two are described in detail and the story of their lives is told lovingly. Elves see everything up close.  The song describes people and places with pinpricks of vibrant color but without a detailed big picture, touching on just a few of the most beautiful parts and leaving the rest to imagination and memory.  In the same way elves tell songs and stories of people, valuing individuals as intricate and beautiful, each one worthy of a song, they sing songs of the most beautiful and most tragic, treasuring them in their hearts.

Elves and dwarves are completely different peoples, and their differences often cause friction between them, but they are united in their burning love of beauty.  This flaming love is far brighter and hotter in dwarves and elves than in men or even hobbits.  And although the differing perspectives on life of elves and dwarves usually causes enmity between them, the friendship of Legolas and Gimli proves that when joined together as friends their differing points of view complete each other perfectly.

[readbookywooks]

“Oh bugger,” he said, under his breath. “Hey! You!” Granny Weatherwax was in trouble. First of all, she decided, she should never have allowed Hilta to talk her into borrowing her broomstick. It was elderly, erratic, would fly only at night and even then couldn't manage a speed much above a trot. Its lifting spells had worn so thin that it wouldn't even begin to operate until it was already moving at a fair lick. It was, in fact, the only broomstick ever to need bump-starting. And it was while Granny Weatherwax, sweating and cursing, was running along a forest path holding the damn thing at shoulder height for the tenth time that she had found the bear trap. The second problem was that a bear had found it first. In fact this hadn't been too much of a problem because Granny, already in a bad temper, hit it right between the eyes with the broomstick and it was now sitting as far away from her as it was possible to get in a pit, and trying to think happy thoughts. It was not a very comfortable night and the morning wasn't much better for the party of hunters who, around dawn, peered over the edge of the pit. “About time, too,” said Granny. “Get me out.” The startled heads withdrew and Granny could hear a hasty whispered conversation. They had seen the hat and broomstick. Finally a bearded head reappeared, rather reluctantly, as if the body it was attached to was being pushed forward. “Um,” it began, “look, mother -” “Im not a mother,” snapped Granny. “I'm certainly not your mother, if you ever had mothers, which I doubt. If I was your mother I'd have run away before you were born.” “It's only a figure of speech,” said the head reproachfully. “It's a damned insult is what it is!” There was another whispered conversation. “If I don't get out,” said Granny in ringing tones, “there will be Trouble. Do you see my hat, eh? Do you see it?” The head reappeared. “That's the whole point, isn't it?” it said. “I mean, what will there be if we let you out? It seems less risky all round if we just sort of fill the pit in. Nothing personal, you understand.” Granny realized what it was that was bothering her about the head. “Are you kneeling down?” she said accusingly. “You're not, are you! You're dwarves!” Whisper, whisper. “Well, what about it?” asked the head defiantly. “Nothing wrong with that, is there? What have you got against dwarves?” “Do you know how to repair broomsticks?” “Magic broomsticks?” “Yes!” Whisper, whisper. “What if we do?” “Well, we could come to some arrangement . . . .” The dwarf halls rang to the sound of hammers, although mainly for effect. Dwarves found it hard to think without the sound of hammers, which they found soothing, so well-off dwarves in the clerical professions paid goblins to hit small ceremonial anvils, just to maintain the correct dwarvish image. The broomstick lay between two trestles. Granny Weatherwax sat on a rock outcrop while a dwarf half her height, wearing an apron that was a mass of pockets, walked around the broom and occasionally poked it. Eventually he kicked the bristles and gave a long intake of breath, a sort of reverse whistle, which is the secret sign of craftsmen across the universe and means that something expensive is about to happen. “Weellll,” he said. “I could get the apprentices in to look at this, I could. It's an education in itself. And you say it actually managed to get airborne?” “It flew like a bird,” said Granny. The dwarf lit a pipe. “I should very much like to see that bird,” he said reflectively. “I should imagine it's quite something to watch, a bird like that.” “Yes, but can you repair it?” said Granny. “I'm in a hurry.” The dwarf sat down, slowly and deliberately. “As for repair,” he said, “well, I don't know about repair. Rebuild, maybe. Of course, it's hard to get the bristles these days even if you can find people to do the proper binding, and the spells need -” “I don't want it rebuilt, I just want it to work properly,” said Granny. “It's an early model, you see,” the dwarf plugged on. “Very tricky, those early models. You can't get the wood -” He was picked up bodily until his eyes were level with Granny's. Dwarves, being magical in themselves as it were, are quite resistant to magic but her expression looked as though she was trying to weld his eyeballs to the back of his skull. “Just repair it,” she hissed. “Please?” “What, make a bodge job?” said the dwarf, his pipe clattering to the floor. “Yes.” “Patch it up, you mean? Betray my training by doing half a job?” “Yes,” said Granny. Her pupils were two little black holes. “Oh,” said the dwarf. “Right, then.” Gander the trail boss was a worried man. They were three mornings out from Zemphis, making good time, and were climbing now towards the rocky pass through the mountains known as the Paps of Scilla (there were eight of them; Gander often wondered who Scilla had been, and whether he would have liked her/. A party of gnolls had crept up on them during the night. The nasty creatures, a variety of stone goblin, had slit the throat of a guard and must have been poised to slaughter the entire party. Only.... Only no one knew quite what had happened next. The screams had woken them up, and by the time people had puffed up the fires and Treatle the wizard had cast a blue radiance over the campsite the surviving gnolls were distant, spidery shadows, running as if all the legions of Hell were after them. Judging by what had happened to their colleagues, they were probably right. Bits of gnolls hung from the nearby rocks, giving them a sort of jolly, festive air. Gander wasn't particularly sorry about that - gnolls liked to capture travellers and practise hospitality of the red-hot-knife-and-bludgeon kind - but he was nervous of being in the same area as Something that went through a dozen wiry and wickedly armed gnolls like a spoon through a lightly-boiled egg but left no tracks. In fact the ground was swept clean. It had been a very long night, and the morning didn't seem to be an improvement. The only person more than half-awake was Esk, who had slept through the whole thing under one of the wagons and had complained only of odd dreams. Still, it was a relief to get away from that macabre sight. Gander considered that gnolls didn't look any better inside than out. He hated their guts. Esk sat on Treatle's wagon, talking to Simon who was steering inexpertly while the wizard caught up with some sleep behind them. Simon did everything inexpertly. He was really good at it. He was one of those tall lads apparently made out of knees, thumbs and elbows. Watching him walk was a strain, you kept waiting for the strings to snap, and when he talked the spasm of agony on his face if he spotted an S or W looming ahead in the sentence made people instinctively say them for him. It was worth it for the grateful look which spread across his acned face like sunrise on the moon. At the moment his eyes were streaming with hayfever. “Did you want to be a wizard when you were a little boy?” Simon shook his head. “I just www-” “- wanted -” “- tto find out how things www -” “- worked? -” “Yes. Then someone in my village told the University and Mmaster T-Treatle was sent to bring me. I shall be a www-” “- wizard -” “- one day. Master Treatle says I have an exceptional grasp of ththeory.” Simon's damp eyes misted over and an expression almost of bliss drifted across his ravaged face. “He t-tells me they've got thousands of b-books in the library at Unseen University,” he said, in the voice of a man in love. “More bbooks than anyone could read in a lifetime.” “I'm not sure I like books,” said Esk conversationally. “How can paper know things? My granny says books are only good if the paper is thin.” “No, that's not right,” said Simon urgently. “Books are full of www” he gulped air and gave her a pleading look. “- words? -”said Esk, after a moment's thought. “- yes, and they can change th-things. Th-that's wuwuw, that wuwuwwhha-whha-” “-what-” “-I must f-find. I know it's th-there, somewhere in all the old books. They ssss-” "-say “there's no new spells but I know that it's there somewhere, hiding, the wwwwwuwu-” “- words -” “yes, that no wiwiwi-” “- Wizard? -”said Esk, her face a frown of concentration. “Yes, has ever found.” His eyes closed and he smiled a beatific smile and added, “The Words that Will change the World.” “What?” “Eh?” said Simon, opening his eyes in time to stop the oxen wandering off the track. “You said all those wubbleyous!” “Idid?” “I heard you! Try again.” Simon took a deep breath. “The worworwor - the wuwuw -” he said. “The wowowoo-” he continued. “It's no good, it's gone,” he said. “It happens sometimes, if I don't think about it. Master Treatle says I'm allergic to something.” “Allergic to double-yous?” “No, sisssisi-” //-silly-" said Esk, generously. “- there's sososo-” “- something -” “- in the air, p-pollen maybe, or g-grass dust. Master Treatle has tried to find the cause of it but no magic seems to h-help it.” They were passing through a narrow pass of orange rock. Simon looked at it disconsolately. “My granny taught me some hayfever cures,” Esk said. “We could try those.” Simon shook his head. It looked touch and go whether it would fall off. “Tried everything,” he said. “Fine wwiwwi-magician I'd make, eh, can't even sss-utter the wowo-name.” “I could see where that would be a problem,” said Esk. She watched the scenery for a while, marshalling a train of thought. “Is it, er, possible for a woman to be, you know, a wizard? ” she said eventually. Simon stared at her. She gave him a defiant look. His throat strained. He was trying to find a sentence that didn't start with a W. In the end he was forced to make concessions. “A curious idea,” he said. He thought some more, and started to laugh until Esk's expression warned him. “Rather funny, really,” he added, but the laughter in his face faded and was replaced by a puzzled look. “Never really tthought about it, before.” “Well? Can they?” You could have shaved with Esk's voice. “Of course they can't. It is self-evident, child. Simon, return to your studies.” Treatle pushed aside the curtain that led into the back of the wagon and climbed out on to the seat board. The look of mild panic took up its familiar place on Simon's face. He gave Esk a pleading glance as Treatle took the reins from his hands, but she ignored him.