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Forums : The Silent Chronicles > The Book of Dwarves
Sauronsbeagle (Member) 11/30/2008 6:54 AM EST : The Book of Dwarves
Sauronsbeagle
Posts: 4622

Volume One - Who Were The Silent Minority?







Dwarves in the Third Age were far more likely to be found travelling around Eriador than either hobbits or elves. Even so, the presence of Durin’s Folk amongst The Silent Minority’s ranks comes as somewhat of a surprise.

One would have assumed that assaults on the Lonely Mountain, which had become the centre of dwarven civilisation since the fall of Smaug, would have severely diminished the presence of dwarves in other lands as they raced to help save their main stronghold. Not all dwarves felt this need, however.

Of all the races represented in The Silent Chronicles, dwarves were the least numerous. Despite this they appear to have played a crucial role in the Silent Minority’s operations. When not engaged in battle they were hard at work in their forges or their breweries, keeping The Silent Minority supplied with tools, armour and ale. And when they made war, they were mainly in the front rank, toe to toe with the enemy, much as you’d expect from such a doughty folk.

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Sauronsbeagle (Member) 11/30/2008 6:57 AM EST : RE: The Book of Dwarves
Sauronsbeagle
Posts: 4622

The Poem of the Son of Narn by -Bloodnok-


At one year old the son of Narn did see his father leave,
To war he went, though old and bent, his family did grieve,
At Khazad-dum he held the gate,
The goblins there saw to his fate,
As Azog died before the door, Nok's father was no more.

At sixty years Nok mastered craft of masonry and stone,
He built great walls of majesty right from the mountain's bone,
But spirit cannot be denied,
He wished to travel far and wide,
Behind examples of his skills, he left the Iron Hills.

At eighty Nok returned at last from places never seen,
He told his tales to all who'd hear and even those less keen,
He proudly showed his gemcraft off,
As learned from Elves, though some did scoff,
And settled down to find a wife, contented with his life.

One-hundred years and more Nok was when he was called to war,
The Dwarves were taking back their home; the mountain Erebor,
His son a fighter by his side,
From evil goblin weapons died,
He wept upon the battlefield, heart never to be healed.

Two hundred years and twenty, Nok had travelled Middle-Earth,
But never could he venture back there to his place of birth,
He felt his old bones aging fast,
The time to see his home at last,
From Thorin's Gate he did depart, his last adventure's start.

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Sauronsbeagle (Member) 11/30/2008 6:59 AM EST : RE: The Book of Dwarves
Sauronsbeagle
Posts: 4622

Brognar Soundbottom - Of Barley, Hops, Ale and Pipe-weed by Lucullo


With a grunt, Brognar put down the last barrel at the end of the row and adjusted it, then grabbed a nearby cloth, wiped the sweat from his brow and cleaned his hands.

The air in the cellar was cold and damp and full of the smell of the freshly brewed ale that was contained in the small barrels.

Brognar sat on a stool, then took from a pocket his preferred pipe and a small pouch tightly closed with a lace. He opened it and started to fill the pipe's bowl with the content, pinch by pinch, pressing slightly at each addition.

His large, stocky fingers where surprisingly delicate in handling the small quantities of dried pipe-weed. He had acquired this gentle touch when, in his youth, he was learning the jeweller's trade from his father. He still practiced the art of transforming shapeless metal and dull stones into bright ornaments, but only as a pastime, during the long pauses of his main business.

Closing the pouch tightly gain, Brognar put it away and extracted a tinderbox then, drawing vigorously from the pipe, he proceeded to light the pipe-weed. The aromatic smoke fought the sharp odour of the beer, then mingled with it in an odd but not unpleasant mixture.

The barrels that lined-up along the walls were his last production for Runulf's tavern, and risked to remain so for a long time, until he was able to find a new supplier of hops and barley.

Brognar drew more smoke from his pipe and considered his situation. "A brewer without hops is as useless as an elf in a mine", he said aloud to himself.

In recent years the deliveries from the Shire had become more and more problematic, plagued with delays and losses caused by negative circumstances: bad weather, aggressions by wild beasts and lately vicious assaults by bands of goblins. Until, with the last shipment, Cornelius Bolger sent a note saying: "Dear Master Soundbottom, I regret to inform you that I will no more deliver goods at your location. The road is too dangerous and I fear for the lives of my employees. Please accept my apologies and don't waste your time trying to make me change my mind, I'm utterly resolved."

Brognar took the lit pipe out of his lips and, holding it near his face, looked into its glowing bowl with crossed eyes and sighed.

To complicate matters further, the interruption of mr. Bolger deliveries meant also that he would not get any more of the pipe-weed that constituted his secondary trade and the object of his smoker's pleasure. The pouches he jealously stored in a sturdy, locked chest were all considerably thinner and he had to limit his smoking habits for fear of finding himself without leaf abruptly.

Putting the pipe again in his mouth, Brognar stood up and began collecting his things, which he put in the cart waiting outside the secondary door of the cellar.

There was only one course of action open to him: he had to take matters into his hands, travel in person to the Shire, or even to Bree if needed, and look for a new supplier able and willing to deliver to Thorin's Hall, perhaps with an additional fee to cover escort expenses.

Brognar closed the cellar door after himself, emptied the pipe of the almost consumed embers and climbed on the cart.

However, the journey could be dangerous. He had to prepare for the worst. Dust his combat gear, ready his war axes. Rehearse the old manoeuvres, the feints, the lunges. The thrill of battle, long forgotten, began to make his blood run faster, his hairs rise.

With a sharp shout, Brognar started the auroch along the wide, scarcely lit service tunnel toward his workshop.

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Sauronsbeagle (Member) 11/30/2008 7:01 AM EST : RE: The Book of Dwarves
Sauronsbeagle
Posts: 4622

The Tale of Ferrite by Ferrite


Ferrite, as his name might suggest, was the natural son of a dwarven amourer. His mother or father[1] died when he was an even tinier person than now, and so he was sent to his only surviving relative: a distant cousin at the Blue Mountain called Glod. Ferrite never knew that Glod and his wife[2] were not his natural parents, but unlike his true father[3] his new family were jewellers, and his heavy handed smithing techniques never found favour in his adopted home. He just couldn’t get the hang of those fiddly little gems and flimsy rings. Instead, at the age of fifteen, when he was still a twinkle in the mead-man’s eye as far as dwarves were concerned, he did the unthinkable and struck out on his own. Never before in the history of his family had son not followed father in profession and so he was shunned.

Of course, genes have a great deal to do with metalwork and so his skill with iron was infinitely better than jewels and tiny gold settings, though with no master to train him properly, his work was as yet unrefined, though meticulous and of fine quality. One day, soon after (barely 20 years), a shady long-leg arrived in his little shop, asking him to do some repairs to a buckled and bent dwarf-make shield of the First Age no-less. Night and day he worked on the shield; heating, hammering, bending, smoothing and polishing until the shield shimmered in the light of his forge. This was his best work to date and, though it was not finished to the fine standard of the master-smiths, noone at the Blue Mountain could remember a dwarf who had such an affinity for working servicable armour at such a young age.

Indeed, part of the reason might have been that many master armourers would not even let their son's attempt to work functional armour until they had turned one-hundred years old - this was no trifle trade for the youth to be dabbling in after all. Ferrite on the other hand was his own master, and by charging good rates for solid and servicable work and repairs, he had managed to learn faster than most, and was even beginning to grasp the nuances of some tricky, though basic, alloys.

The mysterious stranger returned to him exactly a month later, and so impressed was he[4], that he placed the shield at Ferrite's feet, tucked a note into his fist and walked away.

Ferrite was proud of his work, but also pragmatic, and was appropriately miffed that the stranger hadn't paid him; the shop wasn’t exactly bringing in stacks of gold as dwarven armourers were two-a-penny. Still a dwarf-make shield of the First Age was a fine possession, so he strapped it to his back and went to the pub.

After a swift twelve, he began pondering the note.  It claimed to know much about him... that he was an orphan and Glod was not his true parent.  It described his true family, said that the stranger had known his father and that he would do well to go north and see if he could find trace of him.

Ferrite did not rush into things and so decided to spend an appropriate amount of time contemplating this. Twenty-three years later to the day, Ferrite set out north with his trusty shield and finest war axe on his back. What he discovered about his father’s lineage was to lead him on a new path entirely; though he was still a little distracted by the thought of Glod's stubby little fingers looting his shop while he was away.

Indeed, so distracted was he, that he fully tripped over one of many human corpses in a little valley in the north.  Now he looked around, Ferrite could tell that this was clearly the scene of a fierce, but very one sided, battle; and he was even more surprised to hear the corpse groan and mutter.


[1] 'or' is intentional here as noone could really tell which was which. (It was the beards.)
[2] at least, this is the assumed orientation of the relationship.
[3] or mother.
[4] or she (they were very shady indeed)

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Sauronsbeagle (Member) 11/30/2008 7:03 AM EST : RE: The Book of Dwarves
Sauronsbeagle
Posts: 4622

From darkness to Darkness by Hrethmund


The darkness in the mines of Ered Luin Hrethmund remembered. Dark days hewing coal and base metal ore to help feed a family bereft of father, bereft of wealth. Dark coal laden scars marking his work hardened hands and arms.

Dark memories of a dwarf of but 30 years burdened with supplies following Dain’s forces to the vale and the clash of 5 armies. Dark memories of his father falling in battle there, an orc arrow driving through a rend in his armour.

Dark memories of his young companions rushing in fear and anger to help the warriors and falling among the Dwarves, men and elves.

Dark tales of his father concerning the coming of the dragon and the death of his kin.

The young Hrethmund had no desire to remain with Dain after the battle, the joy of victory was soured by the death of so many.

Hrethmund returned To Erud Luin where his family had fled after the coming of the Dragon, where they had remained when young Hrethmund and his father had traveled to the Iron Mountains hoping to restore their fortunes.

Through the years of struggle Hrethmund pondered the fate that had befallen his family and people and came to curse the Darkness in the East that seemed determined to sweep all free people away. Came to curse the weakness of the armour that let past the arrow.

And since curses alone did little to stop the Darkness, Hrethmund trained all the hours that were free to him, trained in force of arms, trained in the smithing of armour that an arrow would not pass ….

Until a day came, until word came, that the Darkness arisen in the East now drew near.

Then Hrethmund put his darkness behind him and turned to face The Darkness. Swearing never to rest until it was defeated and, remembering the mixed Dwarven, Elvish and Human fallen that day long ago, he swore that no enemy of the Darkness would ever be denied the protection of his shield.

And in The Darkness he now saw there was Light.

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Sauronsbeagle (Member) 12/2/2008 5:26 AM EST : RE: The Book of Dwarves
Sauronsbeagle
Posts: 4622

Roli by csxjgf


Roli, son of Roni, spent the first 70 years of his adult life mining and drinking, but was evicted from the Lonely Mountain when it became clear he was doing an awful lot more of the latter than the former. He decided to head west to see if the Dwarven folk of Ered Luin would be more accommodating to his habits. They weren't.

Roli now wanders around Eriador, very reluctantly doing odd-jobs for people standing around in towns, villages and settlements, and then selling them the useless junk he accumulates while doing this work. He doesn't think too much about why they would buy this junk from him, but he vaguely suspects that due to him not having changed his clothes in several months, they may just be eager to get rid of him quickly.

In such a way, Roli earns enough coin to ensure that his favourite pastime is more than amply financed, and indeed, he occasionally accumulates enough wealth to sustain his drinking for weeks at a time.

Although he has heard rumours of a new Dwarven expedition into Khazad-dûm, he can't imagine that beer bought with Mithril will taste any better than beer bought with copper, and so he is happy to abide with the good people of Forochel, who don't seem to find his smell particulary exceptional. Due to the temperature of the water in Forochel, this is perhaps understandable.


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Sauronsbeagle (Member) 10/8/2011 7:42 PM EST : RE: The Book of Dwarves
Sauronsbeagle
Posts: 4622

TSM at the battle of Mazarbul by Aurhinius

 

It started with a dull thud, thud, thud, drums in the deep.  A call to arms!  Torvik leant on his axe watching the glow of light flicker in the reflection and stroking his beard impatiently.  It was getting louder they were definitely coming and in great numbers. This was it.  This was what he had waited for all his life.  The last stand, right here amongst the ancestors.  Honour, glory it would be remembered in the stones for ages to come.  "If only we didn't have to bring the elves!" he thought.

           
The noise was almost deafening now, like thunder echoing in once forgotten tunnels RUMBLE, THUD, RUMBLE. "Sorry that's me, does anyone have a sausage to spare? Came a small voice from the centre of the chamber clutching her stomach." Glancing back Torvik remembered the source of the fire light.  Two hobbits hunched over a small fire with a frying pan and shook his head.

           
"Listen." an armoured voice from the front of the chamber spoke determined.

 
"I could go out there round some up bring them back in here all friendly-like. What do you say?" Torvik rested his gauntleted hand upon his dwarven companions shoulder and smiled "I'm up for it Elak but the others I'm not so sure".  Turning away he walked slowly toward a crumpled corpse laying amongst the rubble dressed in black. Somehow he looked strangely serene gazing toward the ceiling at peace with his now dead fate.  Torvik kicked it without a second thought. "Come on Annundril it's not over yet"

"Seriously?! I just had myself perfectly arranged and I wore black especially!" came the annoyed reply.  Torvik shook his head remembering why elves really were the enemy.

"Has anyone seen Melethron?"

"He said something about being desperate and that's the last I saw of him" came a muffled reply from the fire half a sausage in hand.

Everyone exchanged looks as the noise rose further.

"Brave, Brave Sir Melethron, Melethron ran away. When danger reared its ugly head,
He bravely turned his tail and f-l-e-d." The melodious voice hung on the final note for dramatic flair while holding her note on the lute. Beoras glanced across at Rhiannon stopping the performance dead in its tracks.

"Alright this is what we'll do" came another voice "I've got this really good riddle about a mirror that'll take care of one.  I'll poke another in the eye. That'll distract him, take his attention off you Rhiannon. Re-position here behind this one" with a quick sweep of his dagger in the dirt Levin completed Dhae's masterpiece of a diagram. "A couple of stabs with my daggers" Levin became animated to indicate his intent thrusting his arms back and forth.  "and then you'll be exhausted as usual, Levin and I'll have to do something about it" came Milinia's reply.

 

"Quiet everyone! We need to focus. Focus everyone. There's far too much chatter" Beoras commanded.

 

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